Stack purrs out against the bare leg that’s currently hiked over his broad shoulder, voice dripping with condescension that’s a lot sweeter than the way he’s fucking into you.

The question is mean but it has its intended effect.

Goosebumps break over the surface of your flushed skin, choking on a whiny moan, cunt pulsating so tightly around him that he can feel you in his bones. A flurry of hiccuping sobs pour from your mouth cause you’re close. Again. Ordinarily, you’d try to defend your good name since you really were in fact not easy…or at least not until you’d met Stack. You’d heard of him before but never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance until he came strolling through your moms shop one day and found you instead.

At first you were stunned just making eye contact with him. Lidded brown eyes, dimples, plump lips- the gold on his teeth glinting at you and damn he was tall. Strutting up to introduce himself to you, accent thick with charm. However, you’d already heard of him and his way of giving women the roundabout and you’d decided right then and there that you’d be damned 11 ways to Sunday before you ever caught yourself on your back or knees for him.

Unfortunately, he was as relentless as he was gorgeous. Steadily pursuing you with the devil in his eyes and a grin on those full lips. Always hanging around- then, he’d disappear. As indifferent as you tried to be, dancing around his advances with light giggles and playful hands, when he’d vanish, you’d find yourself missing his face- or rather- his way of being, more like. See, Stack had this carefree almost cavalier demeanor but he was firm too. To you, that was his most attractive quality.

And he’d picked up on it. That you liked when he was a little firm with you.

From there all it took was a kiss.

Just barely brushing your lips when he leaned down, whispering teasingly against your lips, finger underneath your chin and you couldn’t keep the want from dripping out your eyes if you tried.

“Stop playing with me.”

To your surprise but not his- you listened.

Funny how you were so determined not to fall into his gravity and now look at you; sweat out hairstyle, sheer stockings ripped to hell along with your bra and underwear, being manhandled every which way, stretched out and creaming around the fattest cock you’ve ever had in your life as you moan in bliss- loving it.

Stack’s thrusts are deliciously brutal, hips snapping into yours while your legs hang over his shoulders like some harlot and sounding just like one, mouth dropped open while you cry and whine real pretty for him. Hissing through his teeth at the sight you make, Stack wedges his hands underneath the arch at the base of your back and grips tight- using your body as leverage to fuck into you even deeper. If the heat of the room wasn’t making you delirious then the way the fat head of his was smushing rough kisses into that soft patch of nerves would definitely do the trick. If this is what playing hard to get gets you then you’re seriously considering becoming a professional.

It gets to the point where your pussy is almost as loud as you are, prompting Stack to look down. A loud whistle barely makes it through the fog in your head and you try to bring your vision to focus. Your heart is going at least 100 miles per minute and you squeak as your legs are pushed so far back that your knees are touching your ears, Stack moving directly on top of you. Where the sudden flexibility came from you had no clue- but your awe is almost immediately overtaken by how full the new position has you feeling.

“O-oooh!”

Stack bites his lip as he watches your pretty face melt in pleasure, your normally sleepy eyes pop wide open, brows drawn together like you’re about to cry, lips forming that sexy ‘o’ as he slows down his strokes- letting you feel every inch of him. You were so gorgeous. Naked curves and soft skin crashing and rolling back into him then wrapping around even though you initially wanted damn near nothing to do with him. The thought makes him smirk in satisfaction until he’s brought out of his thoughts by the feel of your trembling hand just above where your bodies are connected. He pulls out halfway nice n slow, looking down to see what the fuss is and his heart almost pounds out of his chest.

Slathered all over his dick, is milky white. It streams out generously from your hole around where he’s stuffed in and Stack feels himself start to lose his mind a little bit as he moans out,

“Yeahhh mamas, she’s real easy f’me…”

He doesn’t take his eyes off your cunt as he slams back in with a wet ‘plap’- throwing his head back with a deep groan. The sound is so primal it sends nasty shivers up your spine but you don’t move your hand and he’s folding you even deeper, lowering his upper body almost completely against yours, pelvis grinding against your clit and you gasp wetly. Stack is wild, sucking bruising kisses into your neck, tongue trailing hotly up to your mouth to claim it in a deep kiss. It’s consuming. His big tongue flattening against yours in maddening swipes, sucking the muscle sloppily into his own mouth making you lightheaded- blood rushing through your ears as he starts his hips up again, grinding away at that spot inside you but not quite as deep and he pulls away.

He watches you gasp desperately, moving not even an inch away from your face as he nips at your bottom lip, soothing the sting with his tongue before whispering inside your mouth- eyes glazed,

“Move that hand, baby.”

Your name might as well be Sunday morning cause that’s exactly how easy you are, body obeying him before you even tell it to. As soon as you do, he doesn’t waste a second, big hands hook underneath your knees- railing you stupid. He’s not even trying to think straight, caught up in in not just the heat but how tight- how creamy- you are. Letting out a string of swears, he captures your mouth in another overwhelming kiss, cock aching while he swallows your wails as you twitch and shake around him.

You can’t take anymore. Stack gives another harsh, slick roll of his pelvis into your swollen nub while battering that tender spot inside you and you’re coming. And Jesus Christ on a bike- you’re coming hard. Clawing at Stack’s beefy muscles, a swarm of stars completely eclipse your vision while you’re shocked with wave after wave of vicious pleasure. You’re so loud you struggle recognize your own voice but Stack’s is clear as the ecstasy pumping through your body. Filthy words of praise and encouragement directly in your ear, prolonging your orgasm.

“Thaaat’s it, dollface.. aalll over me…”

Tears spill from your eyes and you’re close to tapping out when Stack buries his head into your chest, taking one of your puffy nipples into his mouth, thrusts slowing as he shoots deep inside your heat with a muffled groan, stuffing your hole to the brim until he pops off your tit with a satisfied sigh.

You’re tired, your back is killing you, and your shaking like a baby deer but a grin makes its way onto your lips regardless as Stack kisses all over you, pulling out slowly, warm eyes checking over your form for any sign of discomfort while you bask in the coziness after, closing your eyes to enjoy a much needed break until he interrupts it. Kissing your cheek in that tender way he does when he’s fixing to look after you.

“You okay? Ain’t hurtin’ none?”

You shake you head, eyes closed even as he pats you dry gently with his shirt, tossing on the floor when he’s done. Less sweaty, it’s easier for you to nap but something was missing. Reaching up, your hand swipes though the air as you blindly reach for him, eventually catching his chain as you yank him down next to you with a soft pleased little hum. Yes, you’d sleep just fine now.

And when you wake up?

You’re face to face with a big rock on your finger.

Day one of your argument you stayed strong and moved through the house like a queen in a castle that had been overrun by a jealous beast.

Your skincare routine? Luxurious.

Your work calls? On point.

Your outfit? A soft two-piece lounge set that hugged every curve like it missed you.

When dinner came, you threw yourself into it like you were being judged on Top Chef. You marinated lamb chops for hours. Cooked up homemade honey butter biscuits with a dash of cayenne in the butter… just the way… he… liked it. But you made it very clear: that plate was yours and yours alone.

As you cooked, Smoke lingered around the kitchen and his massive frame leaned against the fridge while watching you plate your meal like a hawk. His nostrils flared as his eyes burned holes into your skin. He couldn’t believe his woman wasn’t offering him a plate of food, but he also wasn’t a man who would beg.

While completely ignoring his existence, you sat at the dining table with your legs crossed, lips glistening with lamb jus and smirking between each bite like you were daring him to say something. He didn’t. But oh, the look he gave you… Girl run

When Saturday rolled in the silence started to feel dangerous. This was the one day out of the week when Smoke would usually hit the gym with Stack, run errands he couldn’t get to during the week and any other ‘man shit’ that you didn’t care to know about. But not today. Today, that man made it a point to stay his ass at home. All. Damn. Day. And worse? He did it wearing only grey sweatpants and no shirt.

Every inch of Smoke was carved out of marble by God. Smooth brown skin stretched over thick muscle and broad shoulders. His gold chains swung low, catching the light every time he reached for something. And those damn sweatpants? They hung low. Way too damn low while leaving nothing to the imagination.

You were sitting on the couch, pretending to scroll through your phone, but your eyes kept sliding up catching every stretch, every shift, and every flex Smoke would make.

When he purposefully reached his arm up to stretch, that’s when he caught you. “Fuck you staring at?” His voice was deep and sharp. His lips curled into a smirk even as his eyes narrowed, knowing exactly what you were doing.

Your mouth went dry but you sucked your teeth and rolled your eyes before firing back just as sharp. “Ain’t nobody looking at you, nigga.” You turned your head fast, placed a nearby throw blanket onto your lap, and squeezed your thighs shut like you weren’t damn near vibrating with need.

Smoke let out a scoff and dropped onto the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, one hand rubbing the scruff along his jaw, the other dragging down his thigh like he didn’t know what that did to you. But he knew. Of course he knew. Because he’s a SLUT. Smoke was a man born with sin in his bloodstream and you were his favorite outlet.

“You real bold when your pussy hungry,” he goaded without looking at you, just low enough to make your stomach flip. “Real fuckin’ bold.”

You didn’t respond. Your throat tightened and your fingers curled into the blanket as heat spread between your thighs like wildfire. You hated how your body betrayed you. How your nipples perked beneath your tank top just from hearing his voice like that. How your lower belly tightened at the memory of his mouth, his hands, his— Stop. You weren’t going to fold. Not this time. No. This time you had a point to prove… So you stayed quiet.

Smoke leaned forward then, his forearms braced on his knees, honey brown eyes finally locking with yours. He was so beautiful it made your chest hurt. That hard jaw. That slow burn in his stare. The way his gold tooth caught the light when he smirked.

“You gon’ act like you don’t hear me? I said…” he repeated, his voice dropping lower, rougher, “… you real bold when your pussy hungry.”

You tossed the blanket off your lap like a challenge and stood up, storming past him toward the kitchen. But before you could make it, his hand snatched your wrist. “Don’t touch me,” you snapped.

“I ain’t touchin’ you,” he said coolly, pulling you gently, slow and patient, until you were standing right between his legs. “I’m remindin’ you. That mouth? That attitude? That little fake-ass silent treatment you think you givin’? That shit don’t work on me, pretty girl.”

He looked up at you like you were the last good thing in a ruined world. And then his eyes dropped trailing slowly down your body, soaking in every soft curve, every part of you he knew like scripture. “Go on. Keep walkin’ away,” he muttered, voice like hardened steel. “But I know damn well you miss how it feel when I grab the back of that neck and tell you to hush while I—”

“Don’t.” You said it too fast. Too breathless.

He grinned. That arrogant grin that made your knees weak and your pride falter. “You really mad?” he asked quietly, now wrapping a hand around your thigh and easing you a fraction closer. “Or you just don’t wanna admit that I had a reason to knock that pretty boy barista out his damn shoes?”

You sarcastically laughed at Smoke’s audacity. “That man smiled. That’s it. You almost went to jail over a smile.”

“Don’t care.” He leaned forward, nose brushing against your lower belly, breath warm through the cotton of your tank. “Anyone smile at you like that again, I’ll put him in the dirt.”

You stared down at him, your fingers twitching by your sides. “You’re a damn lunatic.”

“Yup.” His eyes lifted, black and unrepentant. “Your lunatic.”

You wanted to slap him. You wanted to kiss him. You wanted to scream and bite and ride and cry and maybe all at once. But instead, you turned your head, stared at the wall, and whispered, “Don’t talk to me.”

Smoke scoffed and his grip tightened before he kissed the inside of your thigh, right on that special spot that always makes you forget how to think straight. The kiss was gentle… dangerous… knowing “Aight, baby,” his voice muffled against your skin. “I won’t say a word.” But the fire in those orbs told a different story.

When you finally pulled away, storming back into the kitchen to cool down, you could feel his stare trailing behind you like a shadow with claws. You stood next to the kitchen island hoping for a moment of peace but instead your heart rattled like a stray bullet in your chest. The room felt too hot, too still… way too still, like the moment right before a thunderstorm when all the air gets sucked out of the sky and the ground doesn’t know whether to shake or stay still.

You ran your hands through your hair and let out a frustrated sigh. After 24 hours of being strong, you couldn’t let yourself fold from a little thigh kiss. You weren’t even hungry, but your hands moved on autopilot, opening the fridge, grabbing things, pretending like your body wasn’t still humming from the feel of his mouth on your thigh.

Smoke wasn’t slick and you weren’t safe. Not from him and not from the heat building up under your skin like it was trying to boil you alive. Behind you, the sound of the armchair creaking and his footsteps thumping across the hardwood made you hold your breath. You didn’t bother turning, you already knew the look on his face was smug and cocky like he was just biding time until your pride finally tapped out.

“You heavy-footed on purpose?” you muttered without looking at him. “Or you tryna make sure I know you comin’ so I don’t swing a skillet at your head?”

Smoke didn’t say a word but you heard the slow grind of his teeth and a slight click when his tongue hit the back of them. Then, the fridge door beside you opened. His arm brushed yours with intent and his skin was as hot as a stovetop. He reached in and grabbed a bottle of water, twisted the cap off, and took a long, long drink like he had been parched since war-time.

You still didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Instead you stopped fiddling with the random assortment of ingredients and crossed your arms under your chest so tightly your hands started going numb. But none of that mattered. Smoke was standing so close now with his presence wrapping around you like a weighted blanket made of lustful desire, silently daring you to keep dismissing him.

“You really don’t want me talkin’ to you?” he asked finally with his tone full of challenge. “Even though your thighs damn near gave up and invited me in just now?”

You turned your head and squinted your eyes at him. “You punched an innocent man for smiling at me!”

“And I said a barista don’t need to be starin’ at what’s mine like he got a fuckin’ chance!”

“You don’t own me, Elijah,” you mumbled.

That was the first time you’d said his real name in days. And you had the nerve to use it while telling him that he doesn’t own you.

Smoke’s jaw ticked. His nostrils flared. And then he laughed like he couldn’t believe he was having this conversation with you right now. “I don’t own you?” he repeated, stepping in now, cornering you against the counter. “You right… You right, you grown, huh? Real grown. Is that why you been sittin’ in this house clenching your lil thighs every time I so much as stretch?”

“Back up,” you whispered. It didn’t sound as strong as you wanted it to. Not when your back hit the cold of the cabinet and your front was all warm-blooded temptation and hard muscle.

Smoke leaned in like a snake slithering across grass before striking its prey. His lips brushed your ear, and his voice dropped to a place that made your belly twist. “Tell me to back up one more time, baby,” he taunted, “and mean it.”

You swallowed thickly, chest rising fast beneath your thin top.

His hand settled on the counter beside your hip, the other drifting ever so gently down the side of your arm, brushing like a warning. “Say it,” he taunted again. “Or let me remind you why you don’t ever sleep right unless I’m wrapped around you.”

Now it was your turn to clench your jaw but your breath betrayed you. Your thighs pressed together again, heat rushing back like a tidal wave. “Why you always gotta be like this?” you breathed, voice barely holding on.

He chuckled darkly. “Because I know what’s mine.” His hand slid beneath your shirt, fingers brushing the dip of your waist. “And I know when she lyin’… putting on a front.” He kissed your neck just once to test the waters. It was soft but full of possession.

And when you didn’t stop him, when you didn’t shove him away, he nipped your collarbone and muttered, “You gon’ keep fightin’ me or you gon’ let Daddy fix this?”

“I’m still mad at you,” you said, even as your fingers gripped his sweatpants.

“Stay mad then,” he growled, lifting you up onto the counter like you weighed nothing. “But don’t pretend you don’t need me.”

It took all your might to not whimper when his hand slid between your thighs, the heat of his palm making your eyes roll back. “I told… you not… to talk to me,” you gasped.

Smoke smirked against your throat. “Then put that pretty lil pussy in my face and shut me up.”

Your eyes squinted into a glare and heat rushed up your neck as your lips parted in disbelief. Your body wanted him. Badly. But your mind… that damn stubborn, bratty, prideful-ass mind was not about to let him win this round so easily.

And so… you did what any unhinged woman dating Elijah Moore would do and shoved a hand into his perfect face… and mushed him. What color roses do you want at your funeral? You pushed his cocky expression away like you were slapping a mosquito. The suddenness made him take a step back, just long enough for you to hop down from the counter in one quick motion and scurry away like a rabbit setting itself free from a snare.

“I said don’t talk to me, nigga!” you yelled, snatching your composure back like a silk robe off the floor.

You stormed out the kitchen, and tossed a middle finger over your shoulder. “And put some damn clothes on! Walkin’ ‘round this house like I could buy you for the night with two dollars and a half-stick of gum!”

Smoke stood still like a statue and for a second he didn't know if he was dreaming or if his woman was truly out of her damn mind. Then that low, dangerous laugh rolled from his chest like thunder over wet concrete. It was a sound that did nothing but pour gasoline on the flames already licking between your thighs. He loved when you got like this, wild-eyed, stubborn-lipped, and sass pouring from your throat like it was made of honey and broken glass.

He knew you’d fold. And when you did… he’d be the one to catch you.

The rest of the day you avoided Smoke like the floor was lava and he was the devil waiting at the bottom. You locked yourself in your shared bedroom and buried yourself in the sheets like they could protect you from the walking sin on the other side of the door. You distracted yourself for hours. Scrolled through your phone. Scrolled again. Played lo-fi beats. Switched to gospel. Thought about cooking. Decided not to because that would involve you leaving your sanctuary. Thought about apologizing. Decided not to because it would be a cold day in hell before you apologize to him. Thought about touching yourself… Absolutely did not… yet.

Eventually, your body gave in to exhaustion. The softness of the pillows, the hum of the AC in the background and the scent of Smoke lingering on the sheets rocked you into a tense, twitchy sleep. And then your mind betrayed you.

Of course your unconscious mind decided to betray you as you went off into dreamland. Dream-Smoke had his mouth everywhere on your body. On your neck. Down your chest. Between your thighs. This version of Smoke was utterly ruthless. He said your name like it was a threat and a prayer. His hands gripped your legs like he was holding onto the only thing that made sense in this godforsaken world.

“Open up, baby. Yeah, just like that…”

Your body arched in your sleep, your mouth parted, a soft moan fluttering against the dark. And right when you were about to reach that shimmering edge, Dream-Smoke pulled back and taunted in your ear, “Shouldn’t’ve told me not to talk, huh?”

You gasped yourself awake and the bedroom was cloaked in darkness, only a soft sliver of moonlight slipped between the curtains. Your chest heaved and your pajama shorts were damn near soaked through. The cotton stuck to your core like it had a vendetta. A frown pulled at your lips and a tear slid down your cheek before you could stop it.

You turned your head to look at the blinking alarm clock through wet eyes and frowned again. It was currently 2:03 AM and you couldn’t believe you somehow slept the entire the day away.

Peaking over your shoulder you let out a disgruntled sigh. Smoke was laid out like he didn’t have a care in the world. One arm slung behind his head, chest rising and falling with calm, heavy breaths. That same damn pair of grey sweatpants still clung to his hips. He looked peaceful. Angelic even. You wanted to punch him and make him suffer for what Dream-Smoke started but didn’t finish. But since you already got away with mushing him in the face you didn’t want to test your luck and simply whined.

A shaky, bratty, needy whimper left your throat as you wiped your still falling tears and leaned over, gently nudging Smoke's shoulder. He grunted and cracked one eye open. “What, baby?” His voice was sleep-worn and you tried not to focus on what hearing it was doing to your already wounded up body.

You pouted in the dark, nose wrinkled, lips trembling. “This is ALL your fault.”

Raising your voice early in the morning got Smoke’s full attention and he blinked slowly, as the remnants of sleep cleared from his face like a curtain lifting. His eyes found you in the moonlit darkness. You looked so adorable to him, pouty-lipped, flushed cheeks, and thighs pressed tightly together under the covers.

“The fuck you yellin’ at me for and cryin’ this early in the morning?” he asked, now fully awake, his tone clipped with concern and confusion.

You sniffled. “I… I need… I want… I want… to touch myself,” you admitted, lip quivering dramatically. “And since I’m still mad at you… I need you to leave the bed.”

Smoke blinked once at you and then again into the darkness like he was on an episode of The Office. He didn’t expect to be so entertained by your antics today and he started to chuckle to himself. This wasn’t a typical ‘I love how bratty my girl is acting’ type of laugh. No, this was a dark, ‘this girl done lost her fuckin’ mind’ laugh.

“You woke me up,” he said slowly, to make sure he got all the details correct, “to tell me that you’re horny… and I need to leave our bed… so you can touch what belongs to me?”

Your throat tightened. When Smoke repeated everything out loud it did sound kind of insane but that was besides the point. “You heard me,” you said, lifting your chin and pointing it to the door. “Now go.”

Smoke let out a final chuckle and didn’t move. He leaned back on one elbow, eyes gleaming in the dark like he could see the mess you’d become under those covers. “You really out here throwin’ tantrums at two in the morning ‘cause you can’t handle how badly you want me to fuck that attitude out of you?” he teased.

“I am handling it,” you bit back. “I’m asking you to leave. Like a grown woman.”

His tongue slid along the inside of his cheek. Then he reached down, adjusted himself in those sweats just slightly, and let out a hum that made your thighs twitch. “You sure?” he asked gently, like he was talking to a skittish wild animal about to bolt. “You sure you want me to leave, baby?”

“Yes,” you whispered, even as your legs squirmed beneath the blanket. “I don’t need you. I can do it myself.”

“Mhm… is that right...”

Smoke sat up slowly before swinging his legs off the side of the bed. He stood to his full height and then without saying another word he discarded his sweatpants, letting the moonlight shine on his intimidating half-hard manhood. You sat in complete shock, unsure what to say or what to do. Your mouth stayed agape and you could’ve sworn you didn’t breathe for 2 minutes, Your whole body burned with need and you hated this feeling.

And he spoke again in a cruel velvet-slick tone, “Go on then.” He climbed back in bed and laid on his back with his hands behind his head like he didn’t just take his pants off. “Show me how you don’t need me.”

The silence that followed was so thick it felt like smoke itself. It crackled with the weight of what you wanted to do and what your pride wouldn’t allow. Your fingers trembled under the blanket. You hated him, yet you wanted him. And you hated how badly you wanted him. All of this only made the leaking faucet between your thighs turn into a full blown fire hose.

He bit his bottom lip before antagonizing you. “Might help if you stop cryin’, baby. You can’t see your lil fingers down there with all them tears foggin’ up your eyesight.”

Your fists balled with annoyance but your thighs began to slightly part. Smoke didn’t move or touch you. He didn’t even acknowledge the way he could smell your sweet aroma in the room. He just gave you a look that said, ‘You can play this game all night, pretty girl… I’ll be here when you break.’

And you were so, so close to shattering. You stared at him like he’d summoned a demon into the room and dared you to dance with it.

Smoke stretched his long body across the bed like he was on display. Like he wasn’t a man who just dropped his pants in the middle of a silent standoff and dared you to stay proud. With his arms folded beneath his head, the swell of his chest rose and fell as if he weren’t aware of the war going on inside your body. The tension. The hunger. The absolute need that clawed at your insides like a caged animal. His dick sat heavy between his thighs, thick and idle, like it had time to wait. Like it knew it would be fed eventually.

“You got five seconds before I close my eyes and go back to sleep,” he grumbled without looking at you. “So go ahead. Get to rubbin’. Let me hear how good you make yourself feel without my help.”

Your lip trembled. You weren’t crying anymore, not from frustration anyway. But your thighs were sticky, your panties were soaked through, and every nerve ending in your body was throbbing like you’d been edgewalking through purgatory. Still… you weren’t gonna give him the satisfaction of begging. So you huffed in a loud and obnoxious manner before wiping your cheeks like a toddler who just got scolded. You then yanked the covers off your body and laid flat on your back beside him, arms stiff at your sides.

Smoke turned his head slightly, one brow arched. “Thought you said you didn’t need me,” he said, tone sharp and mocking.

“I don’t,” you snapped. “I just need space.”

He smirked. “You sound stupid.”

You glared at the ceiling. “You look stupid.”

Another beat of silence. Then your hand slowly dragged beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts, and your breath hitched. You weren’t even doing anything yet, and your whole body tensed like you were about to commit a crime.

Smoke didn’t move but he watched from the corner of his eye. You could feel his eyes burning into the side of your face, heavy and loaded. Like if he blinked, he might miss the exact moment you broke. Your fingers brushed against your panties and found them soaked, the cotton clinging to your folds like it was trying to apologize for being in the way. You let out a shaky breath and your fingers twitched as you slid them beneath the fabric and gently grazed your clit.

The behemoth of a man next to you exhaled through his nose but he didn’t say a word as he continued to observe. You rubbed slow circles, small and hesitant, still stubborn as hell and still trying to prove a point you were seconds from losing as a soft and breathy moan slipped out.

Smoke turned his head toward you fully now, his gaze dark and unreadable. “You always make yourself sound so pretty,” he said, voice lower now, rough and molten. “But it don’t hit the same, do it?”

You didn’t answer him but your hips rolled in response to his question. Your hand moved faster. Your breath stuttered. Your back arched. Still—not a word. You didn’t plead or cry for help. To prove your point you used your own hand and held back the silent scream in your throat. Then you finally felt it… that build. It climbed your spine and tingled through your limbs, coiling low and tight in your belly like lightning trapped behind your navel. But just as your toes curled and your moans grew louder… Smoke’s hand slammed down on your wrist and you yelped.

He was above you now, face inches from yours, his chest heaving, lips parted. “That’s enough,” he growled. “This little show? Over.”

“Wha—? I didn’t even—” you started, but he cut you.

“You really gon’ make yourself cum when I’m layin’ right here?” he snapped, pressing your wrist into the mattress with one hand while the other dragged your shorts down in one brutal yank. “Tryna act like you in control of somethin’ when this pussy don’t even belong to you no more?”

You whimpered as his mouth crashed into yours, all heat and dominance, devouring your lips like he was punishing you for breathing without permission. His tongue pushed into your mouth while his hips settled between your thighs, and you could feel all of him, heavy and hot, grinding against your bare heat.

“You should’ve just asked,” he murmured against your mouth, voice trembling with restraint.

You blinked up at him, dazed and breathless. “Asked… what?”

“If I was done bein’ mad,” he answered, dragging his tip along your soaked entrance, teasing but never pushing in. “Cause I wasn’t. Not yet.” And with that he slid in excruciatingly slow. So slow you nearly blacked out.

“Now,” he growled, gripping your throat just enough to make your heart flutter, “you don’t talk to me.”

Your breath caught in your throat as he filled you inch by inch, until all nine inches of his rock hard flesh stretched you out causing your back arch off the bed. Once he was completely sheathed inside of your warm gummy walls Smoke didn’t move. Not yet. He held himself still with his hand still resting on your throat—not choking, just a firm reminder of who was in control. Of whose name was stitched into the folds of your body like ownership. Like scripture.

Your lashes fluttered as a soft, broken whimper escaped your lips.

“Yeah,” he hummed, watching your face intently. “That’s what I thought.”

The weight of him, the heat, the way his body caged yours like a storm rolling over weak land, every bit of it made your spine tremble. He didn’t have to say it, didn’t need to ask… he already knew. This wasn’t about sex anymore. This was about submission. About surrender. About you thinking you could ignore him, silence him, deny him, and still sleep soundly next to him every night.

His hips rolled meticulously and grinded so deep you swore you saw stars behind your eyes. His pace was punishing in its patience. Purposeful and steady. Like he wanted you to feel the agony he felt every second you ignored him. Every breath you wasted pretending you didn’t need him.

“You really thought you was gon’ touch yourself in this bed?” he grunted, lips ghosting over your jaw as he rocked into you again. “While I laid next to you? Like I ain’t the one that got this pussy cryin’ in the first place?”

You couldn’t even respond. Your mouth opened but no sound came out, just a sharp inhale, a choked moan, and the clenching of your legs around his hips.

He groaned low like he felt your apology in the way your walls pulled him in tighter.

“This one… if for every time you rolled your eyes at me,” THRUST.

“This one… is for every time you walked away from me,” THRUST.

“Fuck… and THIS one is for every time you told me not to talk to you,” SLAM.

You whimpered beneath him, nails digging into his arms as your pride cracked wide open and your body begged to be ruined. You couldn’t handle this torturous unhurried fuck session. You needed your walls plowed to smithereens and you needed it to happen right now. “I hate you,” you gasped.

“Shut up. You love me,” he corrected with a smirk, snapping his hips against yours harder now. “You love me when I got you stuffed full and dumb off my name.”

Your moans turned shameless… so soft, high, and desperate. Each slow thrust had you melting further, your bratty resolve unraveling like a ribbon. And Smoke? He watched the transformation like it was art. “There she go…” he whispered. “There’s my girl. Ain’t no talkin’ now, huh? Just that lil mouth open like you got somethin’ to say… but still don’t know how to say sorry.”

You finally met his gaze, eyes wide and glassy with need. “I’m—” you tried.

He pressed his fingers against your lips. “Nope.” Another thrust. Brutal. Deep. You cried out. “Don’t say shit else to me... Just take it.”

He dipped his head, kissed the corner of your mouth with an intimacy that contrasted the way he was owning you from the inside out. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, hips rising to meet him while chasing the edge of pleasure like you’d die if you didn’t reach it soon.

“I got you,” he whispered, his breath warm and ragged against your ear. “Go on, baby. Let go. Let me take it.”

Your orgasm crept up your spine like a threat, your whole body tightening under him. “Smoke—” you breathed, one hand tangling in the bedsheets beneath you, the other clutching his shoulder like a lifeline.

“I know, I know. Shhh, baby,” he cooed. “Come on. I got you.” And when you finally shattered—mouth open, legs shaking, eyes rolling—he never let up. He kept fucking you through it, hips grinding, mouth pressing kisses to your throat and chest, whispering your name like prayer and punishment all at once.

You went limp beneath him and he pulled back just enough to look you in the face, brushing a lone tear from your cheek. “You still mad?”

You blinked up at him, dazed and ruined. He smirked again. That same crooked, devilish thing that started it all. “Yeah… you look like you still got a fuckin’ attitude.”

Your chest rose and fell in shallow waves with your skin covered in sweat as you lay there boneless and ruined beneath him.

Smoke hovered above you like a storm cloud that refused to pass. His body didn’t press down; he just hovered, solid and still, like a hunter watching his prey breathe after the first strike. His arms caged you on either side, head tilted slightly as his gold chain swung gently from his neck and tapped your collarbone. Your legs still trembled from the aftershock and your thighs involuntarily locked around his waist, trying to pull him closer.

But Smoke didn’t move, he was so deep inside of you that you could barely think. And instead of chasing his own pleasure like any other man might, he just stared and studied you like you were the most precious thing he’s ever laid eyes on. You felt the subtle twitch of him inside you, ready, but not rushing. Not desperate. Because Smoke wasn’t a man ruled by impulse. He was ruled by control. And he wielded it like a blade.

“You done squeezing my dick?” he asked quietly, voice low and relaxed, like he had nowhere else to be but right here. “Or you need a minute to remember where you at?”

You blinked slowly, lips still tingling from where he kissed you, still too blissed out to string a proper sentence together. But he waited—patient, immovable—as your brows knit together, that ache you just got rid of was already building again and you finally realized… he wasn’t finished. He still hadn’t moved. And now, you were too aware of it. Too aware of the way he filled you like he’d been carved just for you. Too aware of the steady rise and fall of his chest. Of how warm and thick and ready he still felt inside you.

“Smoke,” you whined, voice hoarse and fragile.

He cocked a brow, his gold tooth glinting in the dark. “Yeah, baby?”

Your thighs flexed around him again, a needy little roll of your hips that made you whimper even as you tried to hold your pride in place. His hand slid slowly up the side of your throat, fingers curling around the hinge of your jaw to tilt your face up toward his.

“You feel that?” he murmured.

You nodded weakly, lips parting.

“I been sittin’ still. Holdin’ back,” he whispered, each word slipping into your mouth like honey and heat. “You been cryin’, whinin’, beggin’ me to leave. But I ain’t goin’ nowhere, baby.”

He leaned down, forehead nearly touching yours. “I stay when you bratty. Stay when you act like you don’t want me. Stay when you try to punish me with silence.”

A soft, broken sound spilled from your lips.

“I stay… ‘cause you mine.” Then finally… he moved again. Just a slow roll of his hips. Barely there. Just enough to make you feel the stretch again. Just enough to remind your body that your first orgasm was nothing but the beginning. Your nails found his back again, dragging lightly over the skin of his shoulders as your breath caught.

“You thought I was gon’ break first,” he said, dragging himself out slowly before sinking back into you. “Didn’t you?”

You moaned, head tipping back, throat arching beneath his palm.

“You thought that lil attitude was enough to make me lose my cool.” Another thrust. Deep and slow. The kind that made your vision blur.

“But you forgot who you dealin’ with,” he grunted as his lips brushed your ear. “I can fuck this perfect pussy slow like this for hours and still not cum.”

You whimpered again, your hips twitching, your body betraying you as your heat reignited. He kissed the curve of your cheek, your jaw, your ear.

“You don’t get quick fucks when you act like you don’t need me.” His hand slid between your bodies, fingers slipping down until they found that tender, swollen bundle of nerves. “You get discipline.”And as his fingers began to move in calculated devastating circles, his hips continued their cruel rhythm and your body began to shake again.

You could barely breathe. Every inch of your body was coated in sweat, your skin fever-hot, while your senses flooded with overstimulation. Smoke hadn’t let up and he hadn’t sped up either. That was the worst part… or maybe the best. He moved with purpose and mastery. Every grind of his hips was deep, as he poured himself into you like he was trying to combine your souls into one. And his fingers… God. The pads of them circled your clit with such devastating precision, you swore you were unraveling on a molecular level. Like you were coming apart from the inside out.

You gripped at his shoulders, his back, his biceps, wherever you could reach… but you couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t change the pace. Couldn’t make him move faster no matter how much your legs shook or your voice cracked. “P-please,” you breathed, not even sure what you were asking for. Release? Mercy? More?

Smoke leaned down, brushing his lips against your cheek with a smug grin carved into his face. “Oh… You beggin’ now?” he asked. “Wasn’t too long ago you was flippin’ me off and actin’ like I was walkin’ around here like a cheap thrill.”

His voice vibrated against your neck, dragging goosebumps down your spine. “You wanna cum again, pretty girl?” he murmured, fingers pressing down just slightly harder, swirling against your clit like he was drawing a map to your breakdown. “Is that what all them little tears are for?”

You whined, nodding frantically, your thighs beginning to quake again. Smoke didn’t speed up. He didn’t need to. Your body was desperate for him and would greedily take whatever was given. He knew you so well he could fuck you out of a meltdown without ever changing rhythm.

“You don’t deserve to cum yet,” he said lowly, pulling his mouth back to hover just above yours. “But I’m gon’ let you anyway. Just so you remember who got you moaning so loud our neighbors might file a noise complaint tomorrow.”

He moved in again with one solid and controlled stroke that made your eyes roll and your nails dig so deep into his back you swore you could feel muscle give. Your body started to quiver. “No—no, wait—” you whimpered, because you felt it building too fast, the peak rising like a wave with nowhere to go.

“Shhh,” he whispered, voice laced with hunger now, though his pace never changed. “That’s it. Go on. Cum on my dick.”

He kissed you and swallowed your cries as your walls constricted around him and you came again, harder than before. Your body jerked beneath him as your second orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave smashing through a dam. You sobbed into his mouth, a mix of bliss and frustration and pure, helpless surrender. Your thighs shook uncontrollably and your nails dug into his flesh like he was the only thing keeping you from drifting away.

Smoke pulled back just enough to look at your face that was flushed and tear-streaked, while your mouth hung open in silent shock as you rode the aftershocks. “I don’t think that attitude is gone yet” he rasped, still deep inside you, still hard as stone. “You need another reminder. Don’t you, baby?”

You nodded weakly unable to form words.

Smoke slid his hand up your ribcage, slow and reverent, until he cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, tugging it gently. “I ain’t even started your real punishment yet.”

Your heart stuttered.

“Two days you gave me attitude,” he murmured, kissing your chin. “Two days you walked around this house actin’ like you forgot what my name felt like between your thighs… I'm nowhere near done with you yet.”

You gasped, your fingers twitched around his arms, already worn down and so full of him. You didn’t know if it was seconds or minutes or lifetimes that passed with him moving inside you like that—slow, deliberate, dominant. Your body felt swollen with sensation, soaked in the aftermath of two back-to-back orgasms that had left your breath scattered like glass shards across the mattress.

Your skin was hot to the touch, your muscles limp, your mind foggy with a heady mix of defiance and surrender. And through it all, Smoke hadn’t broken his rhythm. His stamina was inhuman, like he fed off control, fed off the way your body twitched and sobbed under his. The way you needed more and hated that it had to come from him.

But then… Something shifted. His eyes… those dark, obsidian things dragged across your face. He licked his lips, slow and thoughtful. Then he pulled back again. All the way out. You cried at the loss of fullness and rose your hips involuntarily trying to chase him. Smoke grinned but it wasn’t a playful or kind grin. Without a word, he grabbed your hips, flipped you over onto your stomach, and yanked your ass up until you were on your knees, chest pressed to the mattress. He spread your legs with his own and ran a hand down your back.

“You said I looked like I could be bought for two dollars and some gum,” he growled, dragging himself against your folds, wet and swollen and already twitching from anticipation.

You swallowed, face buried in the sheets. You remembered and silently cursed to yourself.

He leaned down, mouth grazing your ear as he lined himself up behind you. “Good thing for you, I don’t charge. But I do collect.”

And then he slammed into you. No warning. No patience. The thrust knocked the wind out of your lungs. “E-ELIJAHHHH! F-FUCKKK!” you cried, hands gripping the sheets like a lifeline.

Smoke’s pace was nothing like before. All that held-back heat, all that restraint? Gone. His hips snapped against you with vicious precision, his grip digging into your hips as your ass slapped against him, over and over, filling the room with the sound of skin meeting skin and your broken cries.

“This what you wanted?” he grunted, every word punched out between thrusts. “All that mouth, all that attitude… This what you needed to calm down?”

You couldn’t even answer. Couldn’t form a thought. Your voice was raw with whimpers and your tears stained the pillow as you arched back into him on instinct, chasing every brutal, perfect stroke.

He reached around and grabbed a fistful of your hair, pulling your head back just enough to whisper against your jaw. “You talk big,” he hissed, thrusting deep, “but this pussy always tell the truth.”

You sobbed out a yes. Or maybe his name. Or maybe just a noise—because that’s all you were now. A body molded to his pace. A vessel of heat and ache and want. And then… He slowed again. But this time, his strokes were hard and measured. That had your eyes rolling and your teeth sinking into the pillow to stop yourself from screaming his name like a confession.

“You feel how deep I am?” he groaned, voice thick and low behind you. “You gon’ run your mouth next time a man so much as smiles at you?”

You shook your head quickly, biting down on your bottom lip as you wavered between reality and subspace.

“Use your words,” he demanded before landing hard smacks on your ass that turned your ebony skin bright red.

“No—no, Smo- Daddy! I won’t, I swear—” you gasped, voice choked and high.

“Damn right you won’t.”

He dragged you up by your waist, pulling your back against his chest, one arm wrapping across your ribs, the other snaking down to rub your clit in slow, punishing circles again.

“Let another nigga smile at you again in public and I’ma bend you over right then and there,” he whispered, biting your shoulder. “Make sure everybody knows who you belong to.”

You cried out again, the pleasure building faster than your body could handle. It was too much but you loved every second of it. And Smoke? He was relentless. Focused. Determined to etch his name into your skin, your bones, your fucking soul.

“You gon’ cum one more time for me,” he ordered, fingers working faster now. “And then I’ll think about lettin’ myself nut.”

You couldn’t even reply because your body was already shaking. Your walls were already spasming around his brutal rod. You felt your mind spiral into that place that only he could take you. The place where pride didn’t exist and control was something you gave him freely.

“Go on, baby,” he ordered. “Make my dick shiny. Cum for me.”

And you did. Harder than you’ve ever climaxed before. This orgasm felt spiritual like your soul kissed the feet of God before asking for forgiveness and traveling back into your human vessel. You screamed his name into the pillow like a secret finally confessed, your body convulsed, your legs collapsed beneath you as he held you upright, grunting through clenched teeth.

Smoke held you there, both of you trembling in the twinkling moonlight shining through the bedroom. Your back was slick against his chest, your breath short and stuttering. His arm was still banded tight across your stomach, the other gripping your thigh with bruising intensity, like he didn’t trust his body not to break you if he let it go free. You felt every inch of him—still deep, still pulsing, still holding on with that impossible restraint that made you ache in places words couldn’t touch.

“Fuck… Fuck… Don’t move,” he moaned, his voice cracking down the middle—low, rasped, and dangerous. “Don’t.”

You didn’t dare disobey your man. You were already trembling too hard, barely tethered to your body. Your face was damp with tears, your thighs quaking, your walls still fluttering in waves around him.

“Shit, baby…” he growled, his voice buried somewhere between awe and agony. “You tryin’ to milk me dry, huh?”

You whimpered. Not out of pain. But because you felt it—felt that slow-building quake start to rattle through him. The way his grip tightened. The way his hips stilled just for a beat too long. You felt the flex in his abdomen, the tension coiling at the base of his spine like a spring being wound to the brink of snapping.

Your last orgasm clenched down onto his dick perfectly and now he was close trying to fight against it. You turned your face slightly from the pillow, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper. “Why’re you holdin’ it in?”

Smoke gritted his teeth tightly. “‘Cause once I let go…” he hissed, “you ain’t gon’ be able to walk, let alone keep talkin’ shit like you ain’t mine.”

You shivered under him. “But I am yours,” you whispered, the confession slipping out with a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

That broke him. Smoke let out a low, raw groan as his grip shifted. He grabbed your hips with both hands, holding you still as his restraint finally began to splinter.

“Say it again.”

“Smoke—”

“Say. It. Again.”

Your voice caught in your throat, but you gave it to him, every word thick with truth and heat. “I’m yours,” you breathed. “I’ve always been yours.”

He let out something between a moan and a curse as he started to move again. Each thrust was rough with purpose, his rhythm tight and controlled even as his body fought against itself for release. “I should’ve made you say that two days ago,” he murmured into your neck. “Could’ve saved us both a whole lot of trouble.”

You could feel him on edge now. His hands were shaking. His thighs flexed with every grind forward. His jaw locked. “Fuck, baby… you feel too good,” he rasped. “Too fucking good.”

You whimpered, barely holding yourself up as he rutted into you like it was the last thing he’d ever do.

“Where you want it?” he choked out, voice frayed and thick with hunger. His hand fisted the meat of your ass, keeping your hips tilted perfectly, helplessly open for him.

“Tell me. Right here?” he ground into you deeper—deeper—and your whole body jolted like he’d struck a nerve that reached your soul.

“Want me to fill this pretty pussy up?” he growled, hips snapping forward again, rough, rhythmic, merciless. “You want me to cum so deep you leak for days, huh? So every time you open your legs, you remember who the fuck owns it?”

You tried to answer, but your voice cracked around the sound of your own moan.

Your body was done. Shaking, oversensitive, strung out from back-to-back orgasms—but still hungry for him. Still desperate to take all of him, to feel the final blow. The one he’d been holding back since the minute he put his hands on you.

Smoke’s thrusts became heavier and it became obvious he was losing the reins. His grip on your hips turned bruising, and a deep, guttural snarl ripped out of him like it came from the base of his spine. “Answer me, baby! Where. You. Want. It?”

“Inside,” you cried, head buried in the sheets, hips bucking against him. “Please, Smoke, fill me up.”

Smoke roared before grabbing you by the back of your neck and forcing your chest flush to the mattress. His other hand yanked your ass back into him, hard enough to make your eyes roll. His body collapsed over yours, hot and massive and trembling as he began to pound into you like a man possessed. No more teasing. No more patience. Just raw, primal need.

“You fuckin’ take it,” he growled in your ear. “You take every drop. That’s mine. You hear me? Mine. This pussy… this whole fuckin’ body… you think I’m lettin’ it walk around untouched, unclaimed? Nah. Nah, baby. I’m leavin’ my fuckin’ mark.”

His thrusts were devastating now. Every stroke came with the full weight of his body. His hips snapped forward like punishment, his chest slick against your back, his voice a broken, dirty prayer in your ear.

“I can’t—” you gasped, sobbing against the sheets.

“Yes, you… can,” he growled, his voice deep and guttural, hips pounding harder now. “You will. You gon’ take every drop I give you… then lay here… and thank me for it like a good girl. Understand?”

You felt the tremor roll through his body as his thighs tensed, his back flexed, and the ragged stutter of his breath grew as he chased his own breaking point. He was close. So close. “Say it,” he demanded, his voice sharp as a razor. “Say you’re mine while I paint these walls. Say it with my dick buried in this pussy.”

You cried out, clawing at the sheets, tears streaking your face. “I’m yours, Smoke! I’m yours, please—cum inside me!”

With a final, brutal thrust, he buried himself so deep you screamed, and then he moaned your name like it was the last word he’d ever say.

You were on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness when you felt Smoke’s hot and heavy load spilling into you in thick waves as his body seized behind you, every muscle locked in place. His nails dug into your hips as he held you there, stuffed full, claimed and ruined. His head dropped into your neck, his moan drawn-out, ragged, the sound of a man breaking as he finally gave in.

He stayed like that. Still pulsing inside you and panting. His lips grazed your skin, open-mouthed, breath hot. Then, after a long, heavy silence—he exhaled and murmured low, almost reverent: “Mine.”

And this time, you didn’t argue. Because your body? It agreed.

.

.

.

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.

Authors Note: This was just a one shot to get all the horn horn energy out before I finish my series🥴🙂‍↕️ I understand mean Smoke isn’t for everyone but… HE IS VERY GORGEOUS TO MEEEE!!!

Your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Simon—”

He stops, buried balls deep inside you. His eyes lift to yours from beneath the black smear of his paint. Brown eyes gone flat and dangerous.

“What?”

Your fingers swipe at his throat, and then pull back to show him your now candied fingertips. “You’re bleeding.”

For a second, he just stares at you.

Then his mouth shifts beneath the mask. “S’not mine.”

The room seems to go airless around you. For a moment, your brain does not know what to do with the words.

Not mine.

They land somewhere distant - muffled by euphoria and the heat of him still seated inside you. They should mean something immediately - they should send you upright, sober you, sharpen you. But you’re too gone beneath him, too pliant and overheated and pinned, your thighs trembling around his waist while he stays buried deep enough that every breath you take has to move around him.

So you just stare at him.

At the dark paint around his eyes, at the blood smear, at the shape of his shoulders above you. You stare long enough that the unusual details begin arranging themselves in whatever clear space you’ve got left in your mind.

His gloves, first.

They’re clean. Fresh black tactical gloves, one of them still gripping your hip as he stares down at you in pause. You can’t shake the feeling that they’re different - you know his kit. You know the worn seams, the scuffs, the little frays on the knuckles from use. These aren’t the pair he wore earlier.

Your gaze flicks lower.

His shirt, too.

Not the one from briefing. Not the one with the faded shoulder seam and the dust at the collar. This one is clean, dark, newly pulled on in a hurry. You catch a faint whiff of barracks detergent and bathroom soap with every move he makes.

He cleaned up.

The thought comes through the haze in pieces.

Simon cleaned himself up before he came here but somehow, he missed this. One dark smear beneath his jaw.

You swallow. Your voice comes out thin. “What happened?”

Simon watches your mouth form the words.

Your breathing sounds too loud now, while his somehow stays perfectly even - like he isn’t pressed into you to the hilt - like he isn’t the reason your thighs are shaking around his waist. Like he didn’t come to your room with another persons blood still drying in the place he forgot to wash. He lowers himself closer and the mattress dips beneath the weight of him.

His masked mouth brushes the corner of yours, not quite kissing you but just hovering there - dragging the rough fabric against your skin as he speaks.

“What happened was,” he pauses. “Graves opened his fuckin’ mouth.”

A cold thread winds through the heat in your stomach.

You go still beneath him, even though your cunt is still fluttering helplessly around the thick of him. The name alone does something ugly to the room. Sours the air. Pulls the world back in around the two of you.

“What—” you have to stop to breathe. Your nails dig into his shoulder. “What did he say?”

Simon’s hand slides slowly from your hip.

His palm moves over your waist, up your ribs, dragging goosebumps in its wake. He maps you like he already knows every reaction he is about to get - like he can feel the exact second your pulse jumps. His gloved fingers skim the base of your throat and settle there.

Thumb resting over your pulse. Counting it.

“He said he’d wondered what you sounded like when you begged.”

Your breath locks. You blink at him, stupidly.

For a second, you can’t reconcile the sentence with the room you’re in. With Simon above you. With Graves’s name in Simon’s mouth and blood under Simon’s jaw and your own pulse hammering against his thumb like it wants to betray you.

But Simon says it like he has had the words sitting behind his teeth for hours. Like he has been waiting to put them somewhere. Like he needs you to understand exactly what happened to the man who said them.

“He said,” Simon continues, each word dragged low through his teeth, “that a mouth like yours would be wasted on 141.”

Your nails bite into his shoulder.

“I-I—“ you whimper. “Si—“

His hips move before you can say anything else.

A slow, devastating thrust that punches the air out of you and leaves the rest of his name caught uselessly in your throat. He watches you take it. Watches your face twist. Watches the thought you were trying to form scatter completely.

“That Price needs to put you in your place,” he hisses through his teeth. “That he’d have had you on your knees by now.”

Your stomach twists.

You shake your head, but you don’t even know what you’re denying. Graves. Simon. The heat blooming under your skin. The fact that the words should disgust you cleanly, but Simon’s voice saying them like a death sentence makes something dark and shameful coil inside you.

He pulls out just to thrust in again.

Harder this time - hard enough to break the breath right out of you. Enough to make the headboard creak traitorously behind you. Enough to make your thighs tighten around his waist before you can stop them.

Simon feels it.

“Then he looked at me,” he says, voice dropping into something ruined and vicious, “and asked if I’d taught you to take orders.”

Your heart slams so hard you feel it in your throat, pulsing viscously under his palm. The room narrows to three things - Simon’s eyes, the blood on his neck, and the place where he is still holding you down.

There is blood on him.

Someone else’s blood.

Graves’s blood.

The realization comes slowly at first, then all at once.

You see it too clearly: Simon standing there silent while Graves ran his mouth. Simon listening. The moment the Ghost stops being a man in a room and becomes a consequence. You see the gloves he must have taken off. The blood on the old pair. The careful cleanup after. The way he must have washed his hands, changed, checked himself in the mirror, decided he was clean enough to come to you.

Clean enough. Except for the one place he missed.

Simon watches the realization move across your face.

“Oh God.” You force the words out. “What did you do?”

Your voice is barely a whisper.

His answer is immediate. “I hit him.”

The answer is too simple, too small for the blood under his jaw and the hell in his eyes and that is only because you know Simon.

You know the careful economy of him - the terrifying restraint. The discipline carved into his bones so deep it has become part of his breathing. Simon does not hit men because he is angry. He does not waste movement. He does not lose control unless something in him has already decided the consequence is worth it.

He ends things because he has weighed the cost and found it acceptable.

Your fingers curl tighter in his shirt. “How bad?”

For the first time, something almost like satisfaction passes through his eyes.

His hips roll in one slow, merciless stroke and your back arches before you can stop it. You spread your legs and take him deeper; helplessly, embarrassingly, betraying every sensible thought trying to form in your head.

“How—“ you try to ask again, but the question fractures halfway through another thrust.

Simon lowers his mouth to your ear. “Bad enough Price had to pull me off him.”

Your stomach flips in something stupid. Fear should come first.

It doesn’t.

It should be horror. Concern. Anger. Maybe all three. You should shove at his chest. Demand to know if he’s lost his fucking mind. Tell him he can’t do that, can’t put his hands on Graves over his disgusting mouth and a half-formed threat. Can’t turn command into a blood sport. Can’t risk his place, his rank, Price’s trust, your trust, just because another man said something deserving yet ultimately meaningless.

But what blooms under your ribs is not sensible enough to be outrage - it is hot. It is fucking shameful.

It is dark and possessive and awful in the exact shape of him.

Because he heard another man talk about you. Heard Graves put his hands on you in theory. Heard him degrade you, heard him imagine you on your knees, your mouth, your begging, and decided violence was the only answer he trusted.

Your body betrays you before your pride can stop it - a tight little clench around him.

Simon feels it. Of course he does.

He stills above you, and somehow that is worse than movement. He’s pressed to the hilt again, the pressure of him so intense now it leaves your breath caught uselessly behind your teeth. His eyes narrow in something that sees the betrayal before you can hide it.

Your face burns.

“No,” you whisper, before he even says anything.

His mouth shifts beneath the mask. “Oh.”

The sound is low. Cruel in its understanding.

Your pulse kicks under his thumb. “Simon—”

“There she is.”

Your breath stutters, caught somewhere between a moan and a denial, and you hate that he hears both. Hate that he can read you so easily. Hate that your body has already answered him before your pride can even get its feet under it.

Simon looks down at the place where your legs have tightened, then slowly back up to your face. It’s a deliberate act; he is taking inventory of every betrayal.

“You liked that.” He croons.

You shake your head, but it’s weak. Useless. Barely more than the brush of your hair against the pillow.

“N-no.”

His thumb presses against your throat, not hard, just enough to feel the wild little flutter of your pulse.

“Liar.”

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can’t find a single defence, a single outrage. No clever thing you can throw between you and the truth and it is all because he is still inside you. Still wearing fresh gloves like he thought that would be enough to keep you from knowing. Still carrying that one missed smear of Graves’s blood under his jaw like a secret he failed to bury properly.

And now he has caught you reacting to it.

Caught the hitch in your breath. The clench of your cunt. The heat climbing up your neck. The way your whole body went soft and greedy around him the second you understood what he had done.

Simon’s eyes go darker. Hungry in a way that feels worse than anger.

“You should be pissed at me,” he murmurs.

His hips pull back an inch - just enough to make you feel the loss before he sinks back in, slow and devastating, until your hands shift to grab at his shoulders because there is no dignity left in you. No clean line of thought. No clever answer.

“You should be callin’ me reckless.”

Another thrust. Your eyes squeeze shut.

His hand leaves your throat and for half a second, you think he is letting you breathe. That is until both of his hands find your own wrists and pin them firmly above your head.

Your eyes snap open to meet his, expecting full satisfaction, but what you see is worse.

It’s all of him - the width of his shoulders blotting out the dim light, the black of his mask, the hard set of his jaw beneath it, the blood under his neck, those steady eyes watching you like he has already decided exactly how much of you he is going to take apart before he is finished.

“You should be asking what the fuck I was thinkin’,” he says, and you can almost hear the grin in it.

You swallow. “You can’t—”

He moves again, and the words break apart in your mouth.

Your back arches and your fingers curl helplessly against his grip. Your knees shift higher around his ribs, dragging him closer instead of pushing him away, because apparently your body has no interest in helping you survive this with any pride intact.

Simon’s eyes drop to your mouth, then back up to the glass in yours.

“I can’t what?” He murmurs.

You try.

You really do.

You drag the sentence up through the wreckage of yourself, but he is too deep, too thick, too much. The stretch of him keeps interrupting every thought before it can become language.

“You can’t just—” your breath catches on a thrust. “You can’t hit him because he—”

“Because he talked about fucking you?” Your whole body jolts. His eyes burn into yours. “If that’s what you mean, say it proper. Like you fuckin’ believe it.”

You can’t.

Your mouth parts, but all that comes out is a broken little sound when he grinds deeper, cockhead bullying your walls slow enough to make you feel every inch of him, cruel enough to leave you trembling closer to the edge. Any sensible thought is drowned out by the wave of bliss washing over you.

Simon makes a low sound. A rough breath leaves him.

“Too far gone to scold me now?”

You glare at him, or try to. It doesn’t land.

And it didn’t stand a chance, either. Not like this - not with your lips parted and your eyes glassy and cunt stretched pathetically around him. Not with your wrists trapped above your head and your hips still trying to meet him every time he gives you another devastating inch.

“I’m, mmff—serious,” you whisper.

“So am I.”

“Simon—”

“No.” His voice cuts low through the room. “You don’t get to say my name like that while you’re grippin’ me tighter for it.”

Your breath leaves you in a gasp.

He feels the way you clench again, and you see it hit him. See the slight flare of his nostrils beneath the mask. The way his eyes flutter for just a second. The way something brutal and possessive moves through him before he can smooth it down.

“Mhm. Yeah.” His voice drops into something rougher. “Fuckin’ problem, you are.”

Your face burns hotter.

You want to deny it - you want to shove at his chest and tell him he’s wrong. Tell him it’s just your body. Just the position. Just the fact that he has you pinned and overstimulated and too cockdrunk to think straight.

But it’s useless because Simon would know it’s a lie.

He moves again, slow and deep, and the denial dies somewhere behind your teeth.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Nothing clever now?”

“Mmff.” Your nails dig into your own palms where he holds your wrists down. “Shut up.”

His eyes flash. “There she is.”

“I mean it.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

He gives you another measured thrust, and your voice breaks around a gasp. Simon watches it happen with only the most intent focus.

“Try that again.”

You hate him a little. You want him too much for it to matter.

“You’re—” you inhale sharply when he pulls out almost all the way and then back presses in hard enough to make the mattress shift beneath you. “You’re going to get yourself benched.”

“Probably.”

“Price is going to—”

“Already did.”

You blink up at him, breathless and stupid. “What?”

His thumb drags once along the inside of your wrist.

“Read me the riot act.”

Your nerves jump at that. “And you came here?”

“Yes.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Why?”

Simon looks at you for a long second and the room almost seems to shrink around his silence. Your head swims with all of it; the blood under his jaw, the fresh gloves, the heat of him still locked between your thighs.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “Because I had to see you.”

God. You think he’s lost his mind.

“Simon—“ your back arches and his mouth falls to your neck. “That’s not—this isn’t—“

He lowers himself closer to you, folding you deeper into the mattress.

“You think I lost it because he insulted you?” You don’t answer. His thumb strokes once over the pulse flying at your wrist. “No, sweet’eart.”

His hips move again, slow enough to be cruel, deep enough to make your eyes flutter.

“I lost it because he thought about touching what’s mine.”

The words hit you low and you make a sound you do not mean to make. Your cunt pulses at the word. Mine. A catastrophic vulnerability to a word you will never ever tire of hearing him say.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “That’s what you like, yeah?”

You squirm under him, helpless. “Simon—”

“He said your name like he had a right to it.” His voice roughens. “Like he’d survive putting his hands on you.” The next thrust punches a feral moan out of you, and the pace turns to something almost vicious. “I had to let him know what mine felt like first.”

You moan, eyes shut. Helpless and needy as a whore.

He pauses again. One hand leaves your wrists and grips your jaw. “Look at me.”

You do.

“Another man touches you like this,” he whispers, a lethal rasp through his teeth, “and I’ll break every finger he owns.”

You shiver. His eyes flick down over your face, your mouth, the wrecked shape of you beneath him.

“And if he talks about you like that again?”

You barely manage the whisper. “What?”

Simon presses his forehead to yours. “I won’t stop at his face.”

For a long second, neither of you moves. Then he rolls his hips, and the whole world narrows back down to him - his body over yours, his hand at your jaw, Graves’s blood drying on his neck, and the awful, devastating tenderness in the way Simon kisses you like he is still trying not to become the worst version of himself.

One of your hands slip out from under his to touch the smear of blood again. Simon catches it and pins it back beside your head.

“Leave it.”

Your breath trembles. “Why?”

His eyes darken. “Because I want you to remember what happens when a man forgets who you belong to.”

And in the back of your mind, you think maybe you should argue. Maybe you should tell him you don’t belong to anyone or that this is crazy or that he’s going to get you both transferred - but then he does what he always does and starts fucking you deep and hard and mean - and your body reacts before your pride can save you.

Simon huffs a quiet, humorless breath. “That’s what I thought.”

Then he kisses you - filthy, possessive, furious, and fucks you like Graves is still in the room and Simon needs the whole world to understand it.

It comes at the window—three slow taps against the glass, patient as a funeral procession—and you know before you even turn your head. You know by the weight of it; by the way the sound doesn't ask.

Yves is mid-sentence. Something about a vineyard in Lyon, his mother's property, the way the light hits the grapes in September. He's nice. He wore a button-down and brought wine that didn't come from a Tesco meal deal. He is, by every quantifiable metric, a good date.

The tapping stops.

You don't breathe.

"Everything alright?" Yves asks, and you watch his face—open, earnest, completely unaware that the temperature in your flat just dropped ten degrees.

"Yeah," you answer before clearing your throat. "Excuse me a second."

You're already moving toward the hall when the front door opens. Not breaks. Not splinters. Opens. Because of course he still has the key. The landlord changed the lock three months ago. You don't know when he copied the new one and you're not sure you want to.

Your ex boyfriend fills your hallway the way smoke fills a room.

All ominous six-foot-four of him, still in full kit—plate carrier, tac belt, the Sig strapped to his thigh like it grew there. His hardshell mask is streaked with something dark. Mud. Maybe mud. The hall light catches the wet shine of it across the jaw and you tell yourself it's mud because the alternative makes your stomach fold in on itself.

He smells like diesel and copper and cold air, like he came straight from the tarmac. Like he didn't even stop at base to dekit.

He looks at you first. Always does. Those flat brown eyes finding you through the mask's sockets, dragging slow from your face to the silk top stretched across your supple chest, down the curve of your waist where your jeans sit snug against your plump hips.

And something shifts behind the mask. Not softening. Settling. Like a predator confirming its kill is still where it left it.

Then his gaze slides past you. Down the hall. Into the kitchen where Yves is half-standing from the stool with a glass of Côtes du Rhône in his hand and the dawning expression of a man who has just realized he is in the wrong story.

"Who's this then, pet?"

Low and conversational, like he's asking about a parcel you've received.

"Simon—"

"Didn't quite catch 'is name."

He hasn't moved nor raised his voice, which is even worse somehow. Hasn't done anything except stand there in your hallway with blood drying on his mask and one gloved hand resting almost lazy on the grip of his sidearm.

"Bit rude, innit. Not introducin' us."

Yves sets the wine glass down. You have to give him credit—his hand only shakes a little.

"I should go," Yves declares wide-eyed, already reaching for his jacket on the back of the stool.

Then he doesn't look at you. He looks at the door, and then at the six-foot-four obstacle between him and it, and something in his face goes very pale and very still.

Simon steps aside soundlessly. One measured pace to the left, his broad back pressing flat against the wall, giving Yves exactly enough room to pass. Generous. Magnanimous, even.

Yves doesn't take the space so much as bolt through it, shoulders pulled tight, not breathing, the way a mouse runs along a baseboard when it can smell the cat, and the front door closes behind him with a soft, apologetic click.

You stand in the hall with your arms crossed and your blood pressure somewhere in the stratosphere.

"Four months, Simon."

He tilts his head slowly, like a dog hearing a frequency it doesn't understand.

"Four months since I told you it was over."

"Mm."

He reaches up, unclips the mask at his jaw, pulls it off with the black cloth. Underneath, his pale face is all hard angles and shadows. There's a fresh split in his bottom lip, swollen and dark. He tongues it absently, watching you.

"Heard ya the first time."

"Then what the fuck are you doing in my flat?" Your voice goes up an octave and you hate it.

"Came home."

You almost stomp your foot. "This isn't your home anymore."

"Didn't say the flat."

That lands somewhere behind your ribs and sticks and you hate him for it—hate the way he can crack you open like a quail egg with four words while standing there looking like a war crime in boots. You set your jaw, hold your ground. You have practiced this; rehearsed the way this conversation goes in the shower, in bed, in the queue at Sainsbury's.

"I told you what I need," you say, and your voice is steadier now, which is a victory. "I need someone who's here. Present. Consistent. Someone who doesn't disappear for weeks and come home looking like—" You gesture at him. All of him. The blood, the gear, the split lip, the thousand-yard flatness behind his eyes. "—that."

"Fair."

"Don't—Don't just say 'fair' like you're humoring me."

"'M not."

Then he pushes off the wall. One step. Slow, the way he does everything when he's not working—deliberate and unhurried, like time is a thing that belongs to him. "Said ya needed space, pet. Gave you four months."

You roll your eyes in exasperation. "I said we were done, Simon."

"Nah."

Another step. Close enough now that you can feel the cold radiating off his gear, smell the copper-sharp tang of wherever he's been, see the dried blood cracking in the creases of his gloves.

"Y'said you wanted someone steady. Present." His head dips. Just enough that his mouth is level with your temple, his voice a low scrape against your ear. "Didn't say y'wanted someone else."

"That's not—"

"'Cause ya don't."

His hand comes up. Gloved fingers catching your jaw—firm, not rough, the leather cold and stiff against your skin. He tilts your face up the way he always does, like he needs the angle, needs to see all of it. Your breath catches and you watch something in his eyes go dark and liquid, the flat operational blankness cracking open just enough to show you what is underneath.

Hunger. Not sharp. Not frantic. The slow, bone-deep kind that lives in the marrow. The kind that has been sitting in the dark for four months, patient as a held breath.

His thumb drags across your lower lip and his gaze follows it, tracing the path, and you feel the moment his breathing changes—deeper, slower, controlled the way a man controls himself when he's choosing not to take.

"You want me," he murmurs. Not a question but a fact. Delivered the same way he delivers coordinates, with flatness and certainty, already confirmed.

And the worst part—the absolute worst part—is the way your body answers before your mouth can. The way you lean into his grip, just barely, just enough. The way your lashes dip and your lips part against the pad of his thumb and something hot and liquid pools low in your belly, traitorous and familiar.

He clocks it immediately, because he's Simon Riley.

His other hand finds your hip, gloved fingers sinking into the soft give of your flesh, squeezing once—slow, proprietary, like he's relearning the shape of something that belongs to him. You feel the press of his belt buckle against your stomach, the hard edge of the holster against your thigh, and lower—the unmistakable, thickening line of him behind his tac pants, not hidden, not apologized for.

"Yves," you say weakly. A last stand. A white flag dressed up as a name.

"Who?" His split eyebrow quirks in amusement.

And then he kisses you.

Not gentle or careful or the way a man kisses someone he's trying to win back.

He kisses you like he's reclaiming territory—wet and filthy and all-consuming, his split lip smearing copper across your mouth, his tongue sliding against yours before you've even finished gasping. His hand stays locked on your jaw, holding you exactly where he wants you, and the other drags from your hip to the small of your back, pulling you flush against the hard wall of his plate carrier until you can feel every buckle, every strap, every rigid unforgiving edge of him pressed into the softness of your body.

You make a sound. Something wrecked and involuntary that vibrates against his teeth, and he swallows it—greedy and thorough, like he's been starving and you're the first good thing he's tasted in months.

His tongue drags slow across your bottom lip and then he bites down, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to own, and the noise you make this time is worse. Needier. The kind of sound that undoes four months of conviction in a single breath.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Mouth wet. Eyes black. The smug bastard isn't even breathing hard.

"There she is," he murmurs, and his forehead drops to yours.

He breathes you in like oxygen after a dive, and when he speaks, it's so low you feel it more than hear it, a vibration against your skin, a thing that lives in your chest:

"Told ya, love. Wasn't a suggestion."

The wine Yves brought sits on the counter, warm and forgotten. By morning it'll be flat.

You won't notice. You'll be in bed with Simon's arm locked around your waist, his face buried in the curve of your neck, his breathing deep and even for the first time in four months.

You'll tell yourself you're angry about it.

He showers and changes; comes back to find you in the same spot, still on your phone, legs stretched out now so the shirt rides up just enough to show the curve where your thigh meets your arse. Calculated. Everything about you is calculated when you're angry.

"You gonna tell me what I did?" He sits beside you, arm over the back of the sofa.

His hand nearly touches you and you shift away deliberately. "Nothing."

"Right." His eyes flash as he watches you for a moment. Then his brawny hand lands on your knee—warm and heavy. "C’mere."

"No."

He clicks his tongue. "Wasn't askin’."

You put your phone down and look at him—finally—and there it is. Not anger. Worse. That look that says I missed you so much it scared me and I'd rather die than admit it. He knows it because he fucking invented it.

"Three weeks," you say, swallowing. "Not a word."

"Couldn't—"

"I know you couldn't." You shrug his hand off, pouting. "Doesn't mean I'm not pissed off."

Fair enough. He can work with pissed off.

He sighs, then pulls you onto his lap—or tries to. You resist like a cat going liquid, then give in, but on your terms, straddling him with your hands on his shoulders and a look that says he’s not forgiven yet.

"What do y’want?" he asks roughly. Quiet and direct.

You’re still pouting. "I want you to suffer."

His mouth twitches, he huffs half a laugh through his crooked nose. "Dramatic."

"Three. Weeks." You poke his chest and it flexes under your touch.

"I heard you the first time."

You shift in his lap—deliberate, rolling your hips once—and his jaw tightens. You're bare under the shirt. He can feel the heat of you through his joggers, and his hands move to your hips on instinct.

"No," you hiss, lifting his hands off and pinning them to the back of the sofa. "You don't get to touch."

His eyes darken. "That so?"

"That's so."

You roll your hips again—slower this time, grinding down against the hardening length of him through the thin fabric. His cock twitches against you and you feel it, the thick ridge of him pressing right between your folds, and the friction sends a jolt through you that you must fight to keep off your face.

"You're playin’ a dangerous game," he growls, voice low.

"I know."

And you set a rhythm—slow and torturous rolls of your hips, dragging your bare cunt along the length of him through his joggers. The fabric's already damp. You can feel yourself getting wetter with every pass, coating the outline of his cock through the cotton, and his breathing is getting heavier even though his expression hasn't changed.

Almost hasn't changed. His jaw is clenched tight enough to cut glass.

"Pull them down," you demand breathlessly.

He lifts his hips without a word and shoves his joggers down just enough for his cock to spring free—thick and hard, flushed dark at the head when his foreskin slides back. You resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets bare skin you both hiss.

"Still no touching," you remind him.

"You're goin’ to fuckin’ kill me, bunny."

"That's the idea."

You slide forward, letting his cock drag through your folds; hot and slick, the head catching against your clit on every pass. Your wetness coats him in seconds, making the glide obscene. Wet sounds fill the living room, and Simon's hands are white-knuckling the sofa cushions, veins standing out in his forearms, every muscle in his body taut with the effort of not grabbing you.

"Fuck," he breathes. Barely audible. "You're soakin’ me."

"Mm-hm." You press down harder, trapping his cock between his stomach and your cunt, and grind. The underside of his shaft drags against your clit and your thighs clench around him. "Three weeks' worth."

"I can feel it." His head drops back against the sofa, eyes half-closed, watching you from under his lashes. "You're fuckin’ drippin’ all over my cock and you won't even let me inside."

"No."

"Cruel woman."

"Learned from the best."

He huffs another short laugh while you pick up the pace—faster, wetter, chasing the friction against your clit while his cock slides through your folds in long, slick strokes. He's leaking too, pre-come mixing with your slick, and the sound of it—the obscene, wet sound of skin on skin—is filthy enough to make heat coil tight in your belly.

"Can I touch you," he says, and it's not quite a question. Not quite begging. Simon Riley doesn't beg. But it's close. Closer than you've ever heard him.

"No."

"Please." Gritted through his teeth. His hips jerk up involuntarily, his cock pressing harder against your clit, and you gasp.

"Hands on the sofa, Si."

He swears low and vicious under his breath, but he obeys. His strong fingers dig into the cushions hard enough to tear fabric while you use him, sliding your pussy along his cock in tight, deliberate rolls, chasing the pressure building between your legs.

"'M close," he warns, teeth gritting. "If y’don't stop—"

"Don't stop what?" You grind down hard, the head of his cock nudging against your entrance without slipping in, and he makes a sound you've never heard before. Broken and raw. "This?"

"Fuckin’—Christ—"

You come first—barely, by seconds—your swollen clit twitches against the underside of his shaft as your whole body goes rigid and shakes. He follows you over the edge with a rough groan, cock jerking between your folds, cum spilling hot and thick over his own taut stomach and your cunt in messy pulses.

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard, and his arms finally come up—wrapping around you, pulling you in tight, hands spread wide across your back.

"Punishment's over," you mumble against his neck, nipping the pale skin there.

"Good." His voice is wrecked. His hand slides into your hair, holding you against him. "Because if you ever do that to me again, 'm goin’ to lose my fuckin’ mind."

"Promise?"

He doesn't answer. Just holds you tighter, inhaling your scent shamelessly.

— K. GARRICK:

It's your first night together.

Properly together, not the almost-kisses in the corridor or the loaded looks across the briefing room, and of course, of course, neither of you has a condom.

"I can go! There's a shop on the corner—" Kyle's already reaching for his jeans.

"Kyle." You catch his hand. "It's two in the morning."

"I'll be five minutes—"

"Kyle. Stay."

Kyle looks at you—all soft brown eyes and swollen mouth and his shirt already on the floor—and the fight goes out of him. He climbs back onto the bed, kneeling between your legs, and his hands settle on your thighs with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"I want to do this right," he says quietly. "For you."

"We don't need—" You sit up, pull your top over your head, and his eyes drop to your bare chest. His throat bobs. "There are other things we can do."

"Yeah?"

You guide him down, flat on his back, and straddle his hips. He's hard. You can feel him through his boxers. The thick shape of him pressing up against you, and when you roll your hips experimentally, his hands fly to your waist.

"Like this," you breathe, tugging at his waistband. He lifts his hips and you pull his boxers down, and his cock springs up against his belly—flushed, hard, a bead of clear pre-come already gathered at the tip. You shimmy out of your underwear and resettle over him, and when your bare cunt meets the length of him, he makes a sound like you've knocked the air out of his lungs.

"Oh fuck," he whispers.

"Good?"

"You have—You have no idea." His voice is strained, his long fingers flexing on your hips. "You're so warm. Shit."

You start to move—slow, lazy rolls, letting your folds part around his throbbing shaft. He's thick enough that you can feel every inch, the ridge of his uncut head catching against your clit on every forward slide. You brace your hands on his chest, and he watches you with an expression caught somewhere between reverence and total ruin.

"Tell me what feels good," he murmurs, because he's Kyle and even with his cock sliding through your pussy he's still thinking about you first.

"This. Just—this." You press down harder, grinding, and the wet sound makes his eyes flutter shut. "You feel so good between my legs."

"You can't just—say things like that—" His buff chest heaves.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm trying really hard not to embarrass myself and you're making it—" You shift your angle and his cock slides through a particularly slick patch and his whole body tenses. "Difficult! You're making it difficult!"

You grin down at him. He catches it and groans, covering his face with one hand.

"Don't bloody laugh at me—"

"I'm not laughing. I think it's sweet."

"I don't want to be sweet right now! I want to be—" He cuts himself off with a sharp breath as you grind forward again. His hand drops from his face, and both palms grip your thighs, fingers sinking into the soft flesh. "You're so wet. Fucking hell, you're dripping."

"That's what you do to me."

"Stop." But he's grinning now, that devastating Kyle Garrick grin, even as his hips start canting up to meet your rhythm. "You're going to make me—"

"That's the point."

His composure is fraying; his head tips back against the pillow. You can see it—the way his jaw clenches, the way his stomach muscles flutter under your hands, the way his breathing goes ragged when the head of his cock nudges against your clit and slides through slick heat. His thumbs have found the crease of your thighs and he's pressing in, holding you open, making the contact tighter.

"Can I—" He swallows hard. "Can I hold it against you? I want to feel—"

"Yeah. Whatever you want."

He wraps a hand around himself, pressing his cock flat against his stomach so you're grinding directly against the underside—root to tip, your clit dragging along the thick vein, and the new angle makes both of you moan. He's staring at where your bodies meet, almost in a daze, watching your pussy slide over his cock, and his expression is gone. Completely gone.

"You're the most beautiful thing I've ever—" His voice cracks. "Baby, I'm not gonna last."

"Then don't."

"Not without you." He reaches between you with his free hand, finds your clit with his thumb, and starts rubbing in quick, tight circles while you grind against his shaft. The dual sensation—his cock against your folds, his thumb on your clit—makes your rhythm falter and your thighs shake.

"Kyle—God—!"

"That's it. Come on. Come with me, yeah?" His voice is wrecked, desperate, his hips thrusting up to meet you, cock sliding through your soaked pussy while his thumb works your clit. "Wanna feel you. Please."

You shatter with a broken cry; cunt pulsing against his cock, and he follows seconds later—groaning your name, long and low, as he spills in hot streaks across his own stomach and the underside of your thighs. His hips stutter through it, cock and balls twitching between your folds, and his thumb doesn't stop until you're whimpering and pushing his hand away.

Silence. Heavy breathing. The sound of the city outside.

"So," he says eventually, chest heaving. "That was…"

"Yeah."

"First thing tomorrow. I'm buying a box of condoms."

One eyebrow quirks. "One box?"

He laughs. bright and breathless, and pulls you down against his chest, not caring about the mess between you. His arms wrap around you, his lips find your forehead, and you can feel his heart hammering under your cheek.

"You're right," he murmurs against your hair. "Gonna make it two."

— J. PRICE:

He tells you to lie down.

Not asks. Not suggests. He tells you the same way he tells his men to hold position or his bartender to pour another. That low, gravel-and-whiskey voice that doesn't leave room for negotiation.

"On your back. Legs apart. Hands above your head."

You're already naked. He made sure of that twenty minutes ago, undressing you piece by piece in the bedroom with the patience of a man disarming ordnance. Now you're spread out on the bed like something he's laid out for his own inspection, and he's standing at the foot of it, still fully dressed from the waist up.

His belt is already undone. Trousers open. Fat cock in his hand—thick, heavy, half-hard and getting harder as he looks at you—and he strokes himself with a slow, idle grip. Like he's got nowhere to be, and the sight of you spread open and waiting is something he wants to savour before he touches it.

"John," you mewl.

"Quiet."

His thumb rolls over the head of his cock, pulling the foreskin forward and back, exposing the flushed, ruddy tip. Pre-come beads at the slit, and he catches it with his thumb, smearing it in slow circles. Unhurried. Almost meditative.

"Look at you," he says, voice low. His eyes move over your body the way they move over terrain—systematic, thorough, missing nothing. They settle between your legs and stay there. "Already wet and I haven't even touched you yet."

"Because you're staring—" you whine.

"I'm appreciating." He kneels on the end of the bed. Doesn't climb up. Just kneels there, cock in hand, and reaches forward with his free hand to press your thighs wider apart. "There's a difference."

He shuffles closer on his knees until he's between your legs, and you feel the heat of him. Close but not touching. He keeps stroking himself, that same measured rhythm, his foreskin sliding over the head in a way that makes your mouth go dry.

"Please," you whisper.

"Please what?"

"Touch me, John."

"I will." John leans forward and drags the head of his cock along your slit—one slow, devastating pass from entrance to clit. Your back arches off the bed and he watches with dark, steady eyes. "When I'm ready."

He does it again.

And again.

Long, lazy drags through your folds, using the head of his cock like a tool—nudging your clit, sliding through the slick, pressing against your entrance just enough for you to feel it before pulling back. His hand keeps working his shaft in that slow grip, the other fondling his heavy balls; foreskin rolling over the head between every stroke, and the combination—the wet slide of his tip through your pussy, the obscene sound of his hand on himself—has you digging your nails into the pillow above your head.

"Stay still," he orders, the same way he'd say hold position. His cock drags through your folds and catches on your clit, and he presses—holds—watching your thighs tremble. "Good girl."

"John, I need—"

"I know what you need." He angles himself lower, lets the head press against your entrance, and your body opens for him instinctively—slick and ready and aching. But he doesn't push in. Just rests there, thick mushroom tip nudging your opening, and strokes himself with a patience that borders on cruelty.

"You want it?" he asks, and there's something almost conversational about it. Like he's offering you tea.

"Yes—"

"Not tonight." He pulls back, drags himself through your folds again, and the wet sound echoes in the quiet bedroom. "Tonight I want to see you like this. Wanting. Pretty cunt all swollen and open for me and nothing inside it."

The filth of it—coming from him, from that composed, authoritative mouth—makes your pussy clench around nothing. He sees it. Of course he does.

"Greedy," he murmurs, almost fond.

He picks up the pace—still controlled, still deliberate, but faster now. The head of his cock slides through your folds in tight, focused strokes, dragging over your clit on every pass. His fist works his shaft in a rhythm that matches, foreskin pulling back on the downstroke so the bare, swollen head meets your clit with nothing between them.

"Getting close," he mutters, and his voice has roughened. Just slightly. Just enough for you to know the composure is costing him. "Where do you want it?"

"On me. Right there—on my—"

"Say it properly."

"On my pussy. Please, John."

"That's better." His breathing fractures. His strokes shorten, his cock jerking in his fist, the head pressed against your clit now—rubbing, grinding, slick with your wetness and his pre-come. "Going to make a mess of you."

He comes with a low groan that he bites back behind clenched teeth—controlled even now, even at the end—and you feel it land hot and thick on your cunt. He strokes himself through it, painting you with it, smearing his come through your folds with the head of his cock in slow, deliberate passes. Mixing his mess with yours until you're dripping with it—slick and filthy and his. Always his.

He sits back. Studies his work. Tucks himself away with steady hands, does up his belt, and looks at you like a man satisfied with a job well done.

"Don't clean up," he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. Tender. Almost chaste. A stark contrast to the filthy mess between your thighs. "I want you like that when I come back to bed."

"You're a bastard, John Price."

"Mm." He straightens his collar. "I'll put the kettle on, love."

— J. MACTAVISH:

"Don't move."

Johnny stares at you. Blue eyes wide, pupils blown, a vein ticking in his jaw beneath the stubble.

He's kneeling between your legs on your bed—shirtless, dog tags hanging, joggers shoved halfway down his meaty thighs—and his cock is in his hand, hard and leaking, and he looks like a man who has been told he can look at the sun but not blink.

"Are ye serious?" His voice cracks.

"Dead serious." You settle back against the pillows, legs spread wide, and click the clit vibrator on. Low setting. The hum fills the room, and his eyes drop between your legs like they're magnetised. "You can touch. Just the tip. Nothing else."

He makes a pathetic sound in the back of his throat. "That's fuckin' cruel, hen—"

"And?" Your eyebrow quirks arrogantly.

He swallows. Hard. His throat works and his cock twitches in his hand and he's already wrecked—has been since you answered the door in a towel and told him you'd been thinking about him. Which is the truth.

You've been thinking about him. For months. Through every loaded joke and every lingering touch and every time he's looked at you like you're the answer to a question he hasn't worked up the nerve to ask.

Tonight you got tired of waiting.

"Just the tip," he repeats, strangled.

"Just the tip."

He shuffles forward on his knees, and you press the vibrator to your clit. The first buzz making your thighs twitch. And he watches, transfixed, as you start working yourself in slow, lazy circles. His cock is so close to your pussy you can feel the heat radiating off it.

"Go on then," you coo. "Touch."

He guides himself forward with a shaking hand—actually shaking, Johnny MacTavish, steadiest hands on the task force—and drags the tip of his cock through your folds. Just the head. Just the fat, flushed head sliding through slick, bumping against where the vibrator sits on your clit, and the sound he makes is wrecked.

"Oh, Jesus fuckin' Christ—" His head drops forward, chin to chest, dog tags swinging. "Ye're so wet. Fuck. Fuck, ye're so fuckin’ wet."

"Mm-hm." You press the vibrator harder against your clit and let your eyes fall half-closed. "Keep going, MacTavish."

He drags himself through your folds again, agonisingly slow; the head of his cock parting your lips and sliding through the slick. He gets to your entrance and stops, the tip just barely pressing in, and you see his whole body tense with the effort of not pushing forward.

"Can I—"

"No."

"Just the tip—the actual tip—jus’ lemme—"

"I said no, Johnny."

He swears—a string of Glaswegian filth that would make his mother weep—and pulls back. His cock is shining wet, coated in your syrupy arousal, and his fist squeezes the base like he's trying to keep himself from blowing his load too quickly.

"You're pathetic," you snicker, and you don't mean it—not really—but his cock jumps and his breath stutters and oh. Oh. "You like that?"

"Shut up—"

"Look at you. Shaking. Can't even handle a little bit of my pussy without falling apart." You circle your clit with the vibrator, letting him watch, and roll your hips up so his cock slides through your folds again. "Big, tough soldier. On his knees. Begging."

He shudders, balls twitching. "I'm no' beggin’—"

"You will be." You reach down and wrap your free hand around his shaft—just for a second, guiding him—and drag his tip from your clit to your entrance and back again. Slow. Deliberate. He whimpers. Whimpers. "There. Like that. Stay right there."

"Ye're gonna fuckin' kill me, lass—"

"Don't be dramatic. Just keep rubbing." You click the vibrator up a setting and your breath catches. "And don't you dare come until I say."

He obeys—barely. His hips move in short, desperate thrusts, the head of his cock sliding through your pussy in a rhythm that's falling apart at the edges, foreskin pulled back taut. His abs are clenched under the hair, his thighs are shaking, and there's a flush creeping up his chest and throat that makes him look almost feverish. Pre-come leaks from the tip in a steady dribble, mixing with your slick, and every pass through your folds produces a sound so obscene it makes your cunt clench.

"Feels so good," he gasps, head still dropped forward. "Yer pussy—Christ—feels like fuckin' heaven and I'm no' even inside ye—"

"And you won't be." You press the vibrator directly against your clit and your back arches. "Not tonight. Tonight you just get this."

"Please—"

"There it is." You're getting close—the vibrator and the wet slide of his cock working you toward something bright and sharp. "There's the begging."

"Aye, fine, am beggin'—" His voice is raw. Desperate. Completely undone. "Please let me come. Please. I cannae—I'm no' gonna—fuck—please, hen, I need to—"

"Come on my pussy," you tell him, and your own voice is breathless now, the vibrator pushing you right to the edge, legs flexing and trembling. "Right on my clit. Now."

He breaks with a shattered groan—his cock jerking in his hand as he aims the tip right where you told him, cum pulsing hot and thick onto your clit, your folds, mixing with the vibration and the slick and your own orgasm that crashes into you half a second later. It’s a lot.

Your legs clamp around his hips and you shake through it, the vibrator still buzzing, his come dripping down your cunt, and Johnny's gasping above you like he's just run a marathon in full kit.

He collapses. Just crumples forward, catching himself on his corded forearms, forehead pressed to your collarbone. His dog tags are cold against your sternum, and his breathing is ragged and he's shaking all over.

"Ye," he pants, "are the most terrifying woman I've ever met."

You click the vibrator off and card your fingers through his mohawk. "You loved it."

"Aye." He turns his head, presses his mouth to your throat. "Ah did. Do it again."

— C. REED [ OC ]:

Morning light through thin curtains.

The mattress dips and you open one eye to find Callum propped on his elbow beside you, already awake, watching you with that quiet half-smile that makes his eyes crinkle.

"Morning," he says. Soft. Like he's trying not to spook you.

Last night was the first time. Dinner that turned into drinks that turned into his mouth on yours in the cab that turned into stumbling up the stairs with his hands under your shirt and his laugh in your ear. And then—slow, careful, both of you learning each other's sounds in the dark.

"Morning," you murmur back. Your voice is sleep-rough, your hair is a disaster, and the sheets are tangled around your waist. You should feel self-conscious. You don't.

"Been up a while," he admits His fingers trace the line of your shoulder, feather-light. "Didn't want to wake ya."

"So you just… watched me sleep?"

"Bit creepy, innit?" That grin—the devastating one, crooked and warm—and you feel something shift in your chest. Like a key turning. "Couldn't help it. You looked peaceful. Beautiful."

He leans in and kisses you. Morning breath and all, unhurried and warm, his hand coming up to cup your jaw with a tenderness that makes your throat tight. This isn't a man in a rush. This is a man who showed up last night and is still here this morning and doesn't seem remotely interested in leaving.

The kiss deepens. His hand slides from your jaw to your neck to your collarbone, slow and mapping, and when your leg hooks over his hip he makes a low sound against your mouth.

"Cal," you whisper.

"Mm."

"Again?"

He pulls back just enough to look at you. Those hazel eyes—warm amber in the morning light, still heavy with sleep—searching your face for something. He must find it, because his expression softens into something that makes your ribs ache.

"Yeah," he answers. "Again."

He rolls onto his back and pulls you with him, settling you on top, and the duvet falls away from both of you. He's hard—not urgently, not desperately, just the easy morning hardness of a man waking up next to someone he wants—and you can feel him against your inner thigh, warm skin on warm skin.

"We used the last condom," you remember.

"I know." His hands rest on your hips, thumbs drawing circles on your hip bones. "Don't care. Come here."

You lower yourself over him, and his cock settles between your folds like it belongs there. No guiding, no adjustment—just the easy slide of warm skin against warm skin, your wetness from the night before mixing with fresh slick as you shift your hips.

His eyes close. His head presses back into the pillow and he exhales—long, slow, like he's releasing something he's been carrying.

"Fuck, that's nice," he murmurs. Not performative. Not filthy. Just honest. "You feel incredible."

You start to move. Slow, lazy rocks of your hips, letting him slide through your folds in long, unhurried strokes. There's no urgency to it. No punishment, no desperation, no power play. Just the quiet, warm friction of two bodies that found each other last night and aren't ready to stop touching.

His hands explore while you move—running up your thighs, your waist, your ribs. Mapping you in the daylight the way he mapped you in the dark. He cups your breasts, thumbs your nipples gently, and smiles when your rhythm falters.

"Sensitive," he notes.

"You figured that out last night."

"Wanted to make sure it wasn't a fluke." He sits up—still inside the cradle of your hips, still sliding between your folds—and wraps his arms around you. His mouth finds your neck, your collarbone, the space behind your ear. Slow, warm, open-mouthed kisses that make you shiver.

"You're really good at this," you say, and you don't just mean the sex. You mean the morning. The staying. The way he holds you like this is exactly where he's supposed to be.

"At what?" he murmurs against your throat.

"Being here."

He pulls back. Looks at you. And there's something in his face—not surprise, but recognition. Like he knows what it cost you to say that. Like he knows you're not used to men who stay.

"I'm not going anywhere," he tells you, simple and steady. The way the tide doesn't explain itself.

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and his hips start moving with yours—rolling up to meet you, his cock sliding through your folds in a rhythm that builds slowly. His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with a gentle precision that makes your breath catch.

"There?" he asks against your mouth.

You arch into his touch, lashes fluttering shut. "Yeah—right there—"

"I've got you, love."

It builds like the morning itself—gradually, gently, warmth spreading through you in slow waves. He rubs your clit in patient circles while his cock slides between your lips, and his mouth never leaves yours. You come quietly—a long, rolling shudder that he holds you through, his arms tight around you, his own hips stuttering as he follows you over the edge.

He spills between your bodies; warm, messy, neither of you caring, and buries his face in your neck with a soft groan that's half-laugh, half-relief. Like he wasn't sure this morning would happen, and he's glad it did.

You stay like that for a while. Tangled together, sticky, his heartbeat under your palm.

"So," he says eventually, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Breakfast?"

"You cook?"

"Full English. My one talent." He lifts his head, and that grin is back—warm, easy, the one that crinkles his whole face. "Well. One of two talents. As of last night."

You shove his chest, laughing, and he catches your hand and kisses your knuckles.