🩷SarahBear🩷

Your eyes flirted to the rearview mirror when you heard a blip. Lights followed and you groaned. You hadn’t even done anything! You gave it a second to see if the cop car behind you would pass but nope, apparently it was your ass they were after. 

You grumbled and turned down a side street, pulling up along a curb. You dug around in your glovebox, grabbing your insurance and registration before grabbing your wallet from your purse on the passenger seat.

A knock at the window made you jump. You blinked once and then twice, a stupid smile washing over your face when you saw the officer.

You put down the window, Tim leaning his arms against the car door, bending down. He wasn’t smiling but you were giddy.

“You have any idea why I pulled you over today, ma’am?” he asked, looking away down the road as if he was disinterested. You laughed, covering your mouth. “Hands on the wheel, ma’am.”

“Oh, yes sir,” you chuckled, his eyes narrowing.

“Do you think this is funny? Giving an officer attitude?”

“If I recall last night, he liked my bratty attitude. In fact, he requested my bratty attit-”

“Ma’am lets stick to today’s crime,” he said, lifting his chin. You made a face, failing to fight back your smirk.

“My crime? What, doing five over the speed limit like every other person on earth?” 

“Nope,” he said. “Any other guesses?”

“Is my brake light out?” He genuinely looked annoyed and you held up your hands. “Oh, right. My boyfriend would never let me leave the house like that.”

“You really don’t know what crime against humanity you inflicted this morning do you?” You shrugged. “Step out of the vehicle, ma’am.”

“You know, technically my cop boyfriend and my cop friends and my lawyer friend have all told me I don’t actually have to leave my car unless-” He growled, your hand on the latch. Fine, he could have his little fantasy. You slipped out of the car, presenting your wrists to him. “Are you going to cuff me, officer?”

“Later,” he growled, grasping your wrists in one of his hands. “I’m here to rectify your crime.”

“Which is…” He finally grinned, tugging you forward so he could crash his lips to yours.

“You left without giving me a kiss this morning. Unacceptable.” Your face fell, Tim’s eyes suddenly concerned.

“I’m sorry, baby. I had to get out the door early today. I mean, I did give you a kiss while you were sleeping but I’m sorry. Fuck, I didn’t tell you to be safe today either!”

“Well, now you have,” he teased, kissing you again. “No harm done. This is going on your record though. You don’t want to be a repeat offender.”

“Oh yeah? What happens then?” He chuckled, getting one last one in before he started to walk backwards towards his shop.

“Then you’ll find out what those cuffs are for,” he winked.

“You realize that’s an incentive not a punishment, right? Right?” you called, Tim whistling to himself, turning around with a wave. 

“Have a good rest of your day, honey!”

It wasn’t unusual for you to feel this way. Your man always looked so damn good in his uniform. You found him sexy all the time, effortlessly sexy, but seeing him in that uniform? It just did something to you. You hadn’t told him about this, he’d tease you and most likely go out of his way to turn you on, even more than you already were.

What made things worse was the fact that he was your partner. You had to sit next to him every day, looking like the tastiest snack ever. You couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy towards the fabric that had the privilege of clinging to him, teasing you relentlessly day in and day out. Ugh, life can be so unfair sometimes, can't it?

The two of you have been dating for six months and you practically live at his now. Waking up with him was just as good as riding him into the mattress. Your sex life was amazing, but you never had the guts to talk about your fantasies. Thoughts of his uniform or his restraints...

One day, he finally noticed. You were so lost in your thoughts that you hadn’t realised he pulled up for lunch. Your mind was fixated on something sweeter...

He furrowed his brow and glanced down, "Do I have something on my pants?"

"What?" you inquired, snapped out of the daydream your mind had been lost in for the past thirty minutes. Your gaze shifted from his groin to his captivating blue eyes, “No, I just zoned out,”

“What were you thinking about?” he asked.

‘You railing me in this car,’ you thought.

“Nothing,” you quickly said, turning your head to look out the window, hoping he hadn't noticed the blush on your cheeks. You cleared your throat and shifted in your seat, pretending to focus on the surroundings. But, in reality, your mind wandered back to the image of him in his uniform and how amazing it would be to have him pin you down on the hood of the car.

You both sat in silence for a moment, your heart racing, your breaths sounded deafening in the silence. You knew he knew what you were thinking about, and you could feel his gaze burning a hole in the side of your head. You wondered whether he had any of these thoughts. Did he think you were sexy in your uniform?

“What’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours?” he asked, as he delicately placed his index finger on your forehead. The touch was barely there, yet it caused a wave of tingles to run down your back. You swallowed hard, feeling the warmth of his touch spread across your face. Slowly, his finger glided down your cheek, coming to a stop at your chin. As his finger descended further, it rotated until the back of his finger grazed your skin.

You closed your eyes, savouring the sensation of his touch, feeling the soft skin against yours. You wanted nothing more than to feel his entire body pressed against yours, to feel his weight pinning you down. You shifted slightly in your seat, the familiar ache between your legs growing more insistent.

“Really? Didn’t get enough last night?” he asked. You just rolled your eyes. You could totally tell he was smirking. Nope, you definitely didn't have enough. If you had a choice, you'd both stay in the bedroom all day.

“Do you have any idea how sexy you are in your uniform?” you asked, trying to keep your voice steady but you failed miserably.

“Probably not as sexy as you,” he replied without missing a beat. What you didn’t know was that John also had a hard time keeping his thoughts at bay. He would catch himself stealing glances at you while they were driving, admiring how the uniform hugged your body. The crisp, navy blue fabric hugged your curves in all the right places, accentuating your toned body and making you look like a total badass and incredibly sexy.

But as much as he loved how you looked in your uniform, it also brought a sense of frustration. Having to sit next to you for hours on end, day after day, it was nearly impossible for him to resist his own naughty thoughts. Your hair, perfectly tied up in a tight ponytail, seems to be teasing him, silently begging to be tugged just the way you liked.

He can't help but imagine the feel of your silky skin and the curves of your body, his hands eagerly exploring every inch of you as you share passionate kisses. He can almost feel your body heat against his, the way you moan as he touches you in all the right places.

“The usual, Darling?” he asked you, nodding towards your favourite sandwich shop. The very same one that he took you to on your first patrol together and practically every patrol since then, if you were close by at the time of your lunch.

You nodded with a look on your face that said, ‘Do you really need to ask?’

You never knew you could enjoy sandwiches so much until you tasted it. The butter and the smooth and rich cheddar melted perfectly onto the slightly toasted bread. But despite it being toasted, it still had a certain softness to it. The crunchy onions, tangy and utterly addictive, danced on your tongue, adding an extra kick to each bite.

Your gaze followed him as he got out of the car and walked towards the quaint sandwich shop. Lingering on the tempting sight of his firm glutes barely contained by the navy-blue pants. You couldn't help but bite your lip, almost drawing blood as the thought crossed your mind.

You can’t believe he’s yours. He's everything you could ever want in a man: handsome, charming, and intelligent. But he's also kind and compassionate, and amazing in bed. It's like he knows exactly how to please you in every way possible.

You find yourself constantly pinching yourself, wondering how you got so lucky to have someone like him in your life. He's not just a great boyfriend, he's also your best friend and confidant.

The heat between your legs reminds you of your fantasies, calling to you like a siren. You try to resist torturing yourself, but the allure is irresistible. The image plays in your mind. Your cheek pressed to the hood of the car, one of John’s big hands on the back of your neck, keeping you pinned to the car. One of his legs, moving in between yours to push them apart.

John's breath is warm against your ear as he whispers, 'Ready, baby?' His voice is a low, gravelly murmur that sends shivers down your spine.

You nod, your body trembling with anticipation. The heat between your legs intensifies, a throbbing ache that demands release.

John's hand moves to your thighs, his strong fingers tracing the fabric of your panties. His fingers slip beneath the waistband. He pulls them down your legs. Your mind seems to skip, because the next image to appear in your mind, if John relentlessly pounding into you. Your reflection stares back at you from the car’s sleek black hood, eyes wide with pleasure as he thrusts into you with a bruising force.

You squeezed your thighs together, it felt so real and it left you in a bad spot. How on earth were you going to sort it out.

You were so lost in the fantasy that you hadn’t noticed John come back or that you were moaning out loud.

“You okay?” he asked with a shit eating grin. You jumped, your head snapping towards him.

“W-when did you get back?” you asked him, feeling the heat rush up to your cheeks like a wave. A wave of embarrassment? Of being caught. Or of not being able to control your feelings.

“A couple of minutes ago. Who’s got you moaning like that? Should I be jealous?” he asked, he knew damn well you were thinking about him. You roll your eyes and turn away from him, as much as possible. You knew he would tease you about it if he found out. That’s why you didn’t want him to know.

You looked back and asked if you could have your sandwich. He held it out to you but as your fingers grazed the wrapper, he pulled it back from your reach. Your forehead scrunched up in confusion and a silent question as to what he was doing.

“I have a feeling you’re hungry for something else, baby,”

“Yeah, very funny John, go ahead make your jokes,” you said as you reached over to grab your sandwich. You sat back into your seat, settling to enjoy your lunch. You unwrapped it quickly, excited to get a taste, “In fact, why don’t you go and tell everyone at the station that I get really horny seeing you in your uniform,”

“It’s between me and you, baby,” he said with a gentle touch, he reached out to move a strand off your face, his fingers delicately brushing against your skin, sending shivers down your spine. Slowly, his touch trailed down, tracing the contours of your neck. His hand gracefully curved, slipping beneath your chin, tilting your head to meet his gaze.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” he asked, looking at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever laid eyes on. You looked away, looking at the sandwich sitting in your lap. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see John move closer to you. You feel his lips and warm breath on your ear, “But you’re incredibly sexy in that uniform,”

“We still have half an hour,” you mention suggestively, your bottom lip sucked in between your teeth as your hand moved over his thigh, slowly moving upwards towards his crotch.

“Not here, baby. We’re in a public parking lot,” he said, as he turned the engine on. Quickly deciding the closest and most secluded area for you two. You didn’t move your hand away. instead, as he drove, you kept having your fun with him. Your hand grazes over his crotch, your fingers gently dancing over the fabric. Your effect on him becoming more evident by the second. Your mouth begins to water at the sight.

The car slowly comes to a stop and the engine dies. He turns to face you, "Alright, baby. This is as good as it gets," he says, breathlessly. He leans over and kisses you deeply. You moan into the kiss, the taste of him filling your mouth. Your free hand fumbles with his belt, undoing it with practiced ease.

You undo your seatbelt as he unzips your pants and then you lean back, letting the cool air caress your skin as he pulls your panties to the side. His mouth finds your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and love bites as he teases your clit with the same feather-light touches as you did to him not too long ago.

Your body yearns for his touch, craving the exquisite pleasure that only he can give. With aching desire, you press your throbbing clit against his hand, silently begging for more. The teasing was unbearable, and you can no longer wait. A desperate plea escapes your lips, mingling with gasps of anticipation as your back arches in anticipation. Finally, his touch connects fully with your sensitive bud, sending electrifying waves of pleasure coursing through your veins.

He withdraws his hand from your throbbing clit, sliding his pants down just enough to release his rock-hard cock. Without hesitation, you clamber over the gear shift and onto his lap, straddling him with your knees pressing against his sides.

You steady yourself, with your hands on his broad shoulders. Leaning in, you tilt your head down, meeting his plush lips in a passionate kiss. Your heart races as his hands roam over your body, sending shivers down your spine.

Slowly, you guide him to your entrance, the slickness of your arousal coating him as you line him up perfectly. You close your eyes, feeling his hot, hard length press against you, and then you push, slowly impaling yourself on him. He's long and thick, filling you perfectly, stretching you in a way that feels both familiar and new.

He leans in close, burying his head in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin softly as his fingers tighten their grip on your hips.

His hands move down, around to palm your ass, as you ride is cock desperately, your needy moans filling the car. The air is thick with sweat and the smell of sex, making it almost impossible to breathe.

"Fuck, I'm close," he growls, his voice ragged.

A gentle whimper escapes your lips "Me too,"

You're on the edge, just about to come, when the radio crackles to life, you ignore it at first, too lost in the moment. But then the voice comes through, urgent and demanding. interrupting the sweet sounds of your pleasure, "...come in, we have a 10-65 near your location. Do you copy?"

"Shit," he mutters, pulling out of you. You let out a small whimper of disappointment as he reaches for the radio. You climb off of him and settle back into the passenger seat, glancing out the window as he answers the call. His voice is calm, but you can tell he's just as frustrated as you.

"Yeah, we're on our way," he says into the radio, glancing over at you as he does so. His expression is apologetic, but there's still a spark in his eyes. "We'll be there in a few minutes." he says, his voice still even and professional. You can tell he's trying to focus on the job, but you can also see the desire in his eyes, the hunger to finish what you two started. He hangs up the radio and looks over at you. "Sorry, baby. Looks like our fun is gonna have to wait.

He turns the car back on, flicks on the lights and sirens, and starts driving towards the crime. The rush of adrenaline from the call only serves to heighten your senses, making the urge to touch him, to feel his skin against yours, almost unbearable.

As you speed through the busy streets, the tension between you is palpable. He keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on your thigh, just inches from where your legs are pressed together. His gaze flicks between the road and you, and you can feel his eyes roaming over your body, drinking in the sight of you. You want nothing more than to reach over and touch him again, to feel the hardness of his cock through his uniform, but you know that you have to wait until you've taken care of the situation.

The vehicle screeches to a stop in front of the jewellery store, and both of you quickly exit the car, guns in hand.

The shattered remnants of the front door lay strewn across the floor, glimmering in the dim light that filtered through the broken windows. With cautious steps, you enter the store, your heart pounding in your chest. The silence hangs heavy in the air, broken only by the sound of your own breathing.

Together, you and John make your way towards the back of the store, the faint sound of breaking glass growing louder with each step.

"Drop the bag and get on the ground, now!" you yell, aiming your gun towards them. The suspects pause for a second, but swiftly obey your command, sinking to their knees and clasping their hands behind their heads. Both of you retrieve your handcuffs and secure them onto the suspects.

You observe as John restrains the suspect with handcuffs, secretly wishing it was your hands that were cuffed to his. Your heart races as you imagine kneeling down and undoing his pants, but you quickly push those thoughts aside.

You and John escorted the suspects to the vehicle and headed towards the police station. As you glance at him from the corner of your eye, you can't help but feel a sense of desperation. All he wanted was to pull over, kneel in front of you, and pleasure you with his tongue.

You and John deliver the suspects to the station and pass them on to another officer and you both are soon patrolling again.

The hours slowly tick by. You can't wait until you get to John's tonight. You just want to take your seatbelt off, lean over and suck his cock whilst he drives. You've never been this horny before, and you can feel your pussy dampening again. You glance over at John, his hand gripping the steering wheel tightly, his knuckles turning white. His other hand rests on his thick, muscular thigh, fingers tapping impatiently. His chest is heaving slightly as he breathes, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. You wonder what he's thinking about. Maybe he's thinking about how much he wants you to suck his cock too. Maybe he's thinking about how much he wants to feel your lips wrapped around him. You can't help but feel a shiver run down your spine at the thought.

Eventually, it's the end of shift and the car pulls up outside John's house. You unbuckle your seatbelt and quickly open the door, eager to get inside and have your way with him. John cuts the engine and turns to face you, watching as you slide out of the car. He gets out of the car too, and as soon as he's standing in front of you, you can't help but throw yourself at him. You wrap your arms around his neck and press your body against his, feeling the hardness of his cock against your stomach.

"God, I've been thinking about this all day," he mutters, kissing you deeply. He picks you up, cradling you in his strong arms, and carries you inside. You feel his hands fumbling with the buttons of your shirt, eager to get it off so he can touch your bare skin. Once he's undone the last button, he slips the material over your shoulders and tosses it aside. You watch as he sets you down on the couch, his cock already standing at full attention, and he starts to unbuckle his pants. You place your hands onto his to stop him.

"Wait," you breathe, looking up at him. "I want to do it." you drop to your knees. You reach out and undo his pants, sliding them down his muscular thighs, revealing his hard cock, already leaking pre-cum. You take it in your hand, stroking it gently, feeling its heat and strength beneath your fingers. "God, you're so big," you murmur, looking up at him as you wrap your lips around the head, tasting the salty precum on your tongue.

John lets out a groan, his hands finding their way into your hair as you begin to suck on him, taking more of him into your mouth. You can feel the veins throbbing against your tongue, the weight of him pressing against the back of your throat. You take him deeper, feeling him stretch your jaw as you suck. Your free hand moves up, cupping his balls, massaging them gently as you continue to suck him off.

"Fuck, that's it," he whispers, his hips beginning to move, his cock thrusting deeper into your mouth with each thrust. "Suck it, baby." He groans, his fingers tangled in your hair, holding you in place as he fucks your face. You love it when he takes control and using your mouth like this just as much as he loves when you grind yourself on his tongue. It excites you and turns you on even more. Is that even possible at this point?

Your sultry moans vibrate around his throbbing member, the tremors travel up his shaft. Electrifying every nerve in his body, making him tighten his grip in your hair. He loves how you look on your knees, how eager you are to take care of him, to make him feel good. It drives him wild how much you enjoy pleasuring him, eagerly swallowing everything he has to give you. The thought of his cream coating your tongue and sliding down your throat.

His hips start to stutter at the very thought, and then he lets out a long moan as he comes, filling your mouth with his seed. You suck for as long as you can, feeling him soften in your mouth, and then gently pull off, licking your lips as you taste him.

He guides you towards the nearest counter, lifting you onto it, his lips never leaving yours. His hands eagerly find their way to your shirt, hastily unbuttoning it while you struggle to undo his own. A low growl escapes his lips as your palms meet his warm, bare chest, causing your shirt to be discarded, exposing your bra-clad breasts to his hungry gaze.

One of his hands cups your breast, expertly kneading and teasing the hardened nipple under the lacy fabric, while the other ventures down your stomach, slipping into the waistband of your pants. "Who made you this wet, baby?" he growls, thrusting his hips against you, igniting a delicious friction. Your moans fill the air as you arch into him, craving more of his touch. As he skilfully unfastened your pants and pushed them down along with your panties, a rush of cool air kisses your most intimate place.

He kneels before you, parting your legs wider, his gaze filled with hunger. Leaning in, he indulges in a long, slow lick from your entrance to your clit, causing your body to tremble with pleasure.

The first contact sends shivers of pleasure coursing through your entire being. Your back arches, surrendering to the wet heat of his mouth on your throbbing flesh that you had been craving all day. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open for his pleasure, as he continues to tease and torment you with his tongue. "That's it, baby," he growls, his voice dripping with desire, "let me taste every inch of you." His tongue flicks out once more, tracing your folds, driving you to writhe beneath him.

"Fuck," you whimper, feeling his warm breath against your most sensitive spot. Your hips involuntarily buck off the counter, aching for more of his touch. A low chuckle escapes his lips before he sucks hard on your clit, making you let out a long, pornographic moan. His hands travel up your stomach, cupping your breasts, expertly pinching and rolling your nipples, intensifying your pleasure. Your back arches further, your orgasm building with each stroke of his tongue, each suck on your swollen bud. "Oh God, John," you moan, your hand instinctively went to the back of his head, pushing him closer to you, desperate for more.

His tongue dances skillfully around your clit, teasing and circling, while his finger slowly slide into your entrance, teasing you with it’s presence. You eagerly spread your legs wider, offering him unrestricted access to your sweetest spot. A mischievous smirk plays on his lips as he begins to push his finger deeper, curling it up to find that elusive perfect spot. The need for more consumes you, your hips grind against his face, seeking the release that only he can provide.

As you writhe in pleasure beneath him, he slowly slides a second finger into your pussy, stretching and filling you in a way that makes you gasp and arch your back even further to find that perfect angle. His fingers move in tandem with his tongue, each stroke driving you closer to the edge. You feel the tension building inside you, the pressure building in your core. You clench around his fingers, your nails digging into his scalp. "I'm gonna come," you whisper, your voice shaking.

As you continue to writhe beneath his touch, your body aching for release, John finally grants your wish. With an expert flick of his tongue and a skilful curl of his fingers, he pushes you over the edge, sending you spiralling into a mind-blowing orgasm.

John slowly rises from his kneeling position, a tender smile playing on his lips as he gazes into your eyes. He leans in and presses a soft kiss against your lips, his love for you evident in even a soft gesture. You smile into the kiss, feeling completely content.

“I love you,” he whispered as he wraps his arms around you in a warm embrace. In his arms, you feel safe and loved.

Your head fits perfectly against his neck, like it was always meant to be there. "I love you more," you murmur softly, feeling your breath calm down.

He gently takes hold of your hips, lifting you off the kitchen counter. You feel a rush of excitement as he leads you towards the bedroom, a playful grin dancing on his lips. As you walk, he casually picks up his handcuffs, he looked at you over his shoulder, a mischievous smirk on his beautiful, pillowy lips.

Closing the bedroom door behind you, he takes your hand and guides you towards the bed. Standing closely behind you, his warm breath tickles your ear as he whispers, "You ready for this?" Gently, he places the cuffs on your chest and glides them down your body, causing a gasp to escape your lips when the cool metal brushes against your glistening core.

His fingers trailed up to your chest, caressing it tenderly, playfully flicking your nipple with his thumb. Your body instinctively arched towards his touch as if drawn by an invisible force, "You want this? The handcuffs?" he whispered, his breath hot against your neck. You nodded, unable to form words as desire coursed through you.

You've thought about it for months, of course you wanted it, "Get on the bed, baby, how you want," You climb on the bed, your ass lifted and on display for him.

You feel the bed dip behind you as he climbs on the bed beside you and your heart races as his hand reaches out to secure a cuff around your delicate wrist. The soft sound of the metal clinking against your skin sends shivers down your spine. He then expertly loops the other end of the cuff around the sturdy bed post and hooks it on your other wrist, ensuring your hands are securely restrained above your head. He places a gentle kiss on your cheek before he pulls back sitting on his heels.

He moves to lie on his back. Your eyebrows scrunch up in confusion about to ask what he was up to, but he shuffles up slightly until he is right under you pussy. His hands grasp your hips and he pulls you down to his face. His tongue darts out, pressing lightly against your lips before dipping between them to slide over your clit. You gasp as he licks you, your hips bucking against his face. You feel him lapping at you, tongue circling, sucking, teasing you mercilessly. You're so wet, you feel him lick you easily, the warmth of your pussy coating his tongue. You don't want him to stop, you want it to feel like this forever. But he pulls back, only to thrust his tongue deeper, curling it around your clit. Your hips buck against his face, seeking release, but he holds you there, on the edge.

It feels so good, you can't even form words, just whimpers and cries of pleasure escape from your lips. His tongue is relentless, licking you up and down, sucking you into his mouth, teasing you with the tip of his tongue. You can feel the wet heat of your arousal coating his face. Your hips jerk wildly, bucking against his face as he continues to worship you. You arch your back, offering him different angle, and it feels like your pussy is on fire as he laps at you, sucking on your clit with just the right amount of pressure.

He continues to lavish attention on your pussy, licking, sucking, and nibbling until you're sure you can't take it anymore. Your hips chase his face, seeking more contact with his mouth, and your fingers dig into the pillow as your body tenses and shudders with pleasure. You're so close, but he won't let you fall over the edge just yet. He pulls away for a moment, before he continues to tease you with his tongue, flicking it against your clit before retreating again.

"Please," you whimper, the word catching in your throat as he teases you mercilessly. Your hips buck violently, trying to get the friction you need, seeking release, but he won't let you go that easily. His tongue swirls around your clit, driving you wild with need, and then he's sucking on it, hard. You cry out, the sound muffled by the pillow beneath your head. He thrusts his tongue deeper, matching the rhythm of your hips, and the tension builds, tightening like a vice around your core.

You're so close, you can feel it, feel the orgasm building, threatening to break free, but just as you're on the brink, he pulls back. You feel the loss keenly, the emptiness where his touch used to be, and it's almost unbearable. You writhe on the bed, your fingers curling into the crumpled pillowcase, desperate for him to touch you again.

“John, please,” you whimper pathetically, unable to form a coherent sentence through the haze of pleasure. He chuckles, the vibrations sending a shiver down your spine. He presses one last kiss to your sensitive bundle of nerves and moved from underneath you. He sat behind you, his hands come to rest on your ass cheeks, gently palming them.

"Don't worry, baby," he said as he places a kiss on the bottom of your spine, "You know I'll take care of you," he moves his cock up and down your slit, coating his shaft in your wetness. You let out a moan, feeling the heat of his body against your back. He grinds against you, his hips moving in small circles as he teases you, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance, but not yet entering.

"John, I swear to God, if you don't..." But your words are cut off by a moan as he pushes his cock through your folds. He thrusts forward, filling you in one deep stroke. Your eyes roll back in your head as he takes you with such force, your body arching into his as best as you could. He grunts, his hips moving in perfect rhythm with yours as he fucks you hard and fast. His hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as he pushes deeper, harder.

The bed squeaks beneath you, the headboard banging against the wall as he takes you with such abandon. You're panting, your body trembling with the force of his movements. His thrusts are unrelenting, his cock sliding in and out of you, filling you up. The tension builds inside you, your muscles tightening as you feel the familiar tug of your orgasm.

His body hovers over yours, his head burying itself in your neck. You moan at the new angle, his cock brushing against new spots inside you. His thrusts become erratic, faster and harder, as he nears the edge. His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your skin as he grunts with each powerful stroke. His breath comes in ragged gasps, hot against your neck, and his hips move faster and faster, his cock thrusting in and out of you with a desperate rhythm.

Your legs give out beneath you, now your lying flat on your stomach, your legs spread wide enough for him to fit between them. His thrusts become erratic as he gets close, his hips moving faster and faster, his cock slamming into you over and over. You feel the familiar tug of your orgasm building inside you, your body tensing in anticipation.

Your pussy clenches tightly around him as you feel the familiar burning building up. It's tight grip almost too much for John to bear as he growls low in his throat. His hips slam into you with unrestrained force, his body tense with the effort to hold back. His cock throbs inside you, demanding release but he doesn't want to cum until you do. His hand slips under your body, lazily sprawled on the sheets and finds your clit. He begins to circle it with his thumb, the pressure building slowly but surely.

"Fuck," you moan as his fingers strum your clit, bringing you closer and closer to the edge, "I'm close, John" you gasp, your body tensing underneath him.

"I know, baby. Let go. Cum for me, baby girl," he groans as his thumb presses harder against your clit. His hips buck into you with a sudden force, his cock throbbing inside you as he feels the pressure building. You cry out, your body arching into his touch as the familiar tension builds. "Fuck, that's it," he growls, his grip on your hips tightening.

Your orgasm crashes over you in a wave of pure pleasure, your body shuddering with the force of it. Your pussy grips his cock like a fist, your muscles tensing and relaxing in perfect rhythm with each thrust. He growls low in his throat, feeling the pressure building inside him as well. His cock throbs inside you, demanding release, and with one final thrust, he cums deep inside you.

His hips buck roughly against you, his body tensing as he releases his seed. Your pussy milks his cock, the walls of your passage squeezing and massaging him in the most perfect way. He collapses on top of you, their sweaty bodies sticking together. His weight presses you into the mattress, their heavy breaths mixing in the air between them.

"Fuck, that was amazing," he rasps, still buried inside you. His cock twitches as it begins to soften, but he doesn't move. Instead, he rolls to the side, pulling you with him so that you're lying beside him, your head on his chest. He runs his fingers through your hair, gently stroking your scalp as he listens to the sound of your heart racing.

After a moment, he smiles down at you. "You're so fucking beautiful when you come," he whispers, kissing the top of your head. You smile up at him, feeling the afterglow of your orgasm wash over you. "And I love how tight you are around me." You blush, but it feels good to know that he enjoys being inside you as much as you enjoy having him there.

"Are you going to leave me like this or aren't you done with me yet?" you tease, twisting your head to look at him. He chuckles, running a finger along your lower lip.

"I think I have another round left in me," he replies, his voice low and husky, "In about 20 minutes,"

"Think you can keep up, old man?" you reply with a playful grin, wriggling your ass against his crotch.

He groans, his cock twitching at the contact. "Oh, I think my tongue can keep up with you just fine," he says, reaching down to grab your ass. His fingers squeeze, kneading the soft flesh as he pulls you closer to him. "God, I love your ass," he murmurs, kissing your neck. "So perfect."

"Yours is perfect too," you giggle, arching your back into his touch. He smiles down at you with a knowing smirk.

"I knew you had been checking me out," he said with a grin, kissing your shoulder blade.

“No, Sergeant Bradford,” she replied with a slight smile that emphasized her own teasing. “I was just enjoying the peace and quiet ... at least until you showed up.” She closed the patrol car door with a soft click before pushing past him and walking over to the table where Angela and Harper were already seated.

“No food?” Harper looked at her with raised eyebrows, her voice carrying a hint of surprise.

Y/N shrugged his shoulders and grinned. "My rookie will take care of it. There's something reassuring about it. Now I understand why Tim always let me do it." She gave Tim an amused sideways glance, while he merely shook his head and made a skeptical sound.

Angela, who was watching the spectacle with a broad grin, leaned forward and changed the subject. “Anyway,” she began, "I heard you had a date yesterday? How did it go?"

Y/N opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by her Rookie, who appeared just in time with a tray of food. She gave him a grateful nod, waited until he was out of earshot again, and then took a deep breath. With a resigned shrug of her shoulders, she let the tension of Angela's question slide through her body.

“So?” Angela urged with a knowing glint in her eye.

“It wasn't as satisfying as I expected...” she admitted slowly.

“Go on,” Angela urged as she casually took a bite and looked at Y/N curiously.

Y/N sighed softly before she began to recount the disastrous date. The man she had gone out with turned out to be a completely incompetent jerk, and the whole date was a bust from start to finish. As she recounted the most embarrassing details, she secretly vowed never to go on a date again - at least not if it was just to distract herself from her own feelings.

Because deep down, she knew that she always found herself thinking about someone else. Someone who was unattainable. A man who was far too present in her fantasies and completely taboo in reality: Tim Bradford, her supervisor.

She kept talking, but the more she said, the more she became aware of the unusual silence emanating from the side where Tim was sitting. Normally, he could hardly resist a sarcastic comment or a biting remark when she complained about something. But this time there was nothing. Not a word.

Maybe she was just imagining things? Maybe he just didn't feel like taking part in the conversation. But the longer the moment went on, the heavier the tension became. She risked a furtive glance at him, only to find him silent and with an indefinable expression in his eyes.

Was it disinterest? Or perhaps something else? Uncertainty gnawed at her, and she had to force herself to turn her attention back to Angela and Harper, even though she was already beginning to rethink her words.

Eventually the topic drifted, and Y/N tried to concentrate, to really listen, as Angela and Harper took the conversation in a new direction. But as much as she wanted to, her thoughts seemed to keep wandering back to Tim. His silence, his look - everything suddenly seemed more meaningful than it probably was.

“I could set you up with one of my cousins,” Angela suddenly interjected with an amused smile, as if she'd had a flash of inspiration.

The words had barely been spoken when Tim stood up abruptly. His chair scraped loudly across the floor and he reached for his barely touched food.

“Break over,” he explained curtly, but there was an underlying growl in his voice that Y/N heard all too clearly. It was so quiet that Harper and Angela might have missed it, but Y/N sensed the tension in his words.

She frowned involuntarily, watching as he marched away with quick steps and finally got into his car. The door slammed so hard that the bang echoed through the air.

“Someone's in a bad mood,” Harper muttered, shoving another forkful of food into his mouth without taking his eyes off Tim's car.

Y/N just hummed softly, an indeterminate response, as she replayed the scene over and over in her head. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to his behavior. Eventually, she rose as well and set off, but her heart beat faster as she approached her car.

The rest of the shift passed without incident, but Y/N struggled to really concentrate. Her thoughts kept returning to Tim, his unusual tension and the unspoken words that hung between them. When the shift finally ended, she was both relieved and uneasy.

At the station, she dropped off her gear and began to get ready for the end of the shift. As she walked down the corridor, her gaze fell into the distance, where she saw Tim disappearing towards the changing rooms. Even from a distance, she could see his tense posture - the stiff shoulders, the quick steps. It was obvious that something was bothering him.

Y/N sighed softly, almost unconsciously, and followed him. As she came closer, their eyes crossed for a brief moment. She smiled cautiously, hoping to lighten the mood, but he didn't return it. His face remained expressionless, perhaps even more withdrawn than before, and he disappeared behind the door without a word.

An unpleasant feeling spread through her. Had she said or done something wrong? She went over the day's events in her mind, but couldn't find an obvious reason.

Suddenly John passed her and she took the opportunity to stop him. “Is something wrong with Tim?” Her voice sounded quiet, almost hesitant, but the concern in it was unmistakable.

John paused and shrugged his shoulders. “I don't know... He's been like this since lunch,” he said casually before moving on, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

Y/N sighed again, deeper this time, feeling even more at a loss than before. But she decided not to just go home without at least trying to figure things out. Reluctantly, she walked towards the changing rooms, her steps slower than usual. Maybe, just maybe, she would be fast enough to intercept him in the parking lot. It was a weak plan, but she knew she wouldn't get any rest all night otherwise.

When Y/N arrived at the parking lot, the disappointment was not long in coming. Tim's car had already disappeared, and with a frustrated sigh, she finally made her way home as well. The day had drained her, but the uncertainty and unspoken feelings weighed heavily on her.

As soon as she entered her apartment, she dropped her keys in the bowl in the hallway and ran a hand through her hair. Another disappointing day. Why did everything always have to be so complicated? The men she dated always turned out to be disappointments - idiots who couldn't come close to matching the man who was constantly on her mind.

Tim.

Why couldn't anyone be like him? Strong, resolute, reliable - and at the same time with an unconscious gentleness that touched her more than she would ever admit. These thoughts accompanied her to the bathroom, where she undressed with a sigh and stepped into the shower.

The warm water washed over her body, relieving the tension of the day, and she hung her head briefly before leaning against the tiles. Tim. His image forced itself into her mind again, so vividly that she could almost grasp it.

At first it had only been respect. His authority, his experience, his incomparable instinct - all that had made a deep impression on her. But over time, it had become something deeper, a feeling she could no longer ignore.

The water ran over her skin and she hummed softly to herself, enjoying how the heat relaxed her muscles. But then her thoughts drifted in a different direction. She imagined him looking at her - with that penetrating, all-encompassing gaze that always upset her.

Involuntarily, her hand slid to her breasts. In her imagination, it was his rough hands touching her sensitive skin, his fingers taking her nipple between them while he whispered soft, dirty words in her ear. A soft moan escaped her lips and a tingling sensation ran through her.

Her legs instinctively pressed together as she imagined his hard, muscular body pressed against hers, his erection rubbing firmly against her ass. His hands wandering determinedly over her stomach, sliding lower until they reached her pussy.

In her mind, it was Tim forcing her to open her legs with his knee, feeling her so intensely that she could barely breathe. Her hand followed her thoughts, touching her where she wanted to feel him, where the heat was strongest.

But before she could lose herself further in her fantasy, the sudden ringing of the doorbell snapped her out of her daydream.

Y/N paused, her hand trembling slightly as she found her way back to reality, breathing heavily. Whoever it was had ruined the perfect moment - and yet she wasn't sure if she was grateful or angry about it.

Y/N turned off the water, grabbed the towel and hastily wrapped it around her still damp body. The sudden ringing still echoed in her ears as she walked with quick, annoyed steps to the front door. Whoever it was had chosen miserable timing.

As she opened the door, ready to vent her frustration, she froze instantly. Her lips remained slightly parted, but no words came over her as she realized who stood before her.

“T-Tim?” Her voice trembled and her thoughts seemed to stop completely for a moment. The man in front of her, soaked from the rain, his blue eyes more intense than ever, left her unable to think clearly.

But before she could even understand what was happening, Tim closed the distance between them and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss was raw, demanding and full of suppressed emotion. Y/N stood transfixed for a moment, surprised by the sudden passion that overtook her.

But it didn't take long for her body to react. Her heart raced as she took the initiative, returning his touch and pulling him resolutely into the house. The door slammed shut behind them, the soft click drowned out by the sound of her own pulse.

Tim's hands were everywhere. They explored her body with an urgency that made her tremble. His fingers ran over her back, pulling her closer to him as he pressed her body against the cool wall. The thin towel covering her almost naked body suddenly felt like a barrier that they both wanted to get rid of immediately.

Their lips parted for a moment, and Y/N gasped for air before Tim planted hot kisses on the line of her neck, hitting her most sensitive spot and eliciting a soft gasp. His touch was firm yet demanding, his hands running over her waist, leaving her in no doubt as to how much he wanted her.

Her thoughts were blotted out, only the here and now mattered. And Tim. Only Tim.

With trembling hands, Y/N reached for the hem of his shirt. Her fingers touched his skin as she slowly pulled it over his head. The garment landed carelessly on the floor, but her attention was focused only on him. Her eyes slid over his muscular chest, sculpted by years of hard work and discipline.

With a mixture of awe and desire, her fingers traced the contours of his muscles, tracing each hard ridge of his chest and abs. Her touch was gentle, almost reverent, as she felt his muscles tense under her fingers.

“Please... Tim,” she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper, but full of desire. Her hands traveled upward, caressing his shoulders and finally his neck, where she reached into his dark hair. She pulled him gently towards her while her body leaned longingly against his.

Tim paused for a moment, his penetrating eyes searching her gaze as if to make sure she was as devoted to the moment as he was. Then, without a word, he untied the towel that was wrapped around her body.

The fabric fell silently to the floor and the cool air of the room brushed against her now bare skin. Tim took half a step back, his eyes slowly gliding over her body. His gaze was intense, admiring, and his chest rose and fell noticeably faster as he looked at her.

“You're beautiful,” he murmured hoarsely before leaning forward again. His lips found their way to her breast and a soft gasp escaped Y/N as he encircled one of her sensitive nipples with his mouth.

The warmth of his tongue, the gentle but determined way he spoiled her, made her heart beat faster. She placed one hand on his head, holding him there, while her other hand pressed against the wall behind her to keep her footing. His teeth brushed lightly over her sensitive skin, sending a shiver through her body.

Tim didn't give her a moment to think, his hands finding their way onto her hips, pulling her even closer to him as his lips left her breast and sought their way lower. Y/N's breathing became heavier, her thoughts blurred, and she lost herself in the sheer intensity of his touch.

Y/N's breath came in gasps as Tim released his lips from her breast. His hands remained firmly on her hips, his fingers leaving a burning desire on her skin. For a moment he looked at her, his gaze dark and full of passion. Without a word, he bent down slightly, lifting her up with ease and carrying her in his arms. 

Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, her face close to his. Her lips found his, and she kissed him hungrily as he walked down the hallway with firm steps. The intensity of the moment made her forget everything else - the soft creaking of the wooden floor, the distant sound of the rain outside. All that mattered was Tim.

Once in the bedroom, he pushed the door open with his foot and gently laid her on the bed. Y/N felt the cool sheets against her skin, but it was the heat of his body that she really sensed. He leaned over her, supporting himself with his arms while his face was only inches away from hers. 

“Tim...” she whispered and placed her hands on his chest. Her fingers slid over the hard contours of his muscles before holding onto his pants. “Take your clothes off,” she added softly, her gaze urgent and full of desire. 

A wry smile played around his lips, but his eyes remained serious, almost hungry. “As you wish,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. 

He straightened up as Y/N lay on the bed, watching his every movement with an impatient tingle. His hands reached for his belt, slowly undoing it before he slid his pants over his hips and let them slide carelessly to the floor. Underneath, he was only wearing a pair of tight-fitting boxer shorts that barely concealed how much he wanted her.

Y/N's gaze traveled over his body, over the definition of his muscles, the strong line of his thighs, and she bit her lower lip slightly. “Anything,” she whispered demandingly, a shy smile on her lips, but her eyes betrayed that she was serious. 

Tim slowly removed his boxers, and Y/N's breath caught as he stood completely naked in front of her. His body was a perfect blend of strength and masculinity, and her thoughts were momentarily blotted out. 

He stepped closer to the bed, bent down to her again and placed a hand on her cheek. “Are you sure?” he asked softly, his voice gentle but imbued with passion. 

“Yes,” Y/N replied without hesitation, pulling him close until his body was once again close to hers. The moment was unstoppable, and she knew she wanted him as much as he wanted her. 

Tim let his gaze slide slowly over her body until it finally lingered between her spread thighs. His eyes were dark, almost devouring, and the expression on his face made Y/N's heart beat faster. With a slight squeeze of his knee, he pushed her legs even further apart and she willingly obeyed him, opening herself completely to him.

“So good,” he murmured in a low, raspy tone that sent a shiver down her spine. “You're perfect...all over.”

Y/N's breath hitched as she felt his hand stroke her thigh, slowly, almost torturously. His fingers traced small circles on her skin as his gaze deepened between her thighs. He shook his head slightly, a smug, crooked smile on his lips.

“Do you have any idea how crazy you're driving me?” His voice was husky, and as he spoke, he let his fingers trail higher, just below her most intimate spot. Y/N's body tensed in anticipation, a soft gasp escaping her.

“Tim...” she pleaded softly, her voice full of longing, but he seemed to be taking his time tormenting her.

“So impatient,” he teased her, leaning forward until his face was close to hers. "I've been thinking about you all day. About what you'd look like if I had you right in front of me... naked, ready, and all for me."

His words made her tremble, and another gasp escaped her lips as his fingers finally slipped between her legs. The contact was gentle, almost teasing, but it was enough to drive her mad.

“Do you feel that?” he asked, his voice almost a growl as his fingers explored her further. "How hot you are? How wet?"

Y/N could only nod, unable to form words as her body arched toward him. Her hands gripped his shoulders, clawing into his skin as he slid one finger inside her and then added a second.

“You want more, don't you?” he asked as he slowly pleasured her with his fingers, driving her to the brink of madness. "Tell me. Tell me how much you want me."

“I ... I want you,” she gasped, her voice trembling with desire. “I need you, Tim ... please.”

The smile on his lips widened and his movements became faster, more intense. “Good start,” he murmured as he continued to work her, giving her pleasure and demanding at the same time: "But I want to hear everything. Tell me what you feel. What you want."

His body was now close to hers and she could feel the warmth of his skin, the strength of his muscles as he drew her into a world of pure ecstasy with words and touch.

Tim watched her every reaction, her unsteady breaths, the trembling of her body under his fingers, and a self-satisfied smile flitted across his lips. “You're so sensitive, Y/N,” he murmured as his fingers moved in a slow circular rhythm, deep inside her. “I could spend all evening tormenting you like this.”

Y/N writhed slightly beneath him, her hands seeking support on his arms, her head pressed lightly into the pillows. “Tim...” she gasped, her voice pleading. “Please stop teasing me ... I need you.”

His blue eyes fixed her, a dangerous gleam in them that made her tremble even more. “That urgent?” he asked, lowering his head to let her feel his hot breath on her neck. His lips brushed her skin, his tongue leaving a wet trail as he nibbled on her most sensitive spot. 

His fingers suddenly left her, eliciting a soft, disappointed gasp from Y/N. But before she could protest, he knelt between her legs and pushed them further apart so that she presented herself fully to him. His gaze traveled slowly over her body, lingering on the heat between her legs, and his tongue ran over his lips as if he intended to devour her. 

“You have no idea what you're doing to me,” he said hoarsely, his voice full of passion and possessiveness. "I want to hear you scream, Y/N. I want you to shout my name so loud that everyone knows who owns you."

Before she could answer, he leaned forward and his tongue stroked slowly and firmly over her most sensitive spot. Y/N's whole body tensed, a loud moan escaping her lips as he worked her with his mouth. His tongue found the perfect rhythm, alternating between gentle and more intense movements until Y/N began to squirm against him. 

“So, so sweet,” he murmured as he paused briefly to savor her reaction. His hands gripped her hips, holding her tightly as she moved uncontrollably. "Stay still, baby. Let me finish you off."

Y/N could do nothing but obey him. Her fingers dug into the sheets, her chest rising and falling frantically as the waves of pleasure rolled over her. “Tim... I...” she gasped, unable to finish the sentence as he slid his tongue deeper, exploring her until she seemed to dissolve. 

“I know, babe,” he whispered, pulling back a little to use his fingers again as his thumb teased her most sensitive spot. "I know exactly what you need. Tell me. Let me hear everything."

“I want you inside me,” she gasped, her voice rough with desire. “I can't take any more ... please, Tim.”

A dangerous smile appeared on his lips, and he straightened up, his imposing presence over her like a burning flame. “Suit yourself, baby,” he murmured as he wrapped her legs around his hips, positioning himself and filling her with a single, deep thrust.

The sensation made them both gasp out loud, and Y/N clutched at his shoulders, her nails leaving red marks on his skin. Tim moved slowly, enjoying seeing her beneath him, completely at his mercy and overwhelmed with lust.

“So tight... so perfect,” he moaned as he increased the rhythm, getting deeper and harder, each movement accompanied by a soft, dirty whisper. "Tell me how good I make you feel, Y/N. Tell me no one else will ever be enough for you again."

Y/N moaned his name, her voice rough and full of devotion as she clung to him as if she was finding support in him. His every movement sent waves of pleasure through her body, and with each powerful thrust, he rolled his hips with such precision that he hit the spot inside her that nearly made her lose her mind. Her fingers clawed instinctively into his back, leaving fine red marks that bore witness to the intensity of the moment.

His movements were a perfect blend of control and passion - possessive, as if he wanted to mark her as his forever, and yet tender, almost reverent, as if he was savoring every second with her. The alternation between demanding intensity and gentle devotion brought her to the brink of madness.

“You're so perfect, Y/N,” he murmured hoarsely, his voice vibrating deep in her chest as he looked at her, his eyes dark with desire. "Every inch of you is mine. And only mine."

His pace increased, his hips moving in a powerful rhythm as his hands gripped her hips as if he could pull her even closer. Y/N's body responded to his every touch, her back instinctively lifting off the bed as she arched towards him, completely lost in the thrill of his nearness.

Y/N felt the heat growing in her body, but she wanted more - she wanted to overpower him as much as he wanted to overpower her. With a sudden jerk, she spun around, using the momentum to push Tim onto his back. Surprised, he let himself fall, his eyes wandering up to her, full of desire and slight amusement.

“So you're taking the lead?” he asked, his voice dark and raspy as a crooked smile graced his lips.

“Oh, I will,” she replied breathlessly, her eyes sparkling with determination. She pushed her hair back and sat on top of him, her hands resting on his muscular chest, her nails scraping lightly over his skin, eliciting a low, rough moan from him.

Y/N moved her hips slowly, teasingly, letting him feel her heat without immediately giving him everything. His hands gripped her thighs, trying to guide her rhythm, but she stopped him with a challenging look.

“Patience, Sergeant,” she whispered with a confident smile. “Now it's your turn to be tortured.”

She leaned forward, her lips grazing his collarbone before she let her tongue glide over his skin. Her movements remained slow, provocative, and she savored the way his body responded beneath her - his tense muscles, the deep, raspy breathing coming from his chest.

As she began to move her hips in a deeper, steadier rhythm, a throaty moan escaped him. His hands slid over her body, holding her as if he wanted to regain control, but Y/N wouldn't let him. She moved faster, letting herself be driven by his desire and her own lust.

“You look so good when you give up control,” she whispered as she leaned back slightly, her movements becoming even more intense. “Tell me how it feels, Tim.”

“It feels like you're killing me,” he growled, his voice rough with arousal. “And I love it.”

His words drove her on, her movements becoming more demanding until they were both on the edge of a climax they reached together - their names mingling in a symphony of passion that filled the room.

Tim let her enjoy the control for a moment, but then something changed in his gaze - a mixture of challenge and burning desire. With a sudden movement, he grabbed her hips, held her tight and began to thrust into her from below. The unexpected depth made Y/N gasp loudly, her head falling back as her hands clutched at his torso.

“Did you think I was going to let you do all the work?” he murmured with a dangerous smile, his breathing heavy and erratic. His hips moved in a powerful rhythm, each thrust deeper and more intense than the last, until she could barely breathe.

Y/N's body shook above him, and she couldn't stop another moan from escaping her throat. But that wasn't enough for him. One of his hands let go of her hip and slowly moved forward until his fingers found the most sensitive spot between her legs. With skillful movements, he began to rub them as he continued to thrust into her from below.

“Do you feel that?” he whispered hoarsely, his gaze fixed on her face, which was contorted with lust. "I want you to explode. I want you to remember who you belong to."

His words and the intensity of his touch drove her to the brink of madness. Her fingernails scratched across his chest, leaving red lines as she moved towards him, taking him even deeper inside her.

“Tim, I...” she gasped, her voice breaking as she felt the climax inevitably approaching.

"Don't talk. Feel," he interrupted her in a raspy voice as he pressed his thumb harder against her sensitive spot, the movements of his fingers and hips perfectly synchronized.

Y/N's body tensed, her breath hitched, and then the wave of ecstasy overtook her with an intensity that made her tremble. Tim held her tightly, letting her enjoy the moment to the full without letting up for even a second.

As her breathing slowly calmed down, he pulled her closer to him, his movements becoming slower, but no less demanding. “I'm not done with you yet,” he whispered against her lips before kissing her passionately again and beginning to explain the next peak.

Tim held her body tightly, his movements deep and controlled, but the urge to reach his own climax began to make itself felt in every thrust. Y/N felt him tense inside her, his breathing becoming heavier, his rhythmic movements more erratic but just as intense.

“Y/N...” he gasped, his face buried in the hollow between her neck and shoulder as he pulled her against him, as if he wanted to feel her even deeper. His hips met her body so perfectly with each thrust that she thought she could feel the tension rising inside her again.

“I'm with you,” she whispered, her hands running through his hair and clutching the back of his neck. She could feel his muscles trembling, holding back hard to hold on a little longer.

“You feel so incredibly good,” he groaned, his voice rough and full of passion. “I want ... you to feel everything ... until the last moment.”

Y/N wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulling him even deeper inside her, and the sound of his throaty, low moans made her body tremble again. His movements became more uncontrolled, more intense, until he finally remained deep inside her and the tension was released.

A loud, harsh sound escaped him as he finally reached his climax. His grip on her hips tightened, his body vibrating as he released everything into her. Seconds passed in a frenzy, his breathing heavy and erratic, and his forehead rested against hers as they both tried to regain their senses.

“Y/N...” he finally murmured, his voice a husky whisper as he gently lowered her into the mattress. His eyes met hers, and for a moment the world seemed to stand still.

She smiled faintly, her fingers stroking his cheek. “That was...”

“Perfect,” he finished the sentence for her, pulled her closer and let his body sink against hers. Their breaths melded together and all that remained was the heat of their bodies and the unspoken words hanging in the air.

He held her gently in his arms, his fingers sliding soothingly through her hair as their breaths slowly found a steady rhythm again. Y/N snuggled up to him, her head resting on his chest, which was still rising and falling slightly from the exertion.

“That was... unexpected,” she finally breathed, a soft giggle accompanying her words as she let her lips brush tenderly across his chest.

Tim let out a low, satisfied hum as he lightly brushed her neck with his lips. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you first,” he admitted, his voice soft but firm, “but when I saw you in just that towel...” He interrupted himself, a slightly guilty but amused smile crossing his face. “I just couldn't stop myself.”

Y/N lifted her head slightly, resting her chin on his chest and facing him with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “What did you want to say?” she asked curiously as her fingers brushed playfully over the line of his jaw.

He took a deep breath as if to gather himself for the words to come. His eyes met hers, full of honesty and determination. "You're mine ... whether I'm your superior or not. I don't want to hide that any longer, Y/N. I'm in love with you."

His words made her heart beat faster. She searched his eyes for a hint that he was hesitant or unsure, but instead all she found was sincere emotion. A warm smile spread across her lips and she leaned in to kiss him gently.

“I love you too,” she whispered against his lips before smirking slightly. “Or rather, I'm in love with you.”

Tim raised his eyebrows and grinned mischievously. “I liked the first one better - with the ‘I love you’,” he teased and pulled her towards him for another kiss. Their lips met, passionate and intimate, as if the tension of the last few months had finally dissolved into something tangible.

When she pulled away, he looked at her with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "Just so we're clear, you're not going on any more dates. Unless they're with me."

Y/N laughed softly, raised an eyebrow challengingly and asked pointedly, “Oh yeah? And what if I do?”

His grin widened, and before she knew it, he had turned her onto her back with a smooth jerk. A surprised sound escaped her as he leaned over her, his hands on her wrists, his gaze intense and playful at the same time.

You wake to the soft rustle of fabric and the quiet clink of cufflinks. It’s still dark, mostly. The curtains are drawn against the creeping light of a too-early morning, and the bedside clock tells you it’s not quite 6:00. But he’s already dressed: suit jacket slung over the back of the chair, shirt half-buttoned, tie draped around his neck like a scarf in progress.

He hasn’t noticed you yet. He’s moving with that deliberate quiet he always reserves for mornings like this when he’s trying not to wake you, trying to slip out into the city before the baby stirs or the world starts demanding things from him again.

You blink, push your cheek deeper into the pillow.

“Rafa.”

He turns at once; not startled, but caught. His expression softens when he sees you, hair mussed, eyes still heavy with sleep.

“Go back to sleep, cariño,” he says gently, stepping closer to the edge of the bed. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

You stretch your hand toward him.

“I don’t want to miss you.”

He sighs like that undoes him a little. Like every time you say things like that, simple and honest, something inside him still flinches with disbelief. He leans down, pressing a kiss to your forehead first, then your lips, warm and slow.

But just before he pulls back, something shifts and you feel it. His breath stills, just slightly; his hand lingers a second longer on your jaw and his eyes flick down to your mouth, then up again, like he’s thinking something. Like it’s already on the tip of his tongue.

You whisper, “What?”

He hesitates. You know that look, that Barba look. The one he wears in court before saying something that will change everything. But this time, he doesn’t speak.

Instead, he smiles small, tired, a little sad, but still anchored in you. He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb resting behind your ear.

“You remember the day we met?” he asks quietly.

That catches you off guard and you blink up at him.

“Of course,” you murmur. “You were arguing with a vending machine.”

He huffs a soft laugh, straightens slightly. “It stole my dollar.”

“It ate two. You were pacing and muttering about economic injustice and lack of municipal oversight.”

“You laughed at me.”

“You called me a witness to corruption and asked if I wanted to co-author a complaint to the State Comptroller.”

He grins at that, an actual grin, fleeting but real.

“I remember thinking you had the most ridiculous, unstoppable mouth,” you say, your voice quiet. “And that I was in trouble.”

He gazes at you like you’ve just handed him a case he wasn’t prepared to win.

“I didn’t think you’d give me the time of day,” he admits, adjusting his watch absently.

“You told me I’d regret it if I didn’t and I believed you.”

He leans down again, his forehead brushing yours. “I’m still trying to earn it.”

“You already have.”

The moment stretches, warm and slow. He closes his eyes, breathing you in like a reprieve. Outside, the city starts to come alive; the sound of a bus rumbling by, a distant car horn, the low whine of wind between buildings. But here, in this room, it’s just you.

You kiss his knuckles before he pulls away.

“Don’t forget your coffee,” you whisper.

“Don’t forget I love you,” he says.

And this time, it’s the thing he doesn’t hesitate to say.

The knock came like a heartbeat against the wood of your door. Three quick, insistent thuds that vibrated through the empty house and up your spine.

You straightened from where you'd been staring into the half-full mug of tea gone cold on the counter, brushing a stray strand of blonde hair behind your ear. For a moment, you considered not answering. But this was Dom. Dom, who never knocked like that unless the world was ending.

You slowly walked toward the entrance.

You pulled the door open. "You have your own key," you said by way of greeting, your voice flat, deliberately even.

Dom stood there, framed in the doorway, all wild dark hair and restless energy. He wore a faded band t-shirt, ripped pants, and the same silver rings he'd been twisting on his fingers since you last saw him. He was holding a Chrome Hearts bag, carrying it like a heavy sports bag, the leather strap cutting into his palm. His voice was rough with concern when he spoke.

"Didn't wanna just let meself in after your mom called."

Ah. Your mom. Of course.

"She shouldn't have bothered you," you said, stepping back to let him in. The space between your bodies felt charged, electric. "I'm fine."

He ignored that completely, stepping inside and kicking the door shut behind him.

“Fine," he repeated, his raspy voice laced with disbelief. He didn't look at the apartment. He looked at you, really looked, his eyes scanning your face, searching for something. His gaze was too intense, too knowing. "The fuck you are."

You turned away from him, busying yourself with the kettle, your movements practiced and precise. "It's nothing, Dom. Just needed some space."

"Space," he scoffed, the word clipped, harsh. He followed you into the kitchen, his presence overwhelming the small space. "Is that what you're callin' it? Space?"

You felt the heat of him at your back, the familiar scent of cigarettes and perfume that was purely him. Your fingers tightened around the handle of the kettle. "What else would I call it?"

He didn't answer with words. You heard the soft thud of him leaning against the counter, the jangle of the rings on his fingers as he picked at them. A nervous habit you knew well.

"Look at me," he said, his voice lower now, softer.

You didn't.

"Darlin', please." The raspy conviction in his tone deepened.

You set the kettle down with a soft click, finally turning to face him. His eyes were fixed on yours, intense, unreadable. He'd always been able to see through you, straight through the carefully constructed walls you built to keep the world at bay. It was infuriating. And terrifying.

"What?" you asked, your own voice barely a whisper.

His jaw worked for a moment, a muscle twitching in his cheek. "What did he do to you?"

And there it was. The direct question you'd been avoiding. The one that threatened to unravel everything. You lifted your chin, a flicker of your old fire returning. "Nothing I couldn't handle."

A humorless laugh escaped him, short and sharp. "Bullshit."

He pushed off the counter, closing the small distance between you in a single stride. He was too close, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, the scent of him filling your lungs. His hand came up, not to touch you, but to brace himself against the counter beside your head, caging you in.

"I've known you since we were snot-nosed kids, love. Don't you dare try that 'I'm fine' shite with me. Not after what that wanker did."

"Dom, I'm getting better," you insisted, forcing a smile that felt brittle on your face. "Honestly. It's... liberating, actually." The laugh you let out was thin, hollow, and died the instant it met the charged air between you. "Freedom suits me."

He didn't smile back. His dark eyes remained locked on yours, searching, probing. His jaw was a tight, stubborn line.

"Freedom," he repeated, his voice low and rough. "Is that what we're callin' it when you're so shaken your own mom has to call me in a fuckin' panic?"

You flinched at that.

"She worries too much."

"She worries 'cause she loves you," Dom shot back, his voice heavy with emotion. "And she called 'cause she knows I'd tear the world apart to get to you."

His gaze dropped to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. "Jumped in me car the second I hung up the phone, love. Didn't even think. Just... drove." He pushed a hand through his dark hair, a restless, agitated motion. "Don't you get it? I'll always come runnin'."

A shiver traced its way down your spine, a completely involuntary reaction to the raw, possessive conviction in his voice. "I..." you started, your voice softer now. "Thank you, Dom." You managed a small, genuine smile this time. "But you know how our moms are. Dramatic, the both of them. They probably think I need saving." You tried for a playful tone, a way to shift the heavy mood. "We've known each other since we were five. This... this makes sense, I guess. You've always been my protector."

Your casual attempt at deflection landed like a stone in water.

His green eyes darkened like smoke, something hot and unreadable flashing in their depths. He shifted closer, crowding you further against the counter. The space between you vanished.

"Don't," he warned, his voice dropping into that low, raspy register that always made your breath catch. "Don't you dare act like this is just... normal. Like me comin' here is just what mates do."

"But we are mates," you whispered, your heart starting to pound against your ribs. Your carefully constructed composure was beginning to crack.

"No." He shook his head slowly, his gaze unwavering. "Not anymore. Not when your mam calls me crying because she thinks her little girl is broken. Not when the thought of him layin' a finger on you makes me want to put my fist through a fuckin' wall." His knuckles were white where he gripped the counter.

The shock must have shown on your face, plain and raw. You'd never seen him like this. So intense, so possessive, so utterly consumed by something you couldn't name. It was terrifying

His other hand came up, not touching you, but hovering near your jaw. "Look at me," he commanded softly.

You couldn't.

You dropped your gaze, your focus landing on the worn fabric of his t-shirt. A sudden, sharp memory flooded you. A flashback—your ex's face, contorted with rage, the stinging impact across your cheekbone. Your fingers instinctively went to the spot, a phantom ache flaring to life.

Dom noticed everything. He saw the flinch, the subtle way your body retreated into itself. His entire body went rigid.

"Did he..." Dom's voice was dangerously quiet. His voice became heavier, each word clipped and precise. "Did he hit you?"

You still couldn't look at him. You just swallowed, the movement painful in the suddenly thick air of the kitchen. You felt trapped, cornered, but not by Dom, by the memory, by the shame.

Your silence was an answer. It stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. When he spoke again, his voice had changed. The anger was still there, but now it was combined with something that sounded like devastation.

"Darlin'," he whispered, the term of endearment so soft it almost broke you. "Look at me. Please, just... look at me."

Tears pricked at your eyes, hot and humiliating. You shook your head, a small, miserable gesture.

"He was a monster," you finally managed to choke out, the words cracking. "But I was too." A sob tore from your throat, raw and ugly. "I hit back, Dom. I became... I became like him."

Your shoulders shook as the dam finally broke. All the weeks of holding it in, of pretending you were fine, of suppressing the fury and the fear and the self-loathing,it all came pouring out in a torrent o tears.

Dom didn't hesitate. He closed the remaining distance between you, and his arms were around you, pulling you against his chest. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, while the other splayed firmly across your back, holding you together when you felt like you were shattering into a million pieces.

"Hey, hey," he murmured against your hair, his voice a soft, grounding rumble. "Hey now. Look at me."

He gently tilted your chin up, his touch impossibly tender. His gorgeous eyes were wet with unshed tears of their own. "That's not you. That was survival. You hear me? Fuckin' survival."

His thumb brushed away a tear that had escaped to trace a path down your cheek. "You're not a monster. You're the strongest person I've ever known. The bravest." He leaned in closer, his forehead pressing against yours. "And you're safe now. I've got you. I swear on me life, I've got you."

The conviction in his voice, the raw, unwavering devotion in his eyes, was your undoing. You buried your face in the worn cotton of his t-shirt, inhaling the scent of him;something familiar, something safe, something that felt like home after years of being lost. His arms tightened around you, a silent promise that he wasn't going anywhere.

Then you pulled back, creating a sliver of space between your bodies. The sudden movement made him flinch. You looked up at him, really looked, but it was like seeing a stranger wearing Dom's face. The grief and comfort in his eyes were replaced by confusion as your own expression hardened.

"Safe?" you scoffed, the word tasting like acid. "You talk about safety, about tearing the world apart for me." Your voice shook with a new emotion—betrayal. "Where were you, Dom? For the last year? When I was... when I was surviving?" The words were thrown like stones, sharp and unforgiving. "Not one text. Not one call. Nothing."

His face paled. The muscle in his jaw jumped. His hand, which had been so gentle on your chin, dropped to his side as if burned.

"I was busy," he started, the excuse flimsy, pathetic even to his own ears. "The band... touring..."

"Bullshit," you snapped, echoing his earlier dismissal. "You have a phone. You have two seconds to type out 'Are you okay, stupid?' But you didn't. You didn't even try."

His eyes searched yours, a world of pain and regret swimming in their depths. "I didn't think... I didn't think you wanted me to," he finally admitted, his voice barely a whisper. The rough quality was gone, replaced by something hollowed out. "You had him. You were building a life. I thought... I thought I was supposed to stay away. That you'd moved on. From... from us."

"Us?" The word was a knife. "There was no 'us,' Dom. There was you, disappearing into rock star land, and there was me, trying to pretend it didn't hurt like hell that my best friend forgot I existed." You swiped angrily at another tear. "And then I met someone. Someone who paid attention. Who made me feel... seen. At first."

"He didn't see you," Dom said, his voice dropping into that low, intense register again. "He didn't see shit. If he had, he wouldn't have laid a fuckin' finger on you. He wouldn't have made you feel like you had to become something you're not."

"And what about you?" you shot back, your anger flaring again, a shield against the ache in your chest. "You're seeing me now, Dom. After a year of silence. Does that make you better than him?"

His face crumpled. "No," he breathed, the word rasping out of him. "It makes me a fuckin' idiot. The biggest idiot on the planet."

He ran a hand through his already messy hair, a gesture of pure frustration. "Hey," he said, his tone shifting, becoming softer. "Come on. Let's... let's get some air. Yeah? We can... we can have a smoke. Like old times."

The offer was a peace treaty. A return to a simpler past, before bands and toxic boyfriends and a year of crushing silence. You hesitated for a moment, then gave a stiff nod, turning toward the back door without another word.

The night air was cool on your heated skin as you stepped onto the small patio. Dom followed close behind, the familiar jingle of a lighter breaking the quiet. He lit two cigarettes, placing one gently between your fingers, his own brushing against yours for a second too long.

You leaned against the railing, taking a long, slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs and calming the tremor in your hands. For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the distant city hum and the soft exhalation of smoke between you.

Then his voice came, quiet and careful. "How long?" he asked.

You didn't pretend not to know what he meant. "Two weeks," you said, the word smoke-tinged.

He made a soft sound, a pained intake of breath. "Two weeks," he repeated. He took another drag of his cigarette, the ember glowing in the darkness. "And before that... what was it like? With him?"

You stared out into the darkness, at the faint lights of the distant buildings. "It was..." You struggled to find the right words, the ones that wouldn't make you sound completely pathetic or completely insane.

"It was... a war," you finally said, your voice quiet but steady. "Every single night. The same battle, just different weapons. Words, then objects, then hands."

You took another drag, letting the smoke curl from your lips before continuing. "I'd smash things. Plates, glasses, whatever I could reach. And he'd... he'd bruise me." You said it clinically, as if describing someone else's life. "Then he'd cry. He'd wrap his arms around me and say he wasn't a bad person, that he just loved me too much, that I drove him to it."

Dom was utterly still beside you. You could feel the rage radiating from him in waves, a silent, violent storm contained within his skin. He didn't say a word, just listened, and you knew he was burning every detail into his memory.

"He'd promise it would never happen again," you went on, the words coming easier now, a release. "And for a day, or two, it would be perfect. He'd bring me flowers, cook dinner, tell me I was everything. And then... it would start again. Some small thing I'd said wrong. And the cycle would begin anew."

Dom took a final drag of his cigarette, crushing it under the heel of his boot on the concrete. He turned to you then:

"That's not love," he said, his voice soft, a low growl. "That's a fuckin' cage. And he didn't just drive you to it, baby. He built it around you, brick by brick, until you couldn't see the way out."

He stepped closer, his hand coming up to gently brush a stray strand of hair from your cheek. His touch was feather-light, a contrast to the violence you were describing.

"And as for hittin' back..." He leaned in, his face inches from yours, his breath warm on your skin. "That wasn't you becomin' a monster. That was you finally, after all that time, learnin' how to fight back."

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, a slow, deliberate motion that sent a shiver through you despite the warmth of the night. "You're not the one who should feel ashamed," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You never were."

You were frozen, caught in the intensity of his gaze, the gentle possessiveness of his touch.

His eyes dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Where did he touch you?"

The question was quiet, but it carried the weight of a storm. His fingers stilled on your jaw, waiting.

You shook your head, trying to pull away, but he held you gently, firmly.

"Show me," he murmured, his voice cracking slightly on the last word.

You felt a mix of shame, fear, and a terrifying, undeniable pull toward this man who had always been your safe harbor. Slowly, hesitantly, you raised your own hand, your fingers ghosting over your upper arm where a faint bruise still lingered.

Dom's gaze followed your movement, his expression darkening. He didn't say anything, just reached out with his other hand, his fingers tracing the same path yours had just taken. His touch was almost worshipful, as if he were trying to absorb the pain, to replace the memory of violence with one of tenderness.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, his breath catching. "I'm so fuckin' sorry I wasn't here."

You stood there for a long moment, suspended in the charged space between past and present, between the friend you'd lost and the man standing before you now. Then your gaze lifted to meet his.

"He would grab me," you found yourself saying, the words almost involuntary. "Here." You placed your hand on your own hip, where the flesh was still tender from being gripped too hard.

Dom's eyes closed for a second, a muscle twitching in his jaw. When he opened them again, they were burning with an intensity that made your knees weak. He moved his hand from your arm to your hip, positioning it exactly where yours had been.

"And here," you added, your voice barely a whisper, your own hand moving to your wrist, where faint fingerprints were still visible.

Dom's gaze dropped to your wrist, then back to your face. He slowly, deliberately, wrapped his fingers around your wrist, not to restrain, but to protect. His thumb gently stroked the skin there, over the marks left by another man.

"He never deserved this," Dom murmured, his voice thick with emotion. "He never deserved to touch you."

Dom's thumb stilled on your wrist. His other hand remained on your hip, a grounding, possessive pressure. The air between you crackled with unspoken questions. He was watching you with an unnerving intensity, as if he could see right through to the darkest corners of your memory.

"There's more, isn't there?" he asked, his voice low and rough. He wasn't asking, really. He was stating a fact.

You didn't answer, just stared at him, your heart hammering against your ribs.

His grip on your hip tightened slightly, a tremor running through him. "Did he ever..." He stopped, swallowed hard, the words catching in his throat. "Did he ever try to... you know..."

The question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. You could see the struggle in his eyes, the fear of the answer, the fear of what he might do if the answer was yes.

"Love," Dom whispered, his voice thickening into something dangerous, something raw. His free hand moved from your hip to cup your cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze. "Did he... did he ever force himself on you?"

The words were so quiet, yet they slammed into you with the force of a physical blow. The world tilted. Your breath hitched. A memory, sharp and vicious, surfaced—your ex’s hands on your shoulders, pushing you down, the weight of him, your desperate, useless struggles, the sickening feeling of helplessness. You hadn't told anyone. Not even your mother. The shame had been too great, the fear too all-consuming.

Dom saw it all in your eyes. The flicker of horror, the way your body went rigid, the sudden, panicked flutter of your pulse beneath his thumb. A raw, animalistic sound tore from his throat, a mix of a growl and a sob.

"Fuckkk," he choked out, his voice almost incomprehensible. He dropped his forehead against yours, his body shaking with a rage so pure, so violent, it scared you. "Oh, love. No. Please no."

His hands weren't gentle now, not exactly. They were firm, holding you in place as he pressed you against him, as if he could absorb the memory, erase it with the heat of his own body.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice cracking. When you didn't respond, he repeated it, more urgently. "Look at me."

Slowly, you lifted your gaze to his. His eyes were wild, filled with a terrifying mixture of fury and pain.

"I'll fuckin' kill him," Dom snarled against your hair, the words muffled but terrifyingly clear. "I swear to god, I'll find him and I'll..." He broke off, a raw sound of frustration escaping him. He was shaking, the force of his rage making his entire body tremble.

That's when you broke. Completely.

A sob ripped from your chest, deep and guttural, and you collapsed against him. Your arms flew around his neck, fingers digging into the fabric of his t-shirt as you held on for dear life. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him, and let the tears come, hot and endless.

"Why?" you choked out, your words muffled against his skin. "Why did you have to be a world away from me?" The accusation was there, but it was wrapped in so much pain, so much desperation, it sounded more like a prayer. "Why wasn't you?"

His arms tightened around you, holding you together as you came apart. The fury in him seemed to quiet, replaced by a wave of such profound, devastating tenderness it almost hurt.

"'Cause I'm a fuckin' idiot," he whispered, the words rough against your ear. "'Cause I thought I was doin' the right thing, stayin' away, lettin' you have your life. I thought..." He broke off, his breath catching. "I thought I didn't deserve to be in it."

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hands coming up to frame your face, thumbs gently wiping away the tears that wouldn't stop. "But I was wrong. So, so wrong. And I'll spend the rest of me life makin' it right, I swear."

His eyes were wild with emotion, desperate, searching yours for... what? Forgiveness? Understanding? You didn’t know.

"Every day," he confessed, his voice deepening with feeling, the words spilling out of him now, raw and unfiltered. "Every fuckin' day I thought about you. Wondered if you were happy. If you were bein' treated right. And now... knowin' this... I'll never forgive meself."

Your hands moved without your brain's permission, tangling in the dark mess of his hair. It was longer than you remembered, softer. The familiar texture against your palms was a lifeline, a proof of existence after a year of haunting absences. You clung to him, your fingers digging into his scalp as if you could absorb him, anchor yourself to this solid, breathing truth after months of being adrift in a sea of lies.

"I missed you," you sobbed against the warm skin of his neck, the confession tearing out of you. "Every day. Dom, every single day." You inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of him; cigarettes, laundry detergent, that faint, expensive cologne he always wore, and underneath it all, the unique, warm smell that was your Dom. "I missed this. I missed you."

It wasn't just a statement; it was a prayer, a lament, a desperate plea to the universe that had kept you apart. You pressed yourself closer, feeling the hard planes of his chest against yours, the frantic, unsteady beat of his heart matching your own.

"Just... let it out," Dom murmured against your hair, his voice a deep, soothing rumble. "I've got you, love. I've got you."

You couldn't stop the tears soaking into the thin fabric of his t-shirt. You pressed your face harder against his chest, muffling the sounds of your grief.

"I'd see it," you choked out, the words muffled but clear in the quiet night. "On Instagram. The fans... they'd hug you." Your fingers tightened in his hair, the strands silken between them. "And it would hurt so bad, Dom. Like a physical pain. Because I wanted... I wanted my fingers to feel your hair. To feel your skin."

You pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes. "I would... I'd run to the bathroom at work," you confessed, shame and longing warring in your voice. "Lock myself in one of the stalls. Just to watch your videos, to look at the updates from tour. Like some kind of... creep."

He shook his head slowly, his dark eyes fixed on yours. "No, darlin'," he whispered, his thumb stroking your cheek.

"And I'd hate myself for it," you continued, your voice breaking. "For wanting you so much when you were out there... living your dream. And I was..." You trailed off, unable to finish, the truth too ugly to speak aloud.

Dom's expression shattered. The carefully constructed rock star facade, the protective anger. it all crumbled, leaving behind something raw, vulnerable, and utterly devoted.

"Never," he breathed, his voice full of emotion. "Never think that. Never." He leaned in, pressing a desperate, almost frantic kiss to your forehead.

"Every day," he murmured against your skin, his lips brushing your hairline. "On that stage, lookin' out at all those faces... all I could see was yours. Every fuckin' night, I'd sing to you, hopin' you could somehow hear me."

He pulled back, his hands framing your face, holding you like you were something precious, something he was terrified of breaking.

"But I'm like your little sister," you whispered, the words tasting like rust on your tongue. You tried to laugh, but it came out as a broken sob. "That's all I've ever been to you, right? Just... your mom’s best mate's daughter. The kid you had to look out for."

Dom's entire body went rigid. His fingers tightened on your jaw, not painfully, but with an undeniable pressure that demanded your attention.

"Don't you ever say that," he growled. "Don't you fuckin' dare." He leaned in closer, so close you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips, see the raw, unguarded pain in his eyes. "That's never what you were. Not for a long, long time."

Dom's shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of self-recrimination. He wrapped you up in his arms again, burying his face in your hair, holding you so tightly you could barely breathe.

"I know," he whispered, his voice cracking. "I know, love. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry.I've been reckless. I've been... fuckin' stupid."

His green eyes were filled with a devastating honesty, a raw vulnerability that made your chest ache.

"I thought... I thought if I stayed away, if I let you go, you'd find someone better. Someone who could give you a normal life, not the chaos that follows me around. Not the cameras, not the gossip, not..." He broke off, shaking his head. "Not me. I let you go," he continued. "And I broke my own goddamn heart doin' it. But I thought... I thought it was the right thing. The noble thing. The stupidest fuckin' thing I've ever done."

You woke up to the dull gray light of morning filtering through the thin curtains. For a moment, you were disoriented, the events of the previous night a surreal dream. Then you felt it. The solid warmth of another body pressed against your back, the gentle weight of an arm draped over your waist, the soft, rhythmic sound of breathing beside you.

Dom was still here.

You hadn't slept in the bed; you'd both ended up collapsed on the small sofa in the living room. The exhaustion had been too profound, the emotional fallout too overwhelming to make it to the bedroom.

You shifted slightly, trying not to wake him, but his arm tightened around you instinctively, pulling you closer. His face was buried in your hair, and you could feel the soft puffs of his breath against your neck. A shiver ran through you, not from cold, but from the sheer intimacy of the position. This was Dom. The boy you'd grown up with, the man you'd loved from afar, the rock star who had haunted your dreams for years. And he was here, in your arms, on your sofa.

Dom stirred behind you, a low groan rumbling in his chest. His arm, which had been draped so comfortably over your waist, tightened for a moment before his brain caught up with his body. He froze.

You could feel the exact second consciousness hit him, the sudden tension that coiled through his frame.

"Mornin'," you mumbled, your voice raspy with sleep and emotion.

"Hey," he breathed, his voice thick and sleepy. He didn't move away. If anything, he shifted closer, pressing a soft, hesitant kiss to the back of your shoulder.

The simple gesture sent a jolt through you.

You twisted in his arms, careful not to dislodge him completely, so you could see his face. His hair was a wild mess, sticking up at all angles. There were dark circles under his eyes, and a faint stubble shadowed his jaw. He looked exhausted. And he looked beautiful.

"Why did you stay?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended.

Hi eyes, still heavy with sleep, searched yours. A flicker of something vulnerable, almost boyish, crossed his face before he could school it.

"I couldn't leave you," he admitted, his voice a low, rough murmur. His rough voice was more pronounced in the quiet morning light. "Not after... not after everything." His thumb, which had been resting on your waist, began to stroke small, absent circles on the thin fabric of your shirt. The motion was unconscious, grounding.

He shifted, propping himself up on an elbow to look down at you properly. The movement brought him closer, and you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "You were... shattered. Broken into a million little pieces. And I just... I couldn't fuckin' stand the thought of you bein' alone with all that." His gaze dropped to your lips for a second, a flicker of something hungry and raw in his eyes before he met your gaze again.

"Even if you hated me for bein' here," he continued, his voice dropping lower, softer. "Even if you wanted me to get the hell out. I knew I had to stay. Just to... to make sure the pieces didn't scatter again. To make sure you were still here in the morning."

The last part was spoken so quietly, so honestly, it was like he was confessing a secret he hadn't even admitted to himself.

"I didn't want you to stay out of pity," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. The word "pity" hung between you, ugly and sharp. "I didn't want your... charity, Dom."

A flicker of hurt crossed his face before it was replaced by something harder, more intense. He pushed himself up further, leaning over you, creating a protective cage with his body. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and you had to resist the urge to brush it away.

"Pity?" he repeated. "You think this is pity?" He gestured vaguely between the two of you, at your tangled limbs, at the tear-stains on your face. "Love, I feel a lot of things right now. Rage. Guilt. This... this achin' in my chest that feels like I've been hollowed out. But pity? No."

He leaned in closer, until you could feel the warmth of his breath on your lips. "I'm not here 'cause I feel sorry for you. I'm here 'cause the thought of you bein' hurt makes me wanna tear the world apart. I'm here 'cause hearin' you cry is worse than anything in my fuckin life."

"I believe you," you whispered, your resolve crumbling under the weight of his earnestness. The fight drained out of you, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness.

Dom seemed to sense the shift. He didn't say anything more, just lowered himself back down, pulling you with him. You shifted until you were lying with your head on his chest, your ear pressed against the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. His arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him, and you tangled your legs with his, seeking the comfort, the warmth, the solid reality of him.

You closed your eyes, breathing in the scent of him, and for the first time in what felt like forever, the anxiety in your chest began to subside. The world outside this small sofa, with all its complications and pain, seemed to fade away. There was only the rise and fall of Dom's chest beneath your cheek, the gentle weight of his arm around you, and the quiet promise of the morning to come.

Hours later, you were stirred not by an alarm or the light, but by the soft, gentle press of lips against your shoulder. It wasn't a hungry kiss, or a demanding one. It was slow, and impossibly tender.

You let out a soft sigh, a sleepy, contented sound, as Dom's lips continued their exploration of your shoulder, slow, sleepy kisses that were more about comfort than passion. You could feel the warmth spreading through you, a pleasant, welcome heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room.

The panic that had been your constant companion for weeks began to recede, replaced by a sense of safety, of belonging, that you hadn't realized you'd been craving so desperately.

His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you closer, and you could feel the evidence of his desire against your hip, a slow, sleepy awakening that was both thrilling and terrifying. But there was no rush, no demand. Just a quiet, unconscious acknowledgment of the chemistry that had always simmered between you, now finally allowed to breathe.

You shifted slightly, turning in his arms until you were facing him, your head still pillowed on his chest. His eyes were still closed, his breathing deep.

Your body went rigid for a fraction of a second, a knee-jerk reaction from months of conditioning. But the feeling wasn't threatening. It wasn't aggressive. It was just... Dom. A sleepy, unconscious response to your closeness.

And a dark, shameful part of you enjoyed it. A low, hot thrill pulsed through you, a response you immediately tried to stamp down. Whore, a vicious inner voice, an echo of your ex, whispered in your mind. Getting wet for him already. After everything.

But then a memory surfaced. Not of violence, but of you, alone in your bedroom, scrolling through pictures of Dom on tour. You remembered the way your breath would catch when you saw a photo of him in loose joggers, the unmistakable outline of him a source of endless, secret fascination. You remembered running to the bathroom, locking the door, and touching yourself, thinking of him, imagining what it would feel like to have that thickness inside you.

The shame was still there, but it was different now. Mixed with a strange, defiant sense of rightness. Because this wasn't some stranger. This was Dom. The one person in the world you'd ever truly wanted.

As if drawn by a force beyond your control, your body shifted, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. A slow, deliberate grind against the hardness pressing into your hip. It was reckless, insane. The fear that he might wake up, that he'd see what a mess you were, was a cold knot in your stomach. But the need for this connection, for this proof of life, was stronger.

You held your breath, waiting, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing.

Then, in the depths of his sleep, he responded. A soft groan rumbled in his chest, and his hips rolled, grinding back against you. It wasn't a conscious act, not a demand. Just a sleepy, instinctual movement, a seeking of the warmth, the softness you were offering.

The friction sent a jolt through you, a surge of heat that pooled low in your belly. The rational part of your brain screamed at you to stop, to pull away before this went any further. But your body, a traitorous, desperate thing, arched into him, seeking more.

His breathing hitched, a small, sleepy sigh escaping him. His arm tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer the gesture both innocent and intensely intimate. The shame began to recede, replaced by something bolder, something that felt a lot like reclaiming. Your ex's voice faded, the accusations turning to static. This wasn't about being a whore. This was about wanting. This was about needing to feel alive, to feel desired, to feel something other than fear and pain.

You shifted again, a more deliberate roll of your hips, testing the waters, seeing how far you could go before he woke. His cock was hard now, a thick, insistent pressure against your thigh, separated only by the thin layers of your sleep shorts and his joggers.

Another soft groan escaped him, and this time, it was followed by a whispered word, mumbled against your hair. "...darlin'..."

Your heart stuttered. He was dreaming. Dreaming of you?

The realization was intoxicating. Empowering. You were no longer a passive victim, a broken thing to be pitied. You were a woman, lying in the arms of the man she'd always loved, and he was dreaming of her.

His hips began to move with more purpose, a slow, lazy grinding against you that was no longer entirely unconscious. His other hand, which had been resting on your back, began to roam, tracing the curve of your spine, then moving around to your front. When his palm cupped your breast, you let out an involuntary moan, a soft, breathy sound that was half pleasure, half panic.

His thumb brushed over your nipple, and the sensation shot through you like lightning. You froze, every muscle in your body tensing. Because you could feel i. He was waking up.

His fingers curled around the generous curve of your breast, squeezing gently, a sleepy, appreciative exploration. He was definitely awake now. At least partially. And he was touching you. Really touching you.

"Dom?" you whispered, your voice shaky, uncertain.

He didn't answer with words. Just a low, rumbling groan against your ear as he nuzzled closer, his other hand sliding down to grip your hip, holding you in place as he continued to grind against you, slow and deliberate.

"Fuck," he breathed, the rough accent thick and rough, heavy with sleep.

Your heart was pounding against your ribs, a frantic, wild beat. This was Dom. The boy you'd loved since you were five. The man you'd dreamed about, fantasized about. And he was touching your breasts, grinding his cock against you, and whispering curses in that accent that had always made your knees weak.

You should stop this. You knew you should. Push him away, remind him of your friendship, of the boundaries, of the fact that you were a mess, a disaster area he shouldn't step into.

But you couldn't.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn't feel like a victim. You didn't feel broken. You felt desired. Wanted. Seen.

So instead of pushing him away, you arched your back, pressing your breast more firmly into his palm, a silent invitation.

His breath hitched, and his eyes finally opened. They were heavy-lidded, dark with a sleepy, possessive hunger that made your stomach clench. He looked down at you, at his hand on your breast, at your face flushed with a mix of desire and shame.

"Love'," he whispered, his voice a low, rough murmur against your ear. "What are you doin' to me?"

His body went rigid, a wave of shame washing over him so palpable you could feel it in the sudden tension of his muscles. "Fuck," he choked out, starting to pull away. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't... I'm a fuckin' idiot, I..."

But you stopped him. You tightened your legs around his, anchoring him in place, and brought your hand up to cover the one he had on your breast, holding it there.

"No," you whispered, your voice soft but firm. "Don't you dare be sorry." You squeezed his hand, a deliberate, reassuring pressure. "It's alright. Your body's just... reacting. And I'm okay with it." You looked up at him, your eyes clear, honest. "I missed all of you, Dom."

Your legs tangled more securely with his, a bold, intimate embrace. His breath hitched, and you could feel the frantic, uneven beat of your own heart beneath his palm. You were soaked, the fabric of your shorts damp against your skin, a shameful, thrilling acknowledgment of how badly you wanted this.

He searched your face, his expression a mix of disbelief, relief, and a raw, aching desire. "You're not... you're not just sayin' that?" he asked, his voice thick and uncertain.

You shook your head slowly, a soft smile touching your lips. "I'm not saying anything I don't mean. Not to you. Not anymore."

A slow breath escaped him, and the tension in his body began to ease. He leaned down, not to kiss you, but to press his forehead against yours, a gesture of such raw intimacy it made your chest ache.

"Thank fuck," he breathed, the words a rough, ragged whisper against your skin. "I thought... I thought I'd fucked it up again."

His thumb began to move again, stroking slow, deliberate circles over the fabric covering your nipple, and you couldn't stop the soft moan that escaped you.

"Still okay?" he asked, his voice husky.

You answered by arching your back again, pressing more firmly against him. The movement was deliberate, a clear invitation you no longer had the energy or the will to deny. Your body was speaking the language your mind had been too afraid to learn.

You pulled him back down, crushing your lips to his in a kiss that was both a confirmation and a new beginning. It was slow, deep, and impossibly intimate, a silent conversation of mutual need and long-denied desire. His lips were firm, demanding, and when he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, you couldn't suppress the moan that rose in your throat. His grip on your breast tightened, his other hand tangling in your hair, holding you in place as he devoured you. It was overwhelming, intoxicating, and a little terrifying. But beneath the hunger, you could feel the desperation, the aching need to connect, to erase the past year, to erase the memory of another man's hands on your body.

You melted into him, a surrender that felt less like defeat and more like coming home. Your hands, which had been tentatively resting on his chest, slid up, tangling in the dark mess of his hair, feeling the soft strands between your fingers. It was better than you'd ever imagined. His kiss deepened, growing more confident, more possessive. One hand left your breast, tracing a path down your side, over the curve of your hip, coming to rest on your thigh. The touch was electric, sending jolts of pleasure through you. His fingers dug into the soft flesh there, a claiming gesture that made you arch against him. You could feel the hard ridge of his cock against your belly, a reminder of the power you held over him, a power you were just beginning to understand.

"Dom," you gasped, pulling away just enough to breathe his name.

You pulled back, panting, your gaze sweeping over him. His cheeks were flushed, a deep, rosy red that matched the fire burning in your own veins. His lips were swollen from your kisses, his pupils blown wide with a hunger that made your own ache in response. He looked utterly wrecked. Beautifully, intoxicatingly wrecked. The sight broke something in you. All the careful composure, all the years of hiding your feelings it all shattered, leaving behind a raw, desperate need that could no longer be contained.

"Touch me," you begged, your voice a ragged, breathy whisper. You grabbed at the front of his t-shirt, your fingers twisting in the fabric, pulling him closer. "Please, Dom. Touch me."

His breath hitched, a strangled sound escaping him. His intense gazee searched yours, looking for any sign of hesitation, any trace of the fear that had haunted you for so long. But all he found was desperate need.

"Fuck, love," he breathed, his voice so thick. "You don't have to beg. Not with me. Not ever."

His hand, which had been resting on your thigh, began to move, sliding up, slowly, deliberately, pushing the hem of your shirt with it.

His breath caught, and then something in him snapped. The careful restraint, the gentlemanly hesitation, it all evaporated, replaced by a raw, hungry urgency that made your own desperation pale in comparison.

"Everywhere," he growled, his voice so thick it was almost a growl. "You want me everywhere?"

You didn't answer with words. You took his hand, the one that had been hovering uncertainly at your waist, and guided it, your movements clumsy with need. You pushed it under your shirt, over the soft skin of your stomach, and higher still, until his palm was covering your breast.

"Here?" he breathed, his thumb brushing over your nipple, a slow, deliberate circle that made you gasp.

You answered by arching your back, pressing yourself more firmly into his palm.

He didn't make you wait.

His name tore from your throat, a desperate, ragged cry. "Dom, please. Rip them off." Your hands were everywhere, clawing at his t-shirt, at your own shorts, a frantic, animalistic need to feel skin on skin. "Please, my love, please."

A strangled sound escaped him, a mix of shock and lust. He was looking for any sign of hesitation, any trace of the fear that had haunted you for so long. But all he found was desperate, wanton need. So…

He didn't hesitate. With a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a snarl, he gripped the collar of your shirt and ripped. The fabric gave way with a satisfying tear, and you cried out, a mix of pain and pleasure that only fueled the fire raging between you.

"Yes," you gasped, arching into him, your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. "Yes, my love. Like that."

His response was a feral growl, and he ripped again, this time at your shorts, the delicate fabric giving way easily. You were exposed, vulnerable, but you'd never felt more powerful. Because this was Dom. And he was looking at you like you were a goddess, a feast, a dream come true.

"Dom," you begged, your hands scrabbling at the waistband of his joggers. "Please. I need to feel you."

His hands were everywhere, tearing away the last remnants of your clothing, his touch both reverent and possessive. He was panting, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes wild with a hunger that both terrified and thrilled you.

"Everything," he growled, his voice so thick it was almost a growl. "You're gonna get everything."

His hands roamed your newly exposed skin with a worshipper's reverence, yet the press of his fingers was pure possession. He mapped the curve of your hip, the dip of your waist, the full swell of your breast like a man rediscovering a long-lost homeland. His gaze was so intense it felt like a physical touch, scorching, branding you as his. He leaned down, not to kiss your lips this time, but to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the frantic pulse beating in your throat.

"Wanted this for so long," he rasped against your skin, his voice a rough, desperate prayer. "For fuckin' years. You have no idea." He nipped at your collarbone, a sharp, possessive bite that made you cry out, your back arching off the sofa cushions. "Everythin' I wrote, every song... it was always you."

The lack of a bra had been a deliberate choice of comfort, a concession to the exhaustion that had plagued you. Now, it felt like destiny. Dom's breath hitched as he looked down, his dark eyes wide with a kind of reverent disbelief. He'd seen you in swimsuits, in low-cut tops over the years, but this was different. This was real.

"Christ," he breathed, the word a reverent whisper.

He lowered his head, leaving a scorching trail of kisses from the sensitive skin of your neck down, down, until he reached the soft swell of your breasts. His hands came up to cup them, and a guttural groan escaped him. They were large, overflowing his palms, the soft weight of them a perfect, intoxicating burden. He squeezed gently, his thumbs brushing over your already-pebbled nipples, sending jolts of pure electricity straight to your core.

"Please, Dom," you begged, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer. "Please."

He didn't need to be told twice. His mouth closed over one peaked nipple, and the sensation was so intense, so overwhelmingly good, that your vision whited out for a second..

His mouth was a revelation, a perfect, wet heat that seemed to know exactly how to drive you insane. He swirled his tongue around your nipple, a slow, deliberate torture, before gently sucking, the pull of it sending a fresh wave of arousal pooling in your belly. You watched him, transfixed, your lips parted, your breath coming in ragged pants. The sight of this man, this rock god, this boy you'd grown up with, completely lost in the taste of your skin was the most erotic thing you had ever seen.

"Dom," you gasped, your hands abandoning their desperate grip on his hair to claw at the hem of his own t-shirt. "I need... I need your mouth everywhere."

He released your nipple with a soft, wet pop, looking up at you through lust-glazed eyes."Everywhere, love?" he rasped.

You answered by ripping his shirt up, your fingers fumbling with the fabric, desperate to feel the hot, smooth skin of his chest, to feel the frantic beat of his heart against your palm. He helped you, yanking the shirt over his head and tossing it aside, revealing a landscape of lean muscle and intricate tattoos that you had only ever seen in his pictures.

Your hands roamed freely now, tracing the lines of ink, feeling the muscles twitch beneath your touch. "I can't hold myself," you confessed, your voice raw with need. "I need you, Dom. All of you."

Your confession seemed to shatter something in him.

"Then have me. Every fuckin' inch."

He captured your hands, stopping their frantic exploration, and pinned them above your head with one of his, the grip firm but not painful. His other hand traced a scorching path down your body, over the curve of your hip, dipping into the hollow at your waist, then lower still. His touch was a brand claiming territory he'd been denied for too long.

His fingers grazed the slick heat between your thighs, and a choked gasp escaped him. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're... Christ, baby'."

He didn't move his fingers, just held them there, feeling the heat, the desperate, throbbing need that was soaking through the thin fabric of what remained of your panties. The look on his face was one of utter, absolute worship.

"Dom," you begged, your hips bucking instinctively, seeking more friction, more pressure. "Please. Rip them off. Like you did the rest. Please, my love."

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. "Not yet," he murmured.

He slid off the sofa, kneeling before you, the picture of a man at worship. His hands came to rest on your thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin there, just below the edge of the lace.

"I want to taste you first," he growled, his voice almost a snarl. "I want to see how desperate you are for me."

"Dom, I can't wait," you pleaded, your body trembling with anticipation. "I've dreamed of this... of you... so many times. On your knees, looking up at me like that. In my bed at night, touching myself and pretending it was your hands, your mouth." The confession spilled out of you, raw and shameless. "I need you now. Right now."

Your words seemed to be the final catalyst. With a guttural groan, he hooked his fingers into the sides of your panties and ripped. The delicate fabric gave way, and you were completely exposed to him, open, vulnerable, and dripping with desire.

"Ohhhh fuck," he breathed.

His gaze was devouring you, dark and possessive, as he knelt between your now-splayed legs. The morning light filtering through the curtains illuminated the most intimate parts of you, and you didn't shy away. You wanted him to see. To see what he had done to you with just a kiss, with just his presence.

"Are you this wet for me, sweetheart?"

You nodded, unable to form words, your breath hitching as he brought a hand up, tracing the delicate skin of your inner thigh with a feather-light touch.

"Let me see you, luv," he murmured, his gaze unwavering, fixed on the glistening pink folds of your pussy. "All of you."

His fingers finally made contact, a slow, deliberate exploration. He traced your slick folds, his touch both gentle and firm, learning every curve, every hollow. When his thumb brushed against your clit, so swollen and sensitive, a sharp, intense pleasure shot through you, and you cried out, your hips bucking instinctively.

"Fuck," he breathed, a raw, awestruck sound. "You're so beautiful like this."

He circled your clit with his thumb, a slow, maddening rhythm that had you writhing on the sofa cushions, your hands fisting in the fabric, your head thrown back in pleasure.

"Dom," you gasped, your voice a ragged, breathy plea. "Please."

His other hand came up, parting your folds further, giving him better access, exposing the most sensitive parts of you to his hungry gaze. He leaned closer, his breath hot against your inner thigh.

"I wanna taste you.Wanna see what you taste like when you're this desperate for me."

He didn't wait for an answer. With a firm, possessive grip, he hooked his arms under your knees, spreading your legs wide and holding them in place, effectively immobilizing you. The position was vulnerable, exposed, but all you could feel was a white-hot surge of desire.

His gaze devoured you for a moment longer,then he lowered his head, and the world dissolved into pure sensation.

His mouth closed over your clit, and the sound that escaped you was half cry, half sob. He was absolutely ravenous, devouring you with a wet, hungry intensity that left you gasping for breath. The sounds were obscene. The slick, wet noises of his mouth on you, the deep, guttural moans vibrating against your sensitive flesh, your own desperate whimpers filling the small room.

His hips bucked, a desperate, unconscious movement as the confinement of his joggers became unbearable. With one hand still firmly holding your leg in place, he used the other to shove his pants down with an impatient, rough gesture. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, straining toward you, a testament to how desperately he wanted this.

His tongue was relentless, swirling around your clit in a perfect, maddening rhythm while he slipped two fingers inside you, stretching you, filling you. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but feel.

"Dom," you gasped, your hips bucking against his mouth. "Dom, I... I can't..."

He didn't stop. If anything, he intensified his efforts, his fingers curling inside you.

"Dom!" you screamed, your hands fisting in his hair, pulling him closer, a desperate, needy gesture. "Dom, I'm... I'm gonna..."

"It's okay," he growled against your flesh, the vibrations sending another wave of pleasure through you. "I've got you, love. Let go. Let me feel you."

His words were your undoing. Your grip in his hair tightened, almost painfully, as your back arched off the sofa cushions. A string of incoherent moans and whimpers fell from your lips, a language of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"So good," you managed to gasp, the words barely intelligible. "Dom, you're so... so good at this..."

A lo chuckle vibrated against your clit. "Yeah, darlin'? What do you like?" he murmured, his voice a delicious, teasing rumble. "My tongue? Like the way I lick this perfect little clit?"

He demonstrated, flattening his tongue and giving you one long, slow, deliberate stroke that made your entire body tremble.

"Or is it this?" he asked, curling his fingers inside you, stroking that sensitive spot with a maddening precision.

You were trembling violently, your entire body taut with a pleasure so intense it bordered on pain. Your words were gone, replaced by desperate, gasping whimpers.

"Easy, love," Dom soothed, his voice a deep, calming rumble against your sensitive skin. He slowed his movements, his tongue gentling, his fingers stilling inside you. "You got me all to yourself now. No rush. We got all the damn day."

"No," you cried out, your fingers tightening in his hair, a desperate plea. "Don't stop. Please, Dom, don't stop."

He let out a sound of surrender. "Anything for you, love," he breathed against you. "Anything."

He resumed his assault, his tongue and fingers working in perfect, devastating harmony. It was too much, and not enough. The pressure built inside you, threatening to wash you away completely.

He fucked you with his fingers, hard and fast, the way you'd secretly dreamed of but never dared to admit. "That's it, darlin'," he panted, his voice ragged with arousal. "Take it. Take what I'm givin' you." His free hand came up to grip your hip, holding you steady as he drove you closer and closer to the edge.

"Dom... Dom... Dom..." His name became a desperate plea as you spiraled higher and higher. The sounds you were making were obscene, loud, unrestrained. You didn't care. You couldn't care.

He sensed your impending release, and with a final, possessive growl, he sucked your clit into his mouth, a hard, relentless pressure that was your undoing. His fingers curled inside you, hitting that perfect spot one last time, and the world shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you, violent and overwhelming. Your entire body bowed off the sofa, a silent scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your pussy clenched around his fingers, a desperate, rhythmic pulsing that seemed to go on forever.

Through the haze of your release, you were dimly aware of him watching you, his intense gaze locked with yours, a look of fierce, possessive triumph on his face. He didn't stop, didn't let up, drawing out your pleasure until you were a trembling, whimpering mess, completely and utterly wrecked.

As the tremors began to subside, your pussy still spasming, clenching around his fingers, Dom slowly, carefully withdrew them. The feeling of emptiness was almost painful, but it was quickly replaced by something else when he brought his glistening fingers to his lips and licked them clean.

Then he was kissing you, a deep, possessive kiss that tasted of you and of him, a delicious, intoxicating blend. His tongue swept into your mouth, claiming you, branding you as his.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes searching yours, a smug, satisfied smile playing on his lips.

"Is this how bad you needed me, love?"

Instead of answering, you pulled him back down, crushing your lips to his in a kiss that was both a confirmation and a new beginning. It was slow, deep, and impossibly intimate, a silent conversation of mutual need and long-denied desire. You were still completely exposed, your legs splayed, the morning sunlight filtering through the open curtains and painting your skin in golden hues. You could see every detail of him—his flushed chest, the frantic pulse beating in his throat, the sweat beading on his brow. But your gaze was drawn to his cock, standing proud and thick against his stomach,throbbing with a torturous need that mirrored your own. He was a beautiful mess, all raw, unfiltered desire, just for you.

With a desperate, gasping breath, you pulled back from the kiss, your hands sliding down to grip the waistband of his joggers, which were already pooled around his knees.

"Will you fuck me?" you begged, your voice a ragged, breathy whisper. "Right now, Dom. Please. I need it so bad."

He didn't hesitate. He kicked off the last of his clothes and moved over you, settling between your thighs. The weight of him, the sheer, solid reality of him pressing you into the sofa cushions, was intoxicating. The thought of doing this here, in the plain light of morning, with nothing to hide behind, was a potent aphrodisiac. You could see everything—the dark hair sprinkled across his chest, the trail leading down to his cock, the thick, dark curls at its base. It was all so real, so visceral, so unbelievably sexy.

"Please, Dom," you begged again, your hips bucking instinctively, seeking the hardness of him. "Please fuck me. I need to feel you inside me."

"Don't be gentle," you whispered, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin. "I've waited too long for gentle."

A shuddering breath escaped him, and you could feel the tremor in his hands as he positioned himself at your entrance. He was desperate, completely undone by his own desire for you.

"Yeah, love?" he breathed, his voice a broken, fucked-up whisper that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. "How do you want me, luv? Tell me how you want me to fuck you."

His words were raw, dirty, and utterly intoxicating. This was the Dom you'd only seen in your wildest dreams, and he was here, asking you, waiting for you to tell him what to do.

You met his gaze, your own dark with a matching hunger. "Hard," you breathed, your voice a raw, ragged plea. "I want you to fuck me hard. Like you've been waiting for this as long as I have."

With a broken sound that was part growl, part sob, he began to push into you. He was impossibly slow, achingly deliberate, giving you time to adjust to his size, to the intrusion after so long. You were tight, and the stretch was a delicious, burning pleasure that made your breath catch.

"Relax for me, love," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing rumble that was at odds with the fierce desperation in his eyes. "Just... relax. I've got all day. We've got all the damn day."

His hands came up to cup your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks in a tender, grounding gesture that was both reassuring and incredibly arousing. He was watching you, intently, cataloging every flicker of emotion, every gasp of pleasure, every tremor that ran through your body.

He pushed deeper slide that stole the air from your lungs. When he was finally fully sheathed inside you, the stretch was so complete, so overwhelming, that you arched your back, a silent scream of pleasure tearing from your throat.

"Fuck," Dom breathed, his voice a broken, guttural groan. "You're so fuckin' tight, love. So... Christ." He was fighting for control, fighting the urge to lose himself in the tight, slick heat of you, and the knowledge of it sent a fresh wave of power through you.

He started to move, a deliberate withdrawal that left you feeling empty, aching, before a deep, powerful thrust that filled you completely, hitting a spot so deep inside you that it made your toes curl. The pace was maddening, torturous, and utterly perfect.

"Fuck," you gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin.

"Yeah, babe'?" he growled, his voice a deep, predatory rumble. "This what you wanted? All this cock stretchin' you open?" Another deep, powerful thrust that made you cry out.

Your fingers scrabbled at his back, nails leaving angry red trails across the smooth skin of his shoulders. He was overwhelming, too much, not enough, the perfect, devastating storm you'd always known he would be.

"Dom," you gasped, his name a raw, ragged plea torn from your throat. "Fuck, Dom."

In response, his big arms wrapped around you, one hand splaying across your lower back, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head to the side to expose the delicate line of your throat. He was holding you, pinning you, making you take every brutal, perfect inch of him. The sounds you made were unrestrained, matched only by his own guttural moans. You were two lost motherfuckers, finally finding your way home in the most primal way possible.

"I missed you," you sobbed against his neck, the confession tearing out of you between thrusts. "Every day. You're the love of my life, Dom. Always have been."

His movements faltered for a second, a choked, broken sound escaping him. Then he was fucking you harder, deeper, a desperate, punishing rhythm that was both an answer and a question.

"Love of my fuckin' life," he whispered against your skin. "You think I could write a single fuckin' song without you in me head? You think I could breathe? Jesus, darlin', you're the only fuckin' thing that's ever been real."

He shifted, changing the angle, and a fresh wave of pleasure, so intense it was almost painful, washed over you.

"Wanted you since we were kids," he panted, his breath hot against your ear. "Wanted to kiss you in that treehouse. Wanted to punch that wanker from school who looked at you wrong. Wanted to bend you over me fuckin' guitar amp and make you scream my name."

The image he painted was so raw, so visceral, it sent you spiraling closer to the edge.

"Dominic," you moaned, using his full name, a thing you rarely did.

He drove into you one last, brutal time, burying himself to the hilt, and held himself there, trembling. His forehead rested against yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

One arm wrapped around your waist, the other gripping the back of your thigh, and with a grunt of effort, he lifted you. He didn't even seem to register your weight, pulling you up until you were straddling him, impaled on his cock as he stood in the middle of your living room, the morning light painting your naked bodies in gold.

"Dom!" you shrieked, a mix of shock and ecstasy.

"You wanted hard? I'll give you fuckin' hard."

His hands gripped your ass, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he started to lift you, then pull you down, a brutal, delicious rhythm that made your head fall back, a scream tearing from your throat. You were completely at his mercy, suspended in his arms, being fucked like you weighed nothing, used for his pleasure and your own.

"More," you begged, your nails clawing at his shoulders. "Please, Dom, more."

His response was a feral growl. Your desperate plea for more was all the encouragement he needed. He drove into you harder, faster, your kisses became sloppy, wet, desperate things, a chaotic clash of lips and teeth and tongues as you tried to devour each other.

"You're so good," you gasped against his mouth, the words a broken, breathy chant. "So fuckin' good. A god. You're a god made to fuck me."

Your praise was the last thread snapping in his already frayed control. A choked, broken sound escaped him, and for a moment, he seemed to short-circuit, a victim of your words and the overwhelming tight heat of your pussy. He was utterly, completely pussy drunk.

"Bedroom," he snarled, his voice so thick, so broken it was almost unrecognizable. "Now."

He started walking, each step a deliberate, powerful thrust that sent another jolt of pleasure through you. He didn't put you down; he carried you, impaled on his cock, through the small apartment, the journey a march toward your bedroom. The world was a blur of morning light and the frantic, desperate sounds of your bodies coming together.

The back of your knees hit the mattress, and with a guttural groan, he threw you down. You landed with a soft bounce, the sheets cool against your overheated skin. Before you could even process the change in position, before you could catch your breath, he was on you. A possessive grip on your hip, and he flipped you, a fluid, powerful movement that left you face-down, ass-up. He pulled you up by the hips, positioning you on your hands and knees, a perfect, submissive offering.

"Gonna fuck you dumb," he growled, his voice a deep, feral snarl that vibrated through your entire body.

The contradiction was a devastating, beautiful thing. His words from earlier, raw and emotional, were a stark counterpoint to the brutal, punishing rhythm of his hips. Each thrust was a declaration, a claim, an apology.

"Love of my fuckin' life," he panted, driving into you, deep and hard. "So sorry, darlin'. So sorry I didn't give you this earlier."

You were lost, a whimpering, writhing mess beneath him. Your body was a conduit for pure sensation, your mind a blank slate wiped clean by the overwhelming pleasure. You turned your head, burying your face in the crook of his neck, licking the salty sweat from his skin, kissing the frantic pulse beating in his throat. Your sounds were incoherent, a series of desperate whimpers and choked sobs that were the only language you had left.

"You're the best," you sobbed against his neck. "Dom, you're the fuckin' best. Your cock... so fuckin' big."

As if hearing your praise, the raw, feral energy in him shifted. The punishment gave way to something more purposeful, more intimate. With a gentleness that was in direct opposition to the force of his thrusts, he eased out of you, then flipped you again, onto your back. He was looking at you now, really looking, his intense eyes locked with yours as he entered you again in one smoot movement.

This was different. Slower. Deeper. More connected. And then his thumb found your clit, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your entire body tremble.

"Ah," you gasped, a choked, breathy sound. "Mmm, Dom..."

His lips were on yours, a messy, desperate kiss that was more breath than substance, a chaotic clash of tongues. His hips maintained their deep, steady rhythm, a perfect counterpoint to the insistent circles his thumb was drawing on your clit.

"Take it," he panted against your mouth, his voice so thick it was almost another language. "That's it, love. Take all of it."

Another deep thrust, and a broken moan escaped you.

"So fuckin' perfect," he groaned,, his lips brushing against your sensitive neck. "You feel so fuckin' perfect around me."

His rhythm began to falter, becoming more erratic, more desperate. His breathing was ragged, harsh pants against your ear.

"You have all of me'," he confessed, the words a ragged, raw whisper. "All of me. Always have."

He answered your silent pleas, driving into you harder, deeper, a punishing rhythm that was both a claiming and a confession. The force of his thrusts pushed you up the bed, your back arching as you met him stroke for stroke, your bodies moving in a brutal, perfect harmony.

"More," you begged, your voice a raw, ragged plea. "Fuck me harder, Dom. Give me everything."

"Such a dirty mouth. Say it again. Tell me what you want."

"I want your cock," you sobbed, the words a desperate, shameless confession. "I want you to fuck me until I can't remember anything."

He did exactly that, fucking you with a ferocity that bordered on violence, a raw, primal possession that was both terrifying and exhilarating. It wasn't hate—it was the opposite. It was an all-consuming love, a desperate need to claim you, to mark you as his, to erase every trace of the man who had hurt you and replace it with himself.

"I love you," you sobbed, the words a ragged, breathless chant. "I love you, Dom. I love you so much."

He was driving into you harder, deeper, a desperate rhythm that was both an answer and a question.

"I love you," he snarled back. "Love you so much it fuckin' hurts. You're the only fuckin' thing that's ever been real."

With another grunt of effort, he grabbed a pillow and shoved it under your hips, tilting you up, changing the angle. The new position was devastating, allowing him to sink deeper, to hit a spot so deep inside you that it made your entire body tremble.

You lost it. Completely. The sounds you made were no longer words, just a series of high, desperate whimpers and incoherent moans. Your pussy was so sensitive, so oversaturated with pleasure, that every thrust was a fresh, overwhelming wave of sensation. Your hands flew to his ass, pulling him deeper, begging for more without a single word.

His hot, ragged breath fanned across your face, mingling with your own. The sweat from his brow dripped onto your skin, a salty, intimate proof of his exertion. Your nails dug into the firm muscles of his back, leaving red crescent moons in their wake.

"Such a dirty girl," he panted, his voice a deep, predatory rumble. "Markin' me up like this. Wanna show everyone who I belong to?"

"Always been yours," you sobbed, your hips bucking to meet his thrusts. "From the moment I knew what it was to want someone, I wanted you."

"Gonna fill this perfect pussy," his words a brutal, possessive promise. "Gonna make you mine in every way possible. Gonna fuckin' ruin you for anyone else."

His body was trembling against yours.

"Fuck," he whimpered. "This little pussy... The way it tightens around me... it's tryin' to milk me dry."

His movements became more erratic, more desperate, a frantic search for release that he was clearly trying to hold back.

"Gonna... gonna make me lose it. Don't know how much longer I can last."

"Then don't," you begged, your nails digging into his shoulders, pulling him deeper. "Don't hold back, Dom. I want it all. I want you to lose control. I want to feel you cum inside me."

You couldn't stop the moans that fell from your lips. And he seemed to feed on your sounds, to draw strength from them. He shifted, cradling your body with his, a protective, possessive cage that made you feel both small and utterly cherished. His lips found yours, capturing your moans, swallowing them down with a hungry, demanding kiss.

"Yeah, love," he growled against your mouth, his voice a deep, predatory rumble that made your entire body tremble. "That's it. Let me hear you. Let me hear how much you love this cock."

His words were a catalyst, pushing you higher, closer to the edge. You were absolutely insane, lost in a haze of pleasure and desire, a willing victim to the devastating power of this man.

He felt it. The subtle shift in your body, the way your moans took on a different, more desperate quality, the slight tremor of your thighs as they struggled to hold him. He was so attuned to you, so in tune with every twitch and gasp, that he knew you were reaching your limit.

With a final, deep thrust that made you cry out, he stopped. He didn't pull out completely, just stilled inside you, a solid, comforting presence that allowed you a moment to breathe, to process the overwhelming sensations that had been threatening to consume you.

Then, with a gentleness that was both surprising and incredibly arousing, he withdrew, sliding down your body until he was settled between your thighs again.

You answered by spreading your legs wider, a blatant, shameless invitation.

He lowered his head, and instead of the assault from before, he started with small, delicate licks, a teasing, tantalizing exploration that made your toes curl.

Then he slipped two fingers inside you, a slow, deliberate slide that made you gasp. He looked up at you, his gaze unwavering, as he began to fuck you with his fingers, a steady, insistent rhythm that was both maddening and perfect.

"Watch me," he commanded, his voice a low, authoritative growl. "Watch what you do to me."

You couldn't look away. You were completely captivated by the sight of this man, this rock god, his face buried between your thighs, his fingers disappearing inside you, all while his intense, possessive gaze held yours captive. It was the most intimate, most erotic thing you had ever experienced.

He increased the pressure, his tongue swirling around your clit with a renewed urgency as he fucked you harder with his fingers. The combination was devastating, a perfect storm of pleasure that had you trembling uncontrollably.

"Dom," you gasped, your hands fisting in the sheets, your knuckles white.

"That's it," he encouraged, his voice a deep, soothing rumble that was at odds with the overwhelming pleasure he was inflicting. "That's my girl."

He nibbled at your inner thigh, a sharp, possessive bite that made you cry out, a mix of pain and pleasure that sent a fresh jolt of arousal through you.

"You ready for me again, darlin'?" he asked, his voice a deep, rasping whisper against your sensitive skin. "Ready to take my cock again?"

You couldn't speak, could only nod, a frantic, desperate gesture that made him smile.

"I'm yours," you whispered, the words a raw, ragged confession that seemed to echo in the quiet room.

"Say it again," he begged, his voice a desperate, broken whisper.

"I'm yours," you repeated, your voice a little stronger this time. "Always have been."

He moved over you then, positioning himself between your thighs. The intensity, the raw, primal energy from before was still there, but it was tempered now with a newfound tenderness, a reverence that made your heart ache.

He entered you slowly, a smooth, deliberate slide that was both a claiming and a confession. There was no rush, no desperation, just a slow, deep joining that felt like coming home.

"You're mine," he murmured against your lips, his voice a soft, possessive rumble. "And I'm yours."

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, his voice a soft, reverent whisper against your skin. "Keep lookin' at me," he pleaded. "Wanna see you when I'm inside you. Wanna see everythin'."

It wasn't just sex anymore; it was a desperate, frantic attempt to merge, to obliterate the space between two souls that had been starved for each other for far too long. You were fucking each other's brains out, but it was more than that—it was a desperate, obsessive search for a connection so profound it bordered on madness. Your nails were claws, his hands were vices, your sounds were raw, primal things that spoke of a hunger so deep, so all-consuming.

Your moans grew louder. They were no longer contained, no longer shy; they were a raw, unfiltered expression of your pleasure, a desperate plea for more.

"Yeah, love?" he growled, his voice a deep, predatory rumble against your ear.

With a choked sob, you grabbed his hand, guiding it down between your bodies, your movements clumsy with need. "Please," you begged. "Rub my clit. I wanna... I wanna cum on your cock."

His response was a low, guttural moan against your neck. "Yeah, darlin'? Right here?" His thumb found your clit, a slow circle that made your entire body tremble. "This the spot? This where you need me?"

"That's it," you gasped, your hips bucking to meet his touch. "Right there. Don't you dare stop."

"Wanna feel this tight little pussy cum all over my cock."

"Talk to me," you begged, your nails digging into his back. "Tell me how much you want this."

"Want this more than I've ever wanted anythin'," he panted, the words a breathless confession. "Wanna live in this perfect, wet heat. Wanna fuck you so good you forget any other cock ever existed."

"Only you," you sobbed, your hips grinding against him. "Only ever you."

"Gonna ruin you for anyone else. Gonna fill you up so full you'll be leakin' me for days."

His face was a beautiful, fucked-out mess. His lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed a deep, rosy red, and his eyes were heavy-lidded, dark with a desperate, unfiltered need. He was barely coherent, his words a jumbled, desperate mess.

"Can't... can't last," he panted, the words a ragged, breathless confession. "You're... fuck... you're gonna make me cum, sweetheart."

"Then do it," you begged, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Cum for me, Dom. I want to feel it."

"Wanna feel you too," he gasped, his hips bucking erratically. "Wanna feel this tight little pussy cum all over my cock."

"I'm so close," you sobbed, your body trembling with the effort of holding back, of prolonging this perfect, devastating pleasure. "Just... just a little more."

"Gonna fill you up," he snarled, the words a brutal, possessive promise.

"Yours," you cried, your back arching off the bed. "I'm yours, Dom. Always."

"Talkin' absolute shite," he panted, his rhythm becoming sloppy, desperate. "Completely lost my fuckin' mind in this perfect cunt."

Your hands flew from his back to your own breasts, squeezing the sensitive flesh, pulling at your nipples. "And I'm gonna die if I don't cum," you whined, a high, desperate sound. "Please, Dom, I'm so swollen and achy for it."

His eyes, glazed and wild, locked onto your hands on your own body. "Jesus Christ," he groaned, the sight pushing him closer to the edge. "Playin' with your tits while I'm fuckin' you? Such a dirty little minx." His hips slammed into you, the wet, obscene slap of skin on skin echoing in the room.

"Look at this fuckin' mess," he growled, his gaze dropping to where you were joined, watching his cock, slick and shiny with your arousal, disappearing into you again and again. "Look what you're doin' to me. Look what you've made of me."

A choked, hysterical laugh escaped you, half sob, half bliss. "Look what you've made of me," you shot back, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly deeper. " All because of you."

"Gonna... gonna breed you," Dom said, the words a primal, caveman grunt.

The shocking, possessive declaration sent a bolt of pure electricity through you. "Yes," you screamed, your nails raking down his back.

His filthy promise sent a thrill through you so potent it made your teeth ache. This was the raw, unfiltered Dom you'd only ever seen in fevered dreams, and he was here, saying the most depraved, perfect things.

"Fill me up then," you taunted, your legs locking around him, your hips grinding to meet each thrust. "Make it so I can't walk. So every time I move, I feel you dripping out of me, reminding me who I belong to."

His other hand came up to cup your breast, kneading the soft flesh. "And these tits... fuck. Watched 'em get bigger, and it nearly killed me. Wanted to put me mouth on 'em then. Wanted to bite these perfect little nipples."

His raw, explicit confessions sent a fresh, intoxicating wave of arousal through you. This was the secret, filthy history you'd only ever dared to dream of.

"More," you gasped, your nails digging into his biceps. "Tell me more, Dom. Tell me everything."

A dark, almost feral light glinted in his eyes. His hips slowed, grinding into you with maddening pressure.

"Everything?" he growled, his voice a low, predatory rumble. "You want to know how many times I wanked myself raw thinkin' about this exact cunt? About this perfect, tight little hole?"

The crudity of his words was a devastating aphrodisiac. You could only whimper, arching your back, a silent, desperate plea for him to continue.

"On the tour bus," he confessed, his voice dropping to a husky, shameless whisper. "In hotel bathrooms all over the world. I'd pull up that one photo you posted on Instagram, the one in the black dress... the one that showed off every fuckin' curve." His thumb brushed over your nipple, a slow, deliberate circle that made you gasp. "I'd imagine peelin' it off you, imaginin' you spread out for me, beggin' for it. Would make meself cum so hard I'd see stars, and then I'd hate meself for it 'cause I knew I should've been there, doin' it for real."

His confession was a gut punch, a revelation so raw and honest it stole your breath. The thought of him, alone in some sterile hotel room, thinking of you...

"Tell me you imagined me touching myself to you," you begged, your voice a ragged, breathy plea. "Tell me you imagined me thinking about you while I did it."

A choked, desperate sound tore from his throat. "Every. Single. Night," I'd imagine you in that little bedroom of yours, with your hand between these perfect thighs, and I'd lose my fuckin' mind. Wanted to be the one makin' you cum. Wanted to be the one tastin' it."

His pace stuttered, a choked gasp escaping him. He was breathing hard, his chest heaving, and for a moment, you thought you'd gone too far, that you'd shattered the last fragile remnants of his control.

"I was in some shite hotel in Germany," he continued, his eyes darkening with the memory. "The lads were all in the next room, gettin' pissed, makin' a racket. And I was in there, with me phone in one hand and me cock in the other, watchin' that fuckin' video of yours on a loop."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. "I came so hard I hit the headboard," he confessed, the words a raw, filthy whisper that made your entire body convulse. "And then... then I did it again. And again. 'Til I was raw and aching and my balls were fuckin' empty. All while thinkin' about you. About this perfect body, this perfect cunt."

The thought of him, so desperate for you, so completely obsessed... it was the most intoxicating thing you had ever heard.

"You're sick," you gasped, your nails digging into his back, a smile playing on your lips.

"And you're fuckin' heaven," he snarled in response, his hips slamming into you with a renewed, brutal force. "And I'm never lettin' you go."

"You're mine," you sobbed, your back arching off the bed. "I'm yours, Dom. Always."

"Show me," he demanded, his voice a deep, authoritative growl that made your entire body tremble. "Show me how you touched that pretty little pussy for me."

With a shaking hand, you reached down between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen. You started to rub slow, deliberate circles, mimicking the rhythm you'd used so many times, alone in your room, fantasizing about this exact moment.

You did as he asked, your fingers slowing, your touch becoming feather-light, a maddening tease that made your own breath catch. You could feel him getting harder inside you,and that made your entire body clench in response.

"Show me," he demanded, his voice a deep, authoritative growl. "Show me how you'd make yourself cum for me."

His hips began to buck, a frantic movement that told you you were pushing him to the very edge.

Dom roared, a raw, primal sound that ripped from his very soul. "Jesus fuckin' Christ," he was almost incoherent. He grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away from your pussy, replacing your fingers with his own, a rough, demanding touch that sent you spiraling.

"That's it," he panted, his voice a deep, authoritative growl. "Take it. Take all of it. This is what you wanted, isn't it? This is what you've been fantasizing about?"

You could only nod, your body a vessel for the raw, unfiltered pleasure that was consuming you. You were so close, so dangerously close to the edge.

"Cum for me," he commanded, his voice a deep, authoritative growl. "Cum for me now, sweetheart."

The command was your undoing. Your entire body bowed, a scream tearing from your throat as wave after wave of pleasure crashed over you. Dom collapsed onto you, his body a heavy, sweat-slicked weight that felt like the most perfect anchor in the world. His harsh, ragged breaths turned into deep, shuddering gasps as he finally found his own release, a guttural roar muffled against your neck as his seed filled you. The act left you both trembling. He didn't move for a long time, his arms tightening around you, crushing you to his chest as if he could weld your broken pieces back together with the force of his presence.

When the frantic pounding of your hearts finally began to subside, he lifted his head, his dark eyes, heavy-lidded and blurred with raw emotion, meeting yours. His voice, usually a rasp of restless energy, was a soft, devotional murmur.

"Mine," he breathed, the word a confession, a prayer, and a permanent claim. "You're fuckin' mine, darlin'. And I'm never lettin' you go. Never again."

You didn't need to ask for reassurance; it was in the fierce grip of his arms, in the honesty that had finally cracked through the rock star facade, in the undeniable, aching truth that lay deep inside you. The fear was gone. The shame was a distant, insignificant memory. All that remained was him solid, present, and utterly devoted.

You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, then trailing down to his swollen lips, the ones that had just devoured you and confessed a lifetime of devotion. A genuine, unguarded smile, one that reached your eyes for the first time in a year, finally graced your face.

"Good," you whispered, your voice husky, raw with the aftermath of your climax. "Because I'm not going anywhere, Dom. Not this time. And neither are you."

He lowered his head, pressing a soft kiss to your temple, then your nose, then finally, a tender, healing brush of his lips against yours. It was a promise, sealed with the quiet, devastating certainty of two people who had finally, agonizingly found their way home. He shifted, pulling the duvet over your tangled bodies, then settling you securely in the crook of his arm, your head resting on his chest, where the furious beat of his heart was now a steady, calming rhythm.

"Rest, love," he murmured, his fingers threading possessively through your damp hair. "We got all the damn time in the world."

Dom’s house isn’t a house; it’s an insult to architecture.

Tucked behind a pretentious gated lane in North London, it sits like it doesn't give a fuck who’s watching.

Three stories of black steel and stark brick. Massive glass expanses that let the outside bleed in. You can see the sky through the ceiling in the living room—literally. A skylight the size of your car stretches above the couch like it was built for stargazing and songwriting at 3 a.m., which, knowing Dom, it probably was.

The air in here is a constant blend between stale smoke, and the faint, expensive scent of a cologne you can never quite place. The floors are polished concrete that echo your footsteps, but somehow, it still feels warm, lived-in.

Not in the "socks on the floor" way—though yeah, there’s that too—but in the way that every room holds a piece of him. A pile of vinyl near the speakers. A mug with lipstick marks that definitely aren’t yours. A guitar left sideways on the stairs.

And yet, when you’re here, it never feels like you’re trespassing. It feels like home, sometimes more than your own place does.

He’s somewhere behind you, rustling through drawers, swearing at himself.

“Fuuuck’s sake, where’s my eyeliner?”

You smile, not moving. You’re curled on the corner of his couch—a sunken, cloud-soft thing big enough to seat six but usually just holding the two of you, limbs tangled in whatever way feels natural. Your phone’s in your hand, but you haven’t looked at it in ten minutes. You’ve just been watching him.

He finally emerges—shirtless, damp hair sticking to his temples, his tattoos liquid against the bare skin of his chest and arms. His jeans hang loose on his hips. There’s a small, faint scar on his rib you’ve always meant to ask about.

“I told you it was in the bathroom,” you say, the observation soft.

Dom freezes in the doorway, holding the missing eyeliner like it personally betrayed him. Then he grins, wide and crooked.

“You’re such a fuckin’ angel. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You shrug, but your cheeks warm anyway. It’s always like this—compliments tossed off like confetti. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.

He comes closer, holding a tiny palette and a brush like implements for surgery in front of the blacked-out TV. He catches his reflection, clicks his tongue, and sighs.

“Nah, fuck this. Babe, you gotta do it. I can’t get the bloody angle.”

You raise an eyebrow, challenging him. He tilts his head.

“Come on. You’re better at it anyway. Got those steady hands. And you’re nice to look at while you do it.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already getting up.

As you move closer, Dom plops down onto the couch, legs spread carelessly, grinning up at you like this is all just a game.

“I need to get close,” you say, holding out your hand for the brush.

“Please do.”

You straddle him.

It’s the easiest thing in the world. It’s also the most volcanic. Almost dangerous.

Your knees sink into the couch on either side of him, denim pressing against his thighs. You settle in slow, the way you always do—cautious, careful not to show how much it gets to you, how your chest tightens when he exhales close to your skin.

His hands don’t hesitate. They slide up your sides, settling on your waist, thumbs immediately starting that slow, idle trace against your skin. Like they belong there.

You unscrew the cap of his eyeliner like your life depends on it.

“You know,” he says softly, his voice vibrating through your core, “You’re gorgeous. Like… really fuckin’ gorgeous. I hope you know that.”

You look at him.

He says it like it’s a fact. Like the weather. Like gravity.

You swallow.

“Don’t blink,” you say, voice low and utterly steady.

He obeys, but he keeps watching you—his eyes following your face as you work, lashes fluttering when your fingers graze his cheekbones, his jaw. You are too aware of every breath, every shift of his hands, every heartbeat. Yours.

When you finish, you lean back slightly, admiring your work.

“You look amazing.”

“I am pretty,” he smirks. “Thanks to you.”

You start to move off, but he tugs you back down, a firm possessive grip.

“Wait,” he murmurs. “Just… gimme a sec.”

His arms wrap around you, full-body. His face is pressed into your shoulder, sighing like he’s finally anchored after a long, tedious day.

You breathe in—cologne, a bit of sweat, that faint trace of weed he probably lit in the bath.

“I like it when you sit on me,” he mumbles into your collarbone.

“Shut up,” you laugh, breathless.

But your heart’s not laughing. It’s pounding so loud you’re sure he can hear the sheer, reckless audacity of the moment.

You stay like that too long. Maybe just long enough.

When he finally shifts, it’s slow. He slumps down, head sliding into your lap like it’s instinct. You brush his hair with your fingers, barely thinking.

“Put on a movie,” he says. “Can’t be arsed to go yet.”

He finds your hand, starts playing with your fingers. Twisting rings. Tracing the lines of your tattoos.

“These match mine,” he says, eyes half-lidded.

“I had them first.”

“Liar.”

He kisses your knuckle absentmindedly. Like it doesn't mean anything.

Like it means everything.

You’ve known Dom for years now. Long enough that your memory of life before he filled it with noise and chaos is faint, almost forgotten.

It started simply. A studio meet. A friend of Victor, though you can’t even remember who made the introduction—just that he stuck, like gum on the bottom of your best shoe. Loud. Impossible. But bright. Alive.

Now, he's just... there. Present into every corner of your life.

He texts you before shows, FaceTimes you from hotel rooms in Tokyo at 3 a.m. because he “misses your silly face.” You’ve spent entire weekends at his black-brick statement of a house doing absolutely nothing—just watching movies, ordering atrocious amounts of food, and staying in your pajamas until 4 p.m.

It’s not dating. You’ve drilled that fact into your own skull. It’s not a thing. It’s just... Dom.

But it is physical. It always has been.

He is always touching you. Draping himself across your lap like a giant, tattooed cat. Throwing his heavy arm around your shoulders when you walk down the street, pulling you into his side like he’s afraid you’ll float away.

You’ve shared beds a hundred times. Too many afterparties that ended with both of you too tired or too drunk to Uber home. He’ll curl up behind you, arm flung across your waist, murmuring stupid, sleepy things into the back of your neck like, “You smell like strawberry gum. That’s cute as fuck.”

You always tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That he'd do it to anyone.

And then he does something like this—lying across your lap, half-lidded, his thumb tracing the sharp curve of your collarbone as he plays with your fingers.

His touch is constant. Seems innocent. Thoughtless.

But it never feels thoughtless to you.

“Remember that time in Manchester,” he says suddenly, eyes still closed, “when that drunk bloke thought we were married?”

You smile at the memory. “He tried to buy us a round of celebratory champagne.”

“And then you kissed my cheek,” Dom grins, opening his eyes just enough to catch yours, “to sell the lie.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice catching. “Had to commit to the bit.”

He glances up, studying your face. You lean in and kiss his cheek, your lips full and soft. He kisses your cheek back. Like a back and forth game between siblings.

You roll your eyes and pretend you’re not blushing now. You remember that night in excruciating detail.

“Whatever,” you say, brushing his fringe back from his eyes.

But he catches your wrist and holds it. His grip is surprisingly firm.

“Hey,” he says, voice dropping lower now.

You meet his gaze, waiting.

“You’re really special to me, yeah?”

You nod. Because you are. Because he is. Because you’ve built this precarious, illogical thing together, and you’re absolutely terrified that naming it would shatter it completely.

“I mean it,” he adds, his voice gentler, heavier with meaning. “You’re like… my person.”

You smile. But it’s tight. Fragile. It’s all the air you can manage to let out. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it?

You’re his, but not really.

He’s yours, but not enough.

And right now, he’s lying in your lap, staring up at you like he can’t imagine a life without you.

But he’ll still flirt with someone else tonight. He always does.

The movie is some old cult horror flick he loves—too much blood, not enough plot. But you aren't really watching.

You’re too aware of everything else.

Dom’s lying across the couch, his head heavy in your lap again, his long body stretched out with his feet propped high on the opposite armrest. He is a warm, heavy weight against you, and one hand rests flat on your bare thigh, his thumb drawing slow, casual circles over your skin.

It’s nothing. He’s always like this. He’s always touching you. But tonight, for some reason, your body is refusing to play along. It’s reacting like he’s doing it on purpose.

Your skin prickles under his light contact. Your diaphragm is locked tight. Worse, the thin fabric of your shirt does nothing to hide the sudden, sharp awareness of your nipples hardening. It’s not the room; the air is warm. It’s just him. It’s always been him.

You shift slightly, trying to angle your body away, but his head only sinks deeper into your lap, a sigh escaping him like he belongs there.

“Comfy?” you ask, your voice thinner and higher than you intended.

“Mmm,” he hums, the sound vibrating against your stomach. “You make the best pillow.”

He nudges his head into your side a little more, settling deeper, and a small, involuntary sound catches in your throat. You freeze, praying he mistook it for a sigh. His fingers tap out a familiar rhythm on your thigh. Your pulse is running wild beneath your ribs.

You glance down. He has that soft, completely relaxed look on his face. His eyes are half-shut, lashes fanned against his cheek. That lazy, untouchable smirk plays on his lips like the world couldn’t possibly bother him.

He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing.

“Oi,” he murmurs, eyes finally flicking up to meet yours. “Y’alright?”

You nod quickly, forcing a casual ease.

“Yeah. Just… tired.”

You’re not tired. You’re a liar. You’re hyper-alert, every nerve ending alive with the knowledge of his heat and the impossible, frustrating proximity. You think, How easily his hand could drift just a few inches higher.

But he doesn’t. He never does. Because he doesn’t see you that way—and that fact is a physical ache.

You hate the way your body betrays you, making you feel like a breathless schoolgirl with a hopeless crush. But you are hopeless. Hopeless and head over heels for your best friend, the idiot who just curled into your lap and sighed like you’re his favorite pillow, and is now watching a movie like this is just any other night.

You try to focus on the screen. On the terrible acting. On anything but the heavy, warm weight pressed against you.

Then you feel his fingers squeeze your thigh gently, a small, sleepy movement, and he mumbles,

“You’re warm. S’nice.”

Your eyes sting with unspent emotion. Your body aches with wanting. And you smile, letting the expression settle like a heavy mask, pretending nothing is wrong.

You don't know how long you lie there—him stretched across you, half-watching the violence on screen, half-idly playing with the hem of your shorts like it’s just another Tuesday. But your body refuses to let you sink back into the comfort you used to find in his proximity.

The relentless heat inside you is a fever. You feel the blush creep down your throat and flush your collarbone, the insistent ache in your thighs, the sharp, undeniable pressure of your hardened nipples against the soft fabric of your shirt.

You try to ignore it. Try to pretend this agonizing physical reaction isn't happening. That your heart isn't thudding a warning rhythm every time his casual breath grazes your skin.

But then, his gaze shifts.

He tilts his head up lazily, his attention drifting from the screen to your face. His eyes are hazy with relaxation, but as they sweep down—they stop.

Just for a breathless fucking second.

You see it: the stillness. The slight, animal flicker of attention. The way his eyes land on your chest, an involuntary drop of focus, before he blinks once, hard, and looks back up to your face, suddenly very awake.

He doesn't say a single thing. He doesn't have to.

You feel the heat intensify, the awareness between you thickening. His lips part just a fraction. His grip on your thigh tightens. Bit too much to be the casual drum of his fingers from before.

Your body screams at you to stay, to lean down, to finally, finally see where this impossible moment leads.

But your heart stumbles. You panic.

You lurch upward, a sudden, sharp movement, and his head slips from your lap with a surprised grunt. You stand over him like you’ve been scalded.

“Right,” you blurt out quickly, fussing with the waistband of your jeans. “We should get ready. Party. We don’t want to be late, Dom.”

Dom blinks up at you from the couch, a little disoriented by the abrupt motion. “You good?”

“Yeah. Fine. Totally fine.”

You are absolutely not fine.

But you don’t give him a chance to ask again, to examine your flushed face or the desperate speed of your retreat. You're already halfway to your purse, grabbing your leather jacket, pretending your hands aren't shaking.

Behind you, he sits up slowly, the cushions sighing with his movement. You don't dare look back to see the confusion settle on his face—the slight crease in his brow, the way his eyes, now wide open, follow your frantic retreat for a second too long.

He hasn't spoken the realization aloud, but for the first time, you both know that whatever this is, it’s not casual anymore.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

The bar’s already packed by the time you get there.

It’s not a normal night out. It never is with Dom. Someone he knows is throwing it, someone with a rooftop space in Shoreditch that’s more photo op than venue.

There are neon signs in the bathroom mirrors, paintings taped to the walls, and a signature cocktail named after Dom.

Also, people clock him the second he walks in.

Phones come out. Heads turn. You watch it happen like you always do — like a switch flips inside him. Off goes soft Dom, the one who melts into your lap and kisses your knuckles. On comes the show man.

He slips behind the bar without being asked, all grins and inked-up arms and shameless flirting. Of course he does. He thrives in this chaos — lights flashing, music pounding, people crowding in like gravity’s pulling them toward him.

You find a corner of the bar, watching as he whips up drinks like he’s been doing it for years. Tequila gets poured like water. He’s got a towel slung over his shoulder, sleeves pushed up, a cigarette tucked behind one ear.

Girls lean over the bar, shamelessly giggling. One says something that makes him laugh loud, head thrown back. Another points to her cheek — he kisses it without missing a beat.

Then you see it.

A girl — tall, glittery eyeshadow, crop top and mini skirt— asks for something “filthy.”

Dom smirks, leans in close. He mixes the drink like it’s an art form, slow. Then he brings the straw to his lips, takes a slow sip, swishes it around thoughtfully, and spits it back into the glass.

Everyone around the bar howls with delight.

The girl drinks it.

You freeze.

Your stomach flips.

Your mouth is dry.

You know it’s a joke — a Dom kind of joke, the gross-hot kind his fans love — but still, something in your chest caves in.

You want to be the one he spits in drinks for.

Hell, you want to taste him, in every fucking way he doesn’t seem to realize you crave.

You press your thighs together and force a smile. Someone passes you a shot. You throw it back without asking what it is.

Dom catches your eye across the bar.

He winks.

You look away.

Because if you look too long, he might see it — the jealousy, the ache, the fact that you’re dying a little every time he gives away a part of himself to someone else.

You wish you could walk up to that bar, lean over, and say “spit in mine”. You wish he’d lean in close and really look at you — not like his best friend, but like someone he wants.

But instead, you just watch like a stupid bystander. And wish.

Another hour bleeds by, a relentless loop of basslines and muffled conversations.

You’re still tucked against the edge of the bar, your smile stiff and barely functioning, the drink untouched in your hand. Your eyes keep snapping back to him like they’re tied with a leash—short, tight, and impossible to sever.

Dom is still behind the counter, all sweaty, intoxicating charm and dirty, casual banter. He is radiant. He’s drinking deep from the attention, and feeding it back tenfold. People slip cash into the waistband of his jeans — sloppy, drunk, adoring — and he doesn’t stop them. Doesn’t even flinch. Just throws his head back and laughs, letting it happen.

His pants ride lower with every bill, until the sharp V of his hips is on full display. Until the dark, damp line of his pubes peeks up over the denim, like he doesn’t care who sees.

You’ve almost managed to mentally check out—until you notice another girl getting close. The groupie. You know the type: sharp angles, designer outfit, a look of proprietorship that makes your teeth ache. She doesn’t just walk up to the bar; she slides up to it, claiming the space in front of him like she already owns it. Like she owns him.

And Dom lights up. His entire demeanor shifts—it’s a different kind of excitement, like she’s the first genuinely interesting challenge he’s encountered all night.

You freeze mid-sip of air.

He leans across the sticky counter to talk to her, so close that her sleek hair brushes his cheek. She laughs—a forced, breathless sound—swats his arm playfully, and leans in further. He whispers something else, and she clutches her chest dramatically, as if he’s just delivered the most indecent secret she’s ever heard.

You can’t hear the words. But you see the look he gives her. It’s hungry, playful, and utterly electric. It’s that stupid, anticipatory grin he gets right before he crosses a public line, knowing perfectly well that he’ll get away with it because he's Dom.

She holds out her tongue, a dare.

And Dom—the man who was just resting in your lap, who felt safe, who made you feel like his person just hours ago—leans in, pours a thin line of salt across the exposed bone of her collarbone, and licks it slow.

You don’t breathe.

He bites the lime slice from her mouth, pulling back with a wicked flash of teeth.

You burn.

Your vision blurs, hot pulse behind your eyes. The chaos of the room—the laughter, the music, the clinking of bottles—all muffles into a distant, dull roar. This isn't a joke. This is a damn deliberate act of intimacy that he refuses to give you in private.

You set your drink down slowly, carefully.

And you walk.

Not fast, not shouting, but with a stiff, measured pace that feels impossibly loud in the dead silence of your own head. You don't allow yourself to look back, because if you did, you would shatter.

But Dom does.

You don’t see him notice the empty corner where you were standing seconds ago. You don't see his brow furrow suddenly, his head turning and scanning the room as if something solid just snapped inside his chest.

His smile fades, just a flicker of confusion crossing now his face.

Something vital shifts in him.

But you’re already gone.

Victor doesn’t ask questions when you find him outside the venue, smoke curling from his lips, leaned against his car as usual.

He just opens the door when you choke out, “Can you take me to Dom’s?” and nods like he’s seen this exact disaster before. Maybe he has.

You slide into the passenger seat, blinking fast, fighting the tremor in your jaw. You’re not going to cry. Not here. Not in front of someone who knows Dom, who’s probably watched him flirt with a hundred girls like that and take some of them home.

But the second the door shuts and the world is silenced behind the tinted glass, your hands start to shake.

Victor drives. Silent. Music low. London blurring outside the windows like it’s underwater, indistinct and rushing away.

You press your forehead to the cold pane of glass, seeking a physical anchor.

And the tears start.

Quiet at first—just hot streaks down your cheeks, soaking into your collar. You wipe them away before they can fall too far, but they keep coming, pulling soft, broken sobs that you try to bury behind your knuckles. It's not just the pain; it’s the sickening contradiction.

He made you feel like you were someone special to him—and then turned around and committed casual profanity with someone else. Yeah, she was pretty, probably prettier than you.

But you hated what she did. The spit. The lime. The sheer, casual filth. It made your stomach twist with revulsion.

But you ached watching it.

You wanted it.

The man. His mouth. His tongue. That raw, unfiltered focus he gives away so easily to strangers but has always held back from you.

And what kills you the most is knowing you would never let anyone do that to you. Not unless it was him.

Your thighs press together involuntarily, the hot, guilty shame blooming in your chest.

You feel disgusting. Humiliated. And so goddamn alone.

Victor clears his throat gently. “You good?”

You manage a shaky nod. A lie. “Just wanna grab my stuff.

He doesn’t push.

Dom’s villa appears out of the dark like a ghost—tall, lit in soft gold from within. One light is still on in the living room. Your stomach churns at the sight of it. You wipe your face, fix your hair in the mirror, attempting to erase the evidence that you’ve just cried your whole soul out.

Victor parks and kills the engine.

“You want me to wait?”

“No,” you whisper, the word thin and brittle. “Thanks though, Victor.”

He held your hand for a moment. He knows you’ re hurting. You don’t say anything — you can’t bring yourself to.

You step out and shut the door behind you.

The walk up the drive feels longer than it ever has.

All you know is that you need to reclaim your things. And maybe—just maybe—by leaving this house, you can finally take back the piece of yourself that still belongs to him.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

The key’s cold in your hand as you slide it into the lock. You’ve done this a hundred times before, but tonight it feels like trespassing.

The door opens into a low golden light—the kind he always leaves on when he’s out late, the phantom signal that someone might be coming home. The familiar scent rushes out to meet you, thick and immediate: vanilla, the lingering weed that never fully clears the air, and his sharp, citrusy shampoo that always clings to your stolen shirts.

You step inside and shut the door. Your legs go soft before you get past the front hall. Your knees buckle, and you sink straight to the hardwood, back pressed against the cool wall. The sob breaks out of your chest before you can even try to stop it.

It is violently ugly.

You sob like something vital has been ripped out of you, like something inside you has finally, irreversibly died. Tears come hot and fast. You don’t wipe them, burying your hands in your face as your shoulders shake and the shame floods in—wet, crushung snd unforgiving.

You sit in that desolate wreck of yourself until the door opens again behind you.

He’s home.

Dom’s heavy boots hit the threshold and stop dead.

“…What the fuck?”

You don’t look up. You keep your head buried in your arms.

His voice slices through the quiet, sharp with confusion and alarm.

“Are you—are you cryin’? What the hell is this?”

He drops his keys. They hit the console table with a loud, metallic clatter.

He takes a step toward you, then another, and suddenly he’s towering over you all inked skin, rumpled black denim, and the smell of beer on his breath.

“What’s goin’ on?” he says again, voice rumbling lower now. “Why’re you on the fuckin’ floor like that?”

You pull yourself up, knees unsteady, breath still catching in painful hiccups.

“I’m just here for my stuff,” you manage. “I’m leavin’.”

“Like hell you are,” he snaps.

Your head jerks up at the aggression in his tone.

He has his hands on his hips, brows heavily furrowed, jaw locked.

“You show up cryin’ your eyes out and expect me to just let you leave? No chance, love. You’re gonna tell me what’s goin’ on.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The fuck it doesn’t—”

“Dom,” you bite, the sound ragged. “Just let it go.”

“I won’t let it go!” His voice spikes—not deafening, but dangerously sharp. “You’ve been actin’ weird all night, and now you’re standin’ in my hallway lookin’ like your whole world’s caved in. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid, I can see you’re bleedin’ out.”

You try to get around him, towards the stairs, towards the bag you left two nights ago, but he steps perfectly in your way.

You try to shove past, and his hand catches your wrist. You tear it away like his skin has burned you.

“Don’t touch me.”

That stops him cold. His face twists like you’ve just physically slapped him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he says, quieter. “Since when can’t I touch you?”

“Since I realised it doesn’t mean a single fucking thing to you.”

He blinks. You see something flash in his eyes—not just confusion, but a hint of guilt, maybe even fear. You can’t tell through the rage.

You laugh, a broken, bitter sound that shouldn't come from your throat.

“Go on,” you mutter, voice cracking. “Go back to your bar. Go back to those girls. You looked perfectly happy there.”

His mouth opens. “This is about the fuckin’ party? That stunt?”

“No. It’s about every fuckin’ party, Dom. Every time.”

His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching near his temple. “Jesus Christ…”

“You think I like watchin’ you with them? Like it’s a fun little game for me?”

“You’re my mate! What d’you expect me to do—pretend I don’t exist when I’m out with my band?”

“I want you to stop actin’ like you don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’ to me!”

That silences him for half a second.

Then his hand slams down on the edge of the hallway table—hard. The metal dish clatters, a glass tumbles and shatters, and his keys fly onto the floor near your feet.

“Fuck’s sake,” he snarls. “You think this is easy for me? You think I’m just out here fuckin’ around while you cry on my floor and treat me like the bad guy?”

“I never said you were the bad guy!”

“You’re lookin’ at me like I am.”

He’s pacing now. Hands in his hair. Breathing ragged.

You step back, wrapping your arms tightly around yourself.

“I’m not tryna make you feel like shit.”

“Too late.”

“Yeah? Well, maybe now you know how it feels.”

He stops. Just stands there, staring at you.

Your whole body is vibrating with leftover adrenaline. Your chest is too tight. Your eyes are too hot. The words are right there—climbing up your throat, clawing at your tongue.

He sees it. He sees you capable to say something that will shatter everything.

“What?” he breathes, a challenge and a plea mixed together. “Go on. Say it.”

You open your mouth.

You’re actually gonna…

He’s still standing there, breathing heavy, fists clenched, like he’s holding back something vital—a scream, maybe. Or tears.

You’re trembling, completely exposed. Neither of you moves.

“I don’t get you,” he spits, his voice low and burning with frustration. “I’m stood here tryin’ to fuckin’ understand, and you won’t give me fuck-all. Nothin’.”

You stare at him, jaw tight, your heart breaking louder with every word that proves he doesn't see.

“I’m not a mind reader, alright?” he snaps, pacing again, his movements agitated. “You show up like this—cryin’, then shoutin’, then actin’ like I’ve gutted you—and I don’t even know why. What the fuck did I do?”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” you mutter, the statement hanging, heavy and cryptic.

He spins on you.

“Don’t gimme that cryptic shite. I’m not in the fuckin’ mood for riddles tonight.”

“You just don’t fuckin’ get it, Dom!”

“Then make me fuckin’ get it!” he yells, his eyes glassy now, the sheer effort of his control failing. “I can’t do this—watch you fall apart and not know what’s goin’ on inside yer head!”

He closes the distance between you before you can react.

“Let me hold you,” he says, his voice gentler now, but still ragged, still begging. “Just for a second. Please.”

You want to say no. Every rational part of your mind screams that you should say no.

But your body moves before your mouth does.

His arms wrap around you—solid, warm, and shaking just like yours. You fold into him purely on instinct, your forehead pressing into the familiar curve of his shoulder. The second you feel his chest under your cheek, the deep, wracking sob rips out of you, like the feeling has been caged all night, waiting only for this contact to escape.

He holds you tighter, crushing you to him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he whispers, his hand cradling the back of your head, pressing your face to his skin. “You’re breakin’ my fuckin’ heart, love.”

You cry harder, soaking his shirt, pouring your pain into the space between you that’s always been too close and yet never close enough.

“I’ve got you,” he says, over and over, a desperate mantra that he seems to need to believe more than you do. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, baby.”

And for a moment—just one blinding, deceptive moment—you let yourself believe it.

You bury yourself in his chest, your fists gripping his shirt, crying like the world is truly ending. Because for your world, this feeling is the finale.

But then your breath catches, caught by a brutal realization.

He’s holding you like a best mate in crisis.

And you want him to hold you like you’re his. Like you are everything he just risked losing.

You shove him away, your hands hard on his chest.

“Don’t.”

He stumbles back, stunned, his expression a wreckage of confusion and hurt. His eyes frantically search your face, trying to locate the new injury he’s caused.

“Don’t fuckin’ hold me like that unless you mean it.”

Dom’s jaw tenses, his earlier rage flickering back to life, challenged by fresh heartbreak.

“I do mean it,” he says, his voice hoarse.

But it’s not enough.

You’re still crying, but now the tears are sharper, colder. It’s a cry laced with years of being almost his.

He watches you, his throat bobbing, and he knows something’s coming now—the final, devastating truth.

You’re sobbing now—not like before. This is different. This is the truth. This is the breakdown that’s been living in your throat for months, finally ripping free and tearing your control to shreds.

Dom’s face is pale, his mouth slightly parted, his eyes flicking between yours like he’s trying to solve a complex equation in real time. But he can’t. He’s lost. Painfully, completely lost.

He reaches for you again—hesitant, almost pleading—and you shove his hand away with a violent flinch.

“Don’t touch me.” Your voice is shredded by the force of the words. “You don’t get to touch me like that,” you snap, trembling from head to toe, "and then look at me like you don’t fucking know what this is.”

“Know what?” he says, stunned, retreating. “I don’t—what are you even saying right now?”

You let out a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob, utterly broken.

“You don’t see it?” you spit. “You don’t see the way I burn for you? You don’t feel how every time you so much as breathe near me, I can’t think straight? You don’t notice how I fucking fall apart when you kiss and fuck other girls and come home to me like I’m safe and I’m yours, but I’m not?”

His eyes go wide, his chest rising and falling in fast, shallow breaths. He’s listening, really listening, for the first time.

“I’m in love with you, Dom,” you cry, your voice gasping for air. “And it hurts. It hurts every second I have to watch you hand yourself out in pieces to strangers while I sit back and swallow it. Every joke. Every kiss. Every night you leave me on the couch to go fuck someone who doesn’t even know you like I do.”

He sways on the spot, his body reacting as though you’ve just hit him hard in the chest.

You keep going. You can’t stop. The need to purge the shame is overwhelming.

“I lie awake in your bed and I touch myself to the sound of your fucking voice when you’re getting off in the next room.”

He stares at you, a statue of shock. Dead silence.

“I press my ear to the fucking door,” you say, your voice dropping to a cracked whisper of pure humiliation, “and I listen to you moan. Like a fucking freak. Like someone who’s never going to be enough to make you sound like that. And then I lie there, trying not to come too loud so you don’t hear what you’re doing to me without even touching me.”

Dom’s breath catches visibly in his throat. He’s seen. He knows.

“I’m disgusting,” you say, the tears streaming freely now. “I’m pathetic. I know that.”

“No—” he tries, finally moving, reaching out.

You step back sharply, putting distance between you like he’s a live wire.

“I said don’t,” you cry. “Don’t try to fix this with that soft voice. Don’t stand there and look at me like you’re sorry when you don’t even fucking know what I’ve done to myself because of you.”

You wipe your face with both hands, smearing the mess of tears and mascara across your skin.

“I ruined this friendship. I know I did. And I knew it the second I opened my mouth. But I can’t un-feel it, Dom. I can’t keep pretending I don’t want you in ways that make me ashamed to fucking exist.”

You finally stop.

The silence is thick, crushing.

Dom’s staring at you like the air has been completely sucked out of his lungs. He’s not crying, but he looks devastated. His eyes are glassy, his jaw trembles, and his hands are slack at his sides as if he doesn't trust them not to shake.

He tries to speak. Nothing comes out.

You feel your heartbeat in your teeth, in your throat, in the tips of your fingers.

Dom doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

He just stands there, like someone’s rewinding every moment you’ve ever shared in his head, searching desperately for the clues he missed.

Then, finally, barely above a whisper

“Is this real?”

You blink, breath hitching painfully.

“What?”

His voice is hoarse. Fragile.

“You’re really—fuckin’ hell—you’re in love with me?”

You don’t answer. You just stare at him, arms tight around your ribs, willing yourself not to collapse again.

He runs both hands through his hair, pacing once, twice, a caged animal.

“For how long?”

You shake your head, laughing bitterly at the absurdity of the question.

“You really wanna know?”

“Yes.”

“Too long.”

His face screws up, the words visibly causing him pain.

He looks at you again—truly looks—and for the first time, he’s seeing it all. The crushing weight you’ve been carrying, the years you’ve burned under the surface.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Because I was scared you’d look at me exactly like you’re looking at me right now.”

He flinches, a quick, involuntary jerk of his head.

You swallow hard.

“Because I thought maybe… if I just stayed close, if I kept being the one who always stayed, maybe that’d be enough. Maybe it’d change something.”

He’s breathing heavy now, like the walls of the apartment are closing in on him.

“I need to… fuck, I don’t know.”

He turns away from you, putting his hand on the back of his neck, his whole body tense with feeling he can’t sort out.

“I need to think,” he says quietly, his voice hollow. “I need to—process this.”

You nod once, a tiny movement that feels like a blade twisting in your chest.

He doesn’t look at you again. Doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t try to comfort you.

He just sits down heavily on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, burying his face in his hands.

You haven’t moved.

You’re still standing by the door, your arms wrapped around yourself, shaking from the inside out.

Then—

“Fucking hell,” he breathes into his palms, the sound muffled and thick.

“I’m such a fucking idiot.”

He stands suddenly, a burst of restless energy. He paces—fast and jagged—like his own skin doesn't fit him anymore.

“Of course you’re in love with me,” he mutters, the disbelief turning to agonizing realization. “Of fucking course you are. And I just—Jesus Christ, I was blind.”

He grabs the stack of vinyl records near the speaker, the ones you used to listen to on repeat, and throws them across the room.

Vinyl cracks and shatters, sleeves splitting open like wounds. The violent crash makes you flinch and pull further into yourself.

Dom’s breathing is ragged, his chest heaving. His eyes are raw.

“I flirted with girls in front of you,” he says, a sound halfway between a choke and a bitter, desperate laugh. “I fucking flirted while you were—while you were in love with me. I fucked them while you were in love with me”

He looks around the room, which suddenly feels too small, like it’s caving in on him.

“How didn’t I see it? What the fuck is wrong with me?”

He kicks the edge of the coffee table with a vicious thud. The lamp tumbles off the side and its base shatters against the hardwood.

You take one involuntary step back, away from the chaos.

Dom turns and looks at you. Just for a split second. And there’s something on his face—devastation, self-hatred, pure panic—that almost makes you drop your guard and reach for him.

Almost.

But you don’t.

Instead, you walk toward the stairs, your feet moving silently across the broken floor. You grab your bag, turn, and head for the door.

“Where are you going?” he says from the center of the living room, his voice strained and quiet.

You don’t answer.

You pull the door open and step into the cool night air.

“Oi,” he says again, his voice cracking now. “Where are you going?!”

Still, you offer nothing.

You step out completely into the hallway.

“Say something!” he shouts, the sound desperate, frantic.

You stop, turning your head just enough so he catches the full, smeared mess of your face in the doorway.

“I already did.”

And then you pull the door shut behind you, the dead silence of the click the loudest sound in the world.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

You’re not expecting the knock.

Not after three weeks of silence.

Three weeks of you learning how to sleep without the echo of his voice in your bones, of you trying to scrape the last residue of his scent off your clothes.

Three weeks of telling yourself he was gone for good.

But when you open the door—

He’s there.

Dom.

He looks like a ghost: hood shadowing his face, jacket rumpled, hair messed up, his eyes wide and burning with a desperate, breathless energy, like he ran the whole way across the city.

He looks wrecked. Completely and utterly undone, as if someone’s been pulling him apart thread by thread.

Your mouth parts, but no sound comes out. You are frozen in the frame of the doorway.

And then he speaks.

“I fucked it.”

One sentence. One brutal, aching heartbeat. And your knees go soft beneath you.

“What—”

“I fucked it,” he says again, his voice raw, his eyes never leaving yours. “I left when I should’ve run to you. I said nothing when I should’ve said everything. I’ve been in the fucking Rotten Apple trying to forget the way you looked when you told me the truth, and I can’t.”

You blink, stunned, unable to process the velocity of his return.

He takes a deliberate step closer, crowding your space.

“You think I didn’t feel it?” he breathes, leaning down. “You think I wasn’t burning too? I was. I just didn’t know what it was until the silence started. Until I lost it.”

“Dom—”

“I’m in love with you.”

The words punch through the air like a physical blow, heavy and undeniable.

“I’ve been in love with you,” he insists. “Longer than I knew. Long before you said it. I just—” He lets out a single, broken laugh, furious at his own stupidity. “I was blind. Fucking reckless. I was so used to havin’ you, I didn’t realise I was in love with you.”

Your throat tightens, the tears threatening to return.

You shake your head slowly, a desperate attempt to protect yourself from this sudden, dangerous hope.

“No,” you whisper. “Don’t do this. Don’t come here now. You had weeks”

“I know,” he says, the single word laced with self-contempt. “And I’ll never forgive myself for it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

He closes the final space between you in three steps.

“Then let me show you.”

And he kisses you. Not soft. Not gentle. It’s a total reclamation.

He takes your mouth like it’s the only way he knows how to speak the apology. Like everything he left unsaid is buried in the way his lips crash into yours, in the desperate pressure of his hands framing your face, holding you like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he doesn’t anchor you to him.

You gasp into him, your body arching and finally giving in. He presses you back into the wall just inside the flat, kicking the door shut behind him with the heel of his boot without ever breaking the contact.

His hands move urgently to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The kiss deepens—hot, hungry, all breath and teeth and the ignition of years of wanting.

He breaks just long enough to breathe the words against your mouth.

“I was stupid.”

Another kiss—rough, desperate, demanding everything.

“I was so fuckin’ stupid.”

His lips trail down to your jaw, your throat. You’re dizzy from the heat of him, from the overwhelming weight of being wanted like this.

“I let you believe you were disgusting,” he groans, pressing his forehead against yours. “When all I’ve ever wanted was you.”

You let out a broken sound—half-sob, half-moan—and he kisses it right off your lips.

“I’m here now,” he murmurs, his voice shaking against your skin. “I’m here. And I’m not leaving again.”

You’re both breathless.

His mouth is still on yours, his chest is still rising fast against you, like he can’t quite believe you’re solid, real, and finally there.

But it’s not the heat that undoes you—

It’s the look on his face when he pulls back just far enough to see you clearly.

You’re crying.

Not the way you cried weeks ago—not sobbing or shaking—but quiet, raw tears sliding down your cheeks, your lip trembling as your fingers dig into his shoulders like you’re terrified he might dissolve or disappear again.

“Hey,” he whispers, his voice cracking from the shock of joy and relief. “No, love, don’t cry!”

You let out a choked laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

Dom wraps his arms around you so tight your breath hitches in your throat.

“I’m here,” he whispers into your hair, the words a rough promise. “I’m here now. I swear to Christ.”

And then—his voice cracks completely.

You feel it in his chest. The deep, broken tremble of it.

He’s crying too.

And he’s smiling.

Smiling, even as his lashes go wet and his nose brushes yours and he breathes you in like you’re the only source of air he’s ever needed.

You feel his body burning under your hands. Everything about him is warm and solid and alive—no longer a ghost you couldn’t touch. You dig your nails into his back, afraid that if you let go he’ll vanish.

He lifts you without warning—arms locked under your thighs, pulling you against him like it’s instinct, like he needs to feel your full weight to believe this is real.

Your legs wrap around his waist. He holds you like he’s never letting go.

And then he starts talking—soft, fast, like the words are coming loose all at once.

“I used to count how many rings you wore on your fingers, every time you’d leave ‘em on the counter. That’s how gone I was. You’d take ‘em off and I’d know where you left ‘em.”

You bury your face in his neck, the confession making you sob harder now, the shame finally washing away in a wave of shared pain.

He goes on, his voice shaking with the weight of years. “I used to fake fall asleep on yer shoulder just so I didn’t have to move. You always smelled like oranges and clean shampoo and I used to think about that smell when I was on fuckin’ tour.”

You kiss the space just beneath his jaw, and he groans, a deep, wounded sound.

“I’ve been in love with you for ages,” he says, pressing you tighter to him. “I just didn’t have the fuckin’ guts to call it what it was.”

You lean back, hands cupping his face, and he’s smiling again through the tears—eyes red, glowing with something that looks like relief and ache and joy all at once.

“I missed you,” you whisper.

“I missed everything about you,” he replies, brushing your tears with his thumb. “Even the way you’re such a mess sometimes.”

You laugh, wet and breathless. He kisses the corner of your mouth.

Then your cheek.

Then your neck.

Then your lips again—slow this time, deep and full, like he’s showing you what every touch has always meant.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth, the words like a physical presence. “I love you, I love you—fuck, I’m never gonna stop sayin’ it.”

And you believe him.

“I love you too, Dom”

He carries you through the flat like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

Your legs wrapped around his waist, your arms tight around his neck, mouths colliding again and again—hot, open-mouthed. He’s stumbling a little, bumping into a wall, laughing into your kiss like he’s never felt joy like this.

He pushes the bedroom door open with his shoulder and lays you down like you are fragile and holy.

He hovers above you for just a second—eyes wide, lips parted, hands braced on either side of your head like he’s terrified this isn’t real.

You cup his face, pulling him down gently.

“I’m here,” you whisper, the final confirmation.

He leans down and kisses you like he’s starving. You moan into it, fingers diving into his hair, pulling him closer until there’s nothing left between you but heat.

His hands find the hem of your shirt and pause.

“Can I—?”

You nod, closing your eyes on the overwhelming rush of emotion.

He pulls it over your head, slow, like he’s unwrapping something sacred. His eyes scan every inch of your exposed skin like he’s finally memorizing the map.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathes.

You pull his own shirt up and off in return, fingers brushing his stomach, his ribs—all warm skin and muscle and ink. He shudders violently under your touch.

“I used to think about this,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low, his hands sliding over your sides. “So many fuckin’ nights. I’d be in bed thinkin’ about what it’d be like to touch you, to kiss you here—”

He presses his lips to the curve of your shoulder, your collarbone, your chest.

You gasp. Arch.

His voice is a plea, a single, soft stroke of your name

“Dom…I —“But your head shakes, a small, fierce denial. “I won’t say it,” you whisper, the air catching in your throat. “You’ll hate me if I say it.”

“I won’t,” he instantly cuts in, his voice raw. “I could never fuckin’ hate you. Tell me.”

You hide your face for a heartbeat, stealing a breath. Then you look up—eyes glazed, throat convulsing with the effort.

“That night at the bar,” you choke out. “When you were working. Flirting. Spitting in her drink like it was nothing —”

His brow instantly knits, jaw seizing tight.

“I—what?”

“You don’t get it,” you snap, the fragile sound cracking. “You were just… doing your thing. All that charm. Making them laugh. That spit, like it was a sexy trick. And all I could think was—”

You stop. Your eyelids press shut, sealing the image in.

He waits, utterly still.

“—all I could think was God, I wish that was me.”

The silence is thick, suffocating.

Your eyes tear open. They’re burning hot.

“I’d never let anyone do that to me. Ever. But you… I wanted it. I wanted it so bad it was a physical sickness. I felt like a fucking freak.”

Your voice is a frantic tremor now, the shame a hot, metallic coil around your ribs.

“I watched you give that to someone else and I—I ached. I wanted to taste it. Taste. You.”

Dom simply stares, his expression unreadable, a slow burn.

And then he moves.

One long, deliberate stride. Slow. Steady.

He cups your jaw—a touch that is both demanding and impossibly gentle—and tilts your face up to his.

“Baby,” he whispers, the sound a low vibration against your skin, “don’t you dare be shy.”

You blink, a tiny, involuntary gasp parting your lips.

“You really wanted that?” he asks, his gaze stripping you bare. “You wanted me like that?”

You manage a single, broken nod.

“I wanted everything,” you whisper, the confession tearing free. “Even the things that made me hate myself for wanting you.”

He lets out a shuddering exhale, the kind of breath a man holds for a lifetime.

“You never have to be ashamed of how you want me. Do you hear me? Never.”

His thumb strokes your jawline, a tiny, mesmerizing friction.

“You’re the only girl I’d ever wanna spit in the mouth of,” he adds, a predator’s smirk playing at the edge of something much deeper, much darker. “And the only one I’d let spit in mine.”

The sudden relief is a sob, a laugh, a shattering sound. You crash into him, your arms locking tight around his chest like he’s the only structure left in the world.

Because in that moment, maybe he is.

“I’d get off,” he says against your skin, "with your name in my mouth.Like a fuckin’ secret I didn’t deserve to say out loud.”

You whimper at that—and it breaks something loose inside you, making you feel desperately reckless.

“I used to imagine your hands,” you confess, voice cracking. “All over me. The way you’d pull your rings off when you got home—I used to wonder what they’d feel like against my bare skin.”

He groans like the truth is physically killing him.

You reach for his hand, taking it without a word. His fingers—calloused and inked, still warm from the recent press against your skin—are a familiar comfort. Slowly, deliberately, you lift it to your mouth. Your lips brush his knuckles first, a touch so light it's less a kiss and more a gentle breath.

Then, parting your mouth, you draw his index finger in. You kiss each fingertip, one after the next, as if each holds a secret or a promise. When you reach the middle finger, marked with the tiny heart, you pause. Your tongue flicks softly over the ink, a fleeting caress, before you close your mouth around the digit, sucking just enough to feel the immediate, sharp twitch in his body. He remains perfectly still, silent, only watching you with a heavy, ragged breath.

You kiss him hard, pulling him back to you, your legs wrapping around him again.

“Every time I touched you like a mate, all I could think about was how much I wanted you like this. Wanted to make you come just from sayin’ your name the right way.”

You whine at the sound of his voice—dark and rough and full of desperate hunger.

“Say it now,” you beg.

“Darlin’.” His voice goes soft. “Love.” Then rough again: “Mine.”

He strips the rest of your clothes like he’s never undressed anyone before—careful, but shaking, too, like it’s all too much.

You return the favour, your hands fumbling at his jeans, your lips brushing every new inch of skin you reveal.

And when you’re both bare, there’s a pause.

Not awkward. Not nervous.

Just still.

Just real.

You’re looking at each other for the first time without anything between you—no fear, no shame, no clothes, no silence.

He leans in, kisses your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

“I’m gonna love you right,” he says, barely a whisper. “Not just tonight. Always.”

Dom slowed, not from hesitation, but because this moment demanded reverence. Rushing would dishonor the sheer, electric gravity of it.

You were lying back against the pillows, flushed, breath coming shallow and quick. He stayed kneeling between your legs, staring at you with an incredulous heat.

He leaned in close to your skin, his hands cradling you with a shattering gentleness that made your eyes sting. His hands moved up, slow like he was giving you time to stop him. But you didn’t.

When his palms cupped your breasts, he let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Full, soft, warm against his hands, he held them like he was learning their shape, his thumbs brushing lazy circles over your nipples until they peaked under his touch.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathed, lips brushing one nipple. “They’re so fuckin’ full.”

Your breath hitched and you let out a moan.

He looked up, his lips grazing your skin as he spoke beneath his lashes.

“Been thinkin’ about these for so long. The way they bounce when you walk. How they’d feel in my hands… in my fuckin’ mouth.”

Then he sucked—slow, deep, tongue circling—and you arched, crying out. He groaned against you, the sound vibrating deep in his own chest, sharing your pleasure.

One hand kneaded the softness of your other breast while his mouth worked the first, kissing, tasting, worshipping, utterly lost in you.

You were already squirming, breathless, whimpering.

He moved up, capturing your mouth in a quick, bruising kiss, then pulled back an inch, his eyes hot and fierce, locked on yours.

“You meant it?” he rasped, voice low and wrecked. “What you said… about my spit?”

You bit your lip and nodded once, sharply.

He grinned—slow, wicked, tender.

“Then open your mouth for me, my love.”

You immediately did. He leaned in close, so close you could feel the shuddering of his breath.

“You’re so hot for me,” he murmured, his voice catching. “I fuckin’ love you.”

Then he spat—hot, slow, right into your waiting mouth—and let out a strangled groan when you swallowed it with a soft, broken moan.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You kissed him hard—teeth and tongue and heat.

“I’m gonna take my time with you,” he promised. “Gonna make you come so many fuckin’ times you forget what it felt like to ache for me.”

He hovered over you, both of you breathless, your lips still swollen from the bruising kiss he just left.

“I need more.”

He growled softly, brushing his thumb over your bottom lip.

“You still want it?”

You nodded, wordless, ruined.

“Say it,” he murmured, his thumb pressing gently against your jaw.

“I want it,” you whispered, voice ragged. “I want you to spit in my mouth again. Dom. Please.”

His breath caught—as though your words had punched the air from his lungs.

He smirked, but it was worshipful now. His eyes were dark, but his hands remained gentle.

“God, you’re perfect.”

He leaned in—so close his lips almost brushed yours—and then spat. You moaned around it, swallowing it down like you were made for nothing else.

His hand curled into your hair, and he let out a full-bodied, helpless moan. And then, he did something you weren’t ready for.

“Your turn,” he whispered. “Spit in mine.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“I want it,” he rasped. “Give it to me. I want your spit in my mouth.”

You stared at him, stunned, until something deep inside you cracked open. He was asking for it. Begging.

You reached for his face, cupping his jaw, eyes locked on his.

“Open, baby” you whispered.

He obeyed instantly—mouth open, tongue out, eyes hungry. You leaned in, heart pounding, and let your spit fall into his mouth, slow, intimate, trembling.

He groaned the moment it hit his tongue, his jaw flexing as he swallowed it down.

“Fuck,” he hissed. “That’s it. That’s what I wanted. That’s what I’ve been fuckin’ dying for.”

You kissed him hard—the shared spit still on both your tongues—and he kissed you back like you were oxygen.

He pressed his forehead to yours, laughing softly—breathless, overwhelmed, happy in a way that felt dangerous.

“I’m not just gonna fuck you,” he promised. “I’m gonna love you with every filthy, fuckin’ inch of me.”

His body was heavy over yours now—hot, wanting. Your skin was burning, flushed and damp, every inch of you begging to be touched, and he could feel it. He felt everything.

“Jesus Christ,” Dom murmured against your jaw, dragging his lips down to your throat. “You’re so fuckin’ hot. You’re burnin’ up for me.”

His hands glided down your ribs, then your waist steady, before gripping your hips like anchors.

He was holding himself back.

When your thighs shifted open beneath him, and his fingers brushed down between your legs…

He froze.

He groaned, jaw dropping against your neck.

“Fuckin’ hell, you’re soaked,” he gasped. “You’re so wet I can feel it on my fuckin’ hand before I’ve even touched you proper.”

You whimpered, grinding up into his palm, and he cursed again, deeper this time.

“Look at what I do to you,” he breathed. “Look how much you need me.”

You reached down, sliding your hand between your bodies, feeling him: his cock, hard and thick, straining against you.

The sound you made was filthy—half-gasp, half-moan. He let you feel him, hips rocking, letting his weight grind into you, and your body arched in response, desperate to be filled.

But then he stopped. Just enough to make you ache.

“Not yet,” he said softly. “Not like that.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

His eyes were dark and wrecked, but focused entirely on you. One hand brushed hair from your face. The other stayed warm on your thigh.

“I want this to be perfect for you,” he said. “You deserve that. Deserve to be kissed slow, touched soft. Not just fucked like a need but fucking loved.”

Tears pricked at your eyes even as your body pulsed. He leaned in, kissing your cheek. Your jaw. Your collarbone. Down to your stomach, your hips laying a trail of open-mouthed kisses.

He looked up from between your thighs, his voice low, reverent:

“You’re so beautiful, it hurts.”

And then—slowly, worshipfully—he kissed you there.

His mouth settled between your thighs, his breath hot and shaky as he laid another kiss on the softest part of you and it made your back arch, your fingers twist in the sheets, a sound tumbling from your lips.

He groaned into you like he was starved.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You taste so good, baby.”

He took his time—tongue slow, precise, gentle—like he was trying to learn you by heart.

Your hand flew to his hair, fisting it as your hips bucked, body trembling. But he didn’t stop, didn’t rush. He flattened his tongue and stayed there, licking slow and deep while one hand anchored your thigh and the other stroked calming circles on your belly.

He looked up at you—pupils blown wide, lips glistening—and it was too much.

“Dom—fuck, you’re so good at that,” you choked. “You’re so fucking hot! I can’t even think—”

He groaned deep, like your praise turned him on more than anything.

His tongue dragged slow over your clit, then again, then again, and then he sucked, just enough to make your thighs clamp.

“You like how I’m eatin’ you, baby?”

“I love it—fuck! I love your mouth, I—”

You were babbling now, breathless, too wet to speak without stuttering.

“You sound so fuckin’ pretty like this, you know that? Moanin’ for me while I taste every part of you.”

He kissed your thigh, slow and wet, then licked back up, spitting softly over your pussy just to lick it back up, his body high on your sounds.

You looked down at him and couldn’t take it—his messy mouth, his wild hair, the way his eyes locked on yours like he’d drown in you if you let him.

“You’re so fucking handsome,” you gasped. “You look so good between my legs Dom, I…fuck—please—”

“You beg so sweet,” he breathed, licking slow, almost teasing now. “Makes me wanna fuck you with my tongue ‘til your legs give out.”

Your thighs were trembling around his head—completely open, completely his, and Dom didn’t just bury his mouth between your legs, he devoured you like you were the only thing keeping him alive.

Sloppy. Focused. So fucking slow.

His tongue moved in circles, his mouth sucking at your clit just right, but you barely processed it because your eyes dropped lower and

Fuck.

He was stroking himself.

One hand between your thighs, keeping you spread, the other wrapped around his cock. Hard, leaking, the kind of grip that said he was right there with you, falling apart from the taste of you.

“Dom!”

He didn’t stop. He pulled back just enough to speak, lips shiny, green eyes full of need.

“Keep makin’ those sounds, baby,” he murmured, pumping his cock slow while his breath fanned over your pussy. “Look what you fuckin’ do to me.”

You looked. You couldn’t not.

He was a mess—shoulders tense, jaw clenched, eyes locked on your pussy like it was the center of the universe.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he groaned, licking into you again. “Could come just from this. From how sweet you fuckin’ sound when I’ve got my mouth on you.”

He moaned into you like he was coming from your voice alone.

His tongue didn’t stop. His hand didn’t stop.

“Come for me, baby. Show me how good I make you feel. I’m right here—don’t hold back.”

“Dom—” you gasped. “ I’m gonna—”

“Let go,” he said, hoarse. “Let me have it. Let me, baby.”

His hand was still wrapped around the base of his cock— flushed, twitching but he wasn’t jerking off anymore. He was holding it, gritting his jaw like just being inside his own fist was too much, like he was on the edge just from how good you tasted. From how fucking sweet your moans sounded falling apart for him.

Your hips rolled against his mouth and he groaned, and he kept stroking himself slow while he ate you, but never enough to let go.

His arm was shaking. Holding back. For you.

“Taste like fuckin’ honey,” he whispered, lips slick against your clit.

You were so close it hurt.

Tears burned behind your eyes from the pressure, from the way he worshipped you and held himself back at the same time, from how badly he wanted you to fall apart first.

“Please, Dom! Please don’t stop —”

“Never,” he growled. “I’ve got you, baby. Come for me. Right fuckin’ now.”

And you did—shaking, sobbing, hand fisted in his hair—he didn’t let go. He didn’t come. Didn’t fucking move.

He just held you there, mouth soft on your thigh, hand still around his cock, waiting for your breathing to come back, like your high was the only thing he needed.

He kissed up your thigh slow—soft now, like his mouth had just learned to worship. By the time he reached your face, you were already pulling him down, hands on his shoulders, mouth searching his like you needed to feel him everywhere at once.

You tasted yourself on his lips. He moaned into it grateful, feral, and when you felt the head of his cock nudged against you, you flinched.

Still sensitive. Still throbbing. But you needed him.

“Fuck, love,” he panted, voice cracking. “You sure?”

You nodded, dazed. “Please.”

He lined himself up, hands framing your face like he couldn’t let go of you even for a second— and then he pushed in.

Slow. So slow. Like every inch was a full-body tremor.

You both groaned—not from pain, not from pressure—but from how much it meant.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he whispered, forehead to yours. “You’re so fuckin’ wet. You feel that? That’s from my mouth, baby. That’s me.”

He rocked his hips forward, a little deeper but not all the way, like he was scared he’d lose it if he bottomed out too fast.

“You’re takin’ me so good,” he murmured. “Like you want all of me. Every fuckin’ inch.”

“I do,” you breathed. “You feel so good, Dom, so deep”

“I’m gonna lose it,” he moaned, mouth brushing yours, thrusting slow but heavier now. “I’ve never felt anyone like this. Never been this close.”

You clenched around him, instinctive, and he groaned low, like he was trying to fight back his orgasm with pure will.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “You let me in like you trust me with your life.”

“I do.”

His thrusts got a little rougher. Still careful. But desperate now. Like your body was calling him somewhere deeper and he couldn’t help it anymore.

“You’re mine like this,” he gasped. “And I’m yours. Fuck—baby—tell me you feel it too.”

“I do—Dom—I do—don’t stop—”

“Never. Never fuckin’ stoppin’. You’re the best thing I’ve ever been inside. You hear me?”

He kissed your mouth, your cheek, your temple. His thrusts didn’t slow just kept hitting the spot, so good it blurred your vision.

And still, his voice in your ear:

“Let me fuck you like it means something.” “Let me come inside you and stay.”

Your body was a continuous ache, every slow, deliberate thrust impossibly full and deep, burning with a pleasure that bordered on pain. Each word he murmured was absorbed into your skin, settling there, undeniable and permanent, as if it were the truth of you.

But as the pace held, something monumental shifted. You looked at him—truly, completely looked—and the familiar façade of Dom-the-rockstar dissolved. What remained was a man: flushed, raw, and fiercely beautiful, visibly shaking from the profound effort it took to temper his desire into gentleness for you.

You cupped his face in both hands, an act of possession and reverence, and kissed him. This was not a soft, shy offering; it was a demanding collision of mouths, a total surrender of every emotion that had built between you.

“Lie back,” you whispered, the breath warm against his lips.

He blinked, confusion warring with arousal, still heavy and deep inside you. “W-what?”

“Let me take care of you now.”

He let out a visceral, choked swear, the words themselves seeming to knock the last vestige of his control loose.

You rolled him over in one fluid motion, keeping him impossibly anchored inside you as you straddled his hips, palms flattening against the hard, rising and falling plane of his chest.

He was wide-eyed, breathless, completely exposed and utterly at your mercy.

You began to move. Slow and profoundly deep, your hips rolling like a slow tide, deliberately trying to memorize the exact shape of him. Your nails dragged lightly over the skin of his stomach, tracing the black lines of ink on his ribs. Leaning low, you kissed the curve of his neck, then the vulnerable hollow of his throat.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you breathed against his skin. “The way you held back for me. The way you worshipped me.”

He let out a devastating moan, his eyes fluttering shut, fingers clutching the sheets like tearing them would be easier than bearing the sensation.

“Baby—fuck—don’t say things like that—”

“Why not?” You straightened, riding him slower still, teasing the edge of his control, watching the powerful heave of his chest under your hands. “Scared I’ll make you feel something real?”

“I already fuckin’ do,” he gasped, his voice cracking. “You’ve got me all the way, you know that?”

You leaned in again—this time pressing your mouth to his ear, simultaneously grinding down, deep, deep, squeezing around him with deliberate, total intent.

“I want you to come inside me. I want to feel you lose it, knowing I love how much you care. Let me feel all of you, Dom. Don’t hold back now.”

He choked on a sudden, shattered breath. His hands flew instinctively to your hips, head tipping back as he issued a ragged, desperate sound.

You were still on top of him, still riding slow, so deep, so full, both of you right on the edge—but neither of you wanted to let it end.

Your thighs were shaking. He was panting beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he needed to hold on to something real—and you were, you were everything.

“Dom!”

Your voice broke, wet and frantic.

“I don’t want to lose you. Not ever. Not my rockstar. Not my best friend. Not the biggest fuckin’ love of my life—”

Tears ran hot down your cheeks.

You were grinding, rolling, every thrust sending sparks up your spine, but the fear rose with the pleasure.

“I’m scared,” you cried. “I’m so scared I’m gonna wake up and you’ll be gone, just another night I made too big in my head.”

His hands flew to your face, holding you still, eyes wild and wet and so full of you it hurt.

“Baby, listen to me. Look at me. I’m not fuckin’ leavin’. Be my girlfriend. Be mine. Say yes. Say it while you’re fuckin’ comin’ on me.”

Your whole body shuddered.

“I love you,” you sobbed, riding harder now, feeling your orgasm crash in.

“I love you so much, Dom—yes—yes, I’m yours—please—”

“That’s it,” he groaned, eyes rolling back, hips slamming up into you, helpless now.

“Come on me, baby—fuckin’ soak me—let me feel you lose it—”

And you did—both of you together, crying, shaking, moaning, saying I love you over and over as you clung to each other, as your bodies locked and your hearts finally said everything they’d been holding back. He spilled into you, mouth open, face pressed to your chest like he needed to stay buried there just to survive it.

“Mine,” he whispered. “You’re fuckin’ mine now. No more leavin’. No more pretendin’.”

You nodded, crying into his hair, still pulsing around him, still trembling.

“Yours. Always.”

You collapsed together. Panting. Clinging. Still locked at the hips.

No one spoke anymore.

There was nothing left to hide. Just love. And everything that came before it, washed clean.

· · ─── ꒰ঌ໒꒱ ─── · ·

The room was quiet now.

The storm of skin and words and confession had settled into a profound stillness.

Now it was just you and him, tangled in the warmth of the sheets that smelled like sweat and sex and something entirely new—belonging.

Dom lay beside you, one arm behind his head, the other tracing lazy shapes along your hip. Your leg was slung over his. His smile was soft, a little crooked, and still stunned by the last hour.

He turned his head toward you, eyes heavy, his lips parted like he was fighting the need to say something important.

“Oi,” he murmured. “Got a mad idea.”

You hummed, not bothering to open your eyes.

“What if…” He paused, tongue in his cheek, trying to suppress a grin. “You came with me? On tour?”

You opened your eyes immediately.

He was already looking at you. Not cocky. Not nervous. Just real and completely earnest.

“I mean—” he shrugged, letting his vulnerability show, “you basically lived on the fuckin’ bus anyway. Might as well do it as my girlfriend now.”

Your breath hitched.

“Hmm your girlfriend?”

He nodded, slow and certain. “Yeah. Mine. Properly.”

You blinked at him, your heart twisting in the best way. He grinned—bright, soft, and a little breathless.

“Say yes anyway. Just so I can hear it. Be my fucking girlfriend!”

You leaned in, kissing him soft.

“Yes,” you whispered against his mouth. “I’ll come with you. I will be your fucking girlfriend.”

His hand slid up your back, pulling you in tighter until there was no space left between you.

“Good,” he said, the word heavy with relief. “Wasn’t gonna survive another fuckin’ city without you.”

You both laughed quiet, warm, like the world outside had finally exhaled.

Outside, the sky began to turn grey-blue with the first hint of morning. Inside, you lay there with him—skin to skin, heart to heart, no more pretending, no more waiting.

And for the first time in years, you didn’t ache.

“Hey! How's the tour going? You look like you're having a lot of fun,” you grin at Dom through your phone.

Dom's smile is a mile wide as he waves at you, “it's been fookin’ mental! I miss ya though.”

You blush and wave him off, “I'm sure you're having far too much fun to miss me much.”

Dom shakes his head adamantly, “naw, love. It's true, I swear it. Have ya thought anymore about comin’ on the road with me?”

Dom had given you an all-access pass to any show on the tour, but you hadn't had the chance to use it yet.

You shake your head, “No, babe. I'm sorry. I've just been slammed at work. But you'll be in town soon, right?”

Dom's smile falters for a moment at your rejection, but the reminder that you'll see each other without the aid of a phone soon brings it right back. “Yeah! We'll be there next week. The gigs next Friday, and then I got a few days off before the flight to Dublin.”

You smile, “I'll see you then.”

Loud knocking can be heard on Dom's end, and he glances away from the phone, calling out to someone out of sight. He brings his gaze back to you, “Sorry, love. Gotta bounce. I'll call ya after the gig. Love ya.”

He kisses the screen as the call ends.

You smile and pocket your phone before shouldering your duffel bag and heading out the door to your flat.

Several hours later finds your plane landing in Edinburgh.

You send a text to one of Dom's friends, Tom, letting him know that you're on the ground. He'd snuck away from the venue to come get you from the airport.

“Hey, Tom. Thanks for picking me up,” you greet the photographer with a quick hug.

"No problem, Y/N. How was your flight?”

You pass the short drive with small talk, and before you know it, you're pulling into the venue. “Dom should be doin’ the sound check right now, do ya want to drop your bag in the tour bus?”

“That would be great, I need to get ready for the concert anyway.”

Tom drops you off at the tour bus, “I'll be back to get you right before the concert starts. Sneak ya in right before.”

-------------------

“Damn, girl. Are ya trying to give Dom a heart attack? You look great!” Tom exclaims.

You give a little twirl and a bounce of excitement. “Is it time?”

Tom laughs at your enthusiasm, “The opener just got off, let's go!”

He leads you through the crew and talent-only area of the venue, skirting groups of people rushing about, preparing for Dom to go on stage.

He slips out into the packed venue and leads you along the right side of the stage until you reach the front and center of the pit area. He has a word with security, and together they help you over the barricade and among the mass of people excitedly buzzing in the pit.

Tom shoots you a wink before hurrying down the side of the stage, already lifting his camera as the lights dim.

You cheer along with the crowd as the rest of Dom's band comes out during the intro, cheering loudest of all when Dom finally makes his appearance on stage, exploding out with his signature infectious energy. “EDINBURGH, LET'S FOOKIN’ GO!”

He immediately launches into the first song, shades glinting in the bright stage lights as he sings, leaning on the mic stand like it owes him money.

The song reaches its guitar solo, and Dom steps back from the mic, stripping off his leather vest and shades, tossing them to the stage by the drum kit and dousing himself with a cup of water, throwing his head back and spraying water in sync with a beat in the music.

He saunters back to the mic and rips it off the stand, singing into it as he crosses to the far left side of the stage. He runs to the opposite side of the stage and bends over, belting out the chorus before exploding into the air in a leap.

He jogs back to center stage and leans forward, singing directly at the audience when his eyes finally catch yours.

He stumbles on the bridge, initially missing his cue, but recovering quickly, he belts out the final chorus before jumping down from the stage, right in front of you. He's grinning so hard it looks like it hurts as he approaches the barricade and pulls you into a deep kiss.

The roar of the crowd at your back is deafening.

Dom breaks the kiss off, still grinning madly at you, “What the fook are ya doin’ here?”

“I wanted to surprise you!”

He laughs and kisses you again briefly, “ya definitely surprised me, love.”

Dom hoists himself back on stage and grabs the mic, bellowing into it, “EDINBURGH, HOW THE FOOK ARE WE DOIN’ TONIGHT?”

The crowd roars back at him, whistling and applauding.

"Now, ya may have noticed I got a bit distracted there for a moment. Someone decided to surprise me. Give me girl, Y/N, a big BHC welcome everyone!”

The camera finds you as the crowd shouts your name, and suddenly, you're staring at yourself reflected on the sky-high screens.

You wave shyly and blush, glaring at Dom, but with no real heat.

Dom laughs and directs the attention back to himself effortlessly, an electric guitar slung across his body. “This next song is about Northern England!”

He starts jumping in place, lifting his hands, encouraging the crowd to jump along with him as the backing track and band start up. Dom starts to play the guitar, leaning toward the mic to shout, “JUMP! JUMP! JUMP!”

You bounce along with the crowd, belting out song after song with them, watching Dom perform.

On stage, he's a man possessed of music and dance, his energy absolutely electric, unable to stay still; he bounces back and forth across the stage, jumping and bouncing and getting the audience into every song. The rasp he sometimes has in his voice is especially strong when he performs like this, but every now and then he hits a clean, clear note that takes your breath away.

Dom gets everybody clapping and singing in tune with a song as it fades out, and the band makes their way off stage, Dom following after, waving and blowing kisses to the audience as they continue to clap and sing.

The lights fade out, and the singing and controlled claps turn to enthusiastic whoops and cheers and true applause.

The lights slowly come back up, and soft instrumentals begin to play as the band filters back out, the crowd getting impossibly louder as Dom appears through the blinding lights at center stage, his arms spread wide and an expression of awe on his face.

You're close enough to hear him shout, “WHAT THE FOOK,” even without the aid of the microphone.

His eyes shine with unshed tears as he gazes around the packed venue, shaking his head. Emotions play across his face, awe and gratefulness, and something fragile.

His arms slowly fold in, holding himself, hands resting over his heart, “THANK YOU SO FOOKING MUCH!”

You smile softly at him, really seeing him, not for the first time, but in a new light. Dom was truly born for the stage; he's always worn his heart on his sleeve, and you can see that even more now. That it beats with this crowd, with their love for him, and that he's so impossibly grateful for it. You think you love him all the more for it.

Dom makes his way to the microphone, clinging to it like a lifeline as he belts out the opening lyrics of the next song, eyes still shining.

The crowd roars the lyrics back at him, and by the chorus, Dom is bouncing in place at the mic, the emotional moment passed to the casual observer as he gives everything he has left to this song, to this crowd.

Dom announces that the next song is the last and tells everyone that he'll come out to meet them by the merch stands half an hour after the concert ends.

As the song nears its end, the band slowly puts down their instruments until it's just Dom strumming his guitar.

He lets the audience sing the final chorus before he lets the guitar rest and grabs the mic with both hands, belting out the chorus one last time, raw and emotional and powerful.

Thunderous applause and cheers rise after the last note fades, and Dom thrusts his arm high. “EDINBURGH! THANK YOU SO FOOKIN’ MUCH! TAKE CARE OF EACH OTHER. LOVE EACH OTHER AND I PROMISE WE WILL BE BACK VERY SOON. I LOVE YOU ALL SO FOOKIN’ MUCH! GOODNIGHT!”

Dom sets his guitar down and jumps off stage, grabbing hands and squeezing them as he makes his way from one end of the barricade to the other and then jogs back to you at the center.

He's flushed and panting, a thin sheen of sweat and water glistening on his bare chest and dripping from his messy hair. His eyes shine with pure life and sheer joy. His hands cup your cheeks as he leans over the barricade to kiss you.

Then he steps back and offers you his hand, helping you climb over the barricade.

His fans cheer, happy to see him happy as he scoops you close to him, holding you tight against his side with an arm, the other blowing kisses at the audience as he guides you backstage.

The second the slowly dispersing crowd disappears from view, Dom grabs your hips with both hands and swings you up and around in a circle, making you whoop with shock and laughter before he's crushing your lips against his, holding you so tight against him it's hard to breathe.

You break apart, panting yourself now and laugh softly as Dom stares at you, like he can't believe you're real.

“I take it you like your surprise.”

Dom pulls you back in for another kiss before he responds, “ya fookin’ bet I do! Ya sneaky little minx!”

He kisses you again, desperately, his hands roaming your body one second, pulling you against him the next.

You laugh and lightly push him away. “Didn't you promise to be back out in half an hour?”

Dom bites his lip, reaching for you again, pressing hot, wet kisses along your jaw, his fingers hungrily pulling you closer again.

You laugh harder and plant firm hands on his chest. “Come on, babe. Please tell me you're gonna shower before you go back out there.”

Dom growls at you, pulling your lower half against his, desperate to touch you. “Please, love. I need ya. Ya can't show up lookin’ like this with no warnin’ and expect me not to. I can't wait until next week. When's yer flight? Early?”

You laugh at his absurdity, “Babe. I'm staying with you until we get back into town. There is no flight to catch.”

This seems to surprise him, “wut?”

You laugh harder, “Did you really think I was gonna fly all the way out here just for the night?”

"But. Yer work. Ya said you were swamped,” he tilts his head at you like a confused puppy.

“Yes, babe. Swamped trying to get everything done so I could take a week off.”

It seems to finally click in his brain, and he whoops loudly, startling a few nearby stagehands, as he swings you around again, crushing you into an embrace.

He lets go of you only to grab your hand and lead you through the venue, winding his way back through and out to the tour buses.

He gives you a quick tour as you make your way to his bedroom, where he laughs as he spots your duffel bag sitting on the bed, shaking his head and muttering about how sneaky and clever you are.

He sits down on the bed and pulls you onto his lap, kissing you soundly, running his hands over your body before standing and turning to drop you onto the bed, hovering over you for a few more kisses.

He gazes down at you, swallowing hard. “I'm gonna go shower, love. Gotta keep me promises. You stay right here, and I'll be back. Don't even think about changin’.”

You smirk up at him and gently push him away, “Go shower, Rockstar. I'll be here.”

Dom grins and bounces away.

----------------------

You're scrolling on your phone when the door to the tour bus bangs open, announcing Dom's return. He bursts into the room and holds open his arms.

You leap off the bed and he catches you, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist, his arms cradling you as you kiss him deeply, hands tangling in his hair, still damp from the shower.

Dom laughs at your enthusiasm, and he drops you lightly onto the bed, “Now, where were we?”

You laugh and prop yourself up on your elbows, “you told me not to take my clothes off. Which lowkey, kinda offended.”

Dom's eyes darken as he takes you in, licking his lips. “Nothin’ to be offended ‘bout, love. I just wanted the opportunity to admire ya more. Couldn't exactly spend the whole gig starin’ at ya.”

You blush and look down for a moment before glancing back up at him.

He's gazing down at you, eyes trailing along your body, the concert outfit you'd chosen specifically to drive him mad.

A sheer black crop top with a thin dark band across your chest to protect your modesty, a short black leather skirt that accents your curves, knee-high pink socks that match the shade of his own, paired with black, heeled ankle boots that you'd already discarded, glittering earrings, and a choker, both in the shape of handcuffs, complete the ensemble.

“Fookin’ hell, love. Ya look fookin’ gorgeous. I'm surprised I made it through the whole gig with ya front n center lookin’ this good.”

You blush hotter, gaze dropping from his, “stop. Jesus, Dom.”

You hear a soft thump as his shirt and pants hit the floor, and then he's crawling between your thighs, nudging your legs wider as he plants his palms to either side of your head. “It's true though, innit?”

He turns your face towards his and leans down to kiss you, softly at first, then deeper, his tongue tracing your lips, asking for admittance, which you grant him.

Your hands reach up and tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, but he resists, lifting his lips from yours even as you stretch up to follow him.

He settles back on his ankles between your thighs, clad in only his underwear, which does little to hide his arousal.

Dom’s palms skim along the exposed skin of your midriff, fingers slipping under the crop top and tracing the line of your bra, finding the front clasp and releasing it. His thumbs each locate a nipple with ease, slowly running against each hardening bud.You stifle a moan and sit up slightly, lifting the top off and throwing it aside.

Dom groans and pushes the straps of your bra over your shoulders, allowing it to fall away on its own as he takes in the sight of you. “Fook.”

He wraps his arms around you as he lifts higher, pulling you up with him, his hips thrusting shallowly against yours as he kisses you.

His fingers find the zipper at the back of the skirt, and he pulls it down, pulling the loosened garment down to your knees, making you gasp slightly at the cool air where you'd been covered.

“Fookin’ hell, love.” Dom groans at the sight of you, bared fully to him.

He lays you back down and pulls the skirt the rest of the way off, slipping off the bed long enough to strip off his underwear, freeing himself before he climbs back between your thighs, kissing a trail up your stomach and chest, taking a moment to suck on each of your breasts before moving his mouth back to yours, his body slotting against yours, his hard cock leaking against your stomach.

Dom kisses you fiercely, hot and wet and messy, and with so much need for you it takes your breath away. He lifts his hips enough to thrust shallowly against you, running his head through your folds.

You moan and grunt a moment later as his fingers find your clit, circling it expertly with his thumb, a finger pushing inside you, finding you soaking.

"Fuck, Dom,” you gasp and tip your head back, arching towards him as he sucks on your neck, now with two fingers curling inside you, hitting the bundle of nerves inside just right.

Dom withdraws his fingers from you and pushes your legs up over his shoulders as he leans back, mouth trailing down your body, pressing soft kisses everywhere.

His mouth closes around your clit, and you gasp, a moan of pure pleasure escaping your lips as he suckles on you.

Dom groans, the vibrations rumbling into you, making your fingers fist in the sheets as you writhe beneath him.

"Fook,” he curses as he withdraws from you, licking his lips in an almost obscene gesture before his mouth is back on yours, tasting of you.

Dom slowly runs his head through your folds before he pushes into you.

You both groan at the first press of him, your foreheads pressed together, eyes closing in sync.

He stills once he’s fully inside you, allowing you both to breathe and adjust for a moment, kissing you softly.

You writhe against him, “fucking move, dammit.”

He chuckles against your lips and pulls almost all the way out before snapping his hips forward, making you cry out. Then he does it again, and again, his hands braced to either side of your head, bracing his larger frame above you.

You wrap your legs around his hips, pulling him deeper into you, nails scraping at his shoulders, lips meeting in sloppy, desperate kisses, pulling him deeper, closer, harder, silently urging him on.

Dom groans, “Fook, Y/N. I’m not gonna last if yer gonna be like that.”

You grin savagely and push on his back with your heels, pushing him down on top of you, your chests pressed together, driving him deeper into you as you meet him thrust for thrust.

“Then don’t last. Just fuck me, Dom. Please.”

Dom growls and picks up the pace, his hips pounding against yours with every thrust as he lavishes every inch of skin he can reach with his mouth.

You tip your head back and close your eyes, sinking into the sensations, allowing the moment to wash over you until Dom hits a spot deep inside you that sends electricity shooting up your spine. “Fuck, yes!”

You curl up towards him, clenching around his cock as you grab his face in your hands and kiss him deeply.

Dom groans into your mouth and angles his hips to hit that spot again and again, making you clench around him each time, your head thrown back as you cling to him, holding him tight against your chest as the world begins to fade around you, constricting down to just the slide of him against you, those shocks of pleasure, his lips on your body and the overwhelming feeling building deep inside you.

You try to kiss him, but the pleasure is too much, and you end up just babbling into his mouth. “Fuck. So good. Please. Fuck. Right there. Please. Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

Dom’s hand slides between your bodies and sends you screaming his name over the edge.

He fucks you through it, chasing his own end and extending yours until he slams deep into you and stills, shuddering against you, panting out broken curses mixed with your name.

You collapse backwards onto the bed, still wrapped tightly around him, fingers twisted deep into his hair, locked together as you both slowly come down.

You finally drop your legs from around his hips, shaking slightly as he withdraws from you and collapses next to you, breathing hard. “Fook, Y/N. I think I need me fookin’ inhaler.”

You look at him, alarm briefly flaring through you. “Wait, are you serious?”

Dom nods, his chest heaving, and gestures at the small cabinet beside the bed.

You roll over and open the top drawer, fumbling around until you find the familiar shape and fish it out.

You shake it as you roll back over and pull the cap off, pressing it into Dom’s hand. He brings it to his mouth and presses the top, breathing in deeply before he lets his hand flop down.

You stare at him, concerned.

Dom glances over at you and laughs softly, “I’m fine, love. C’mere.”

He pulls you onto his chest, wrapping his arm around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I love ya, Y/N. Thank you for me surprise. I’m really happy that yer here.”