him

To be completely, unfiltered, absolutely and a hundred percent truthful,

Yuuji can be kind of scary like this.

Scary-- scary when he's focused, and calculated, and so insanely devoted and concentrated on something that nothing can stop him. In any other scenario you would've been less afraid, maybe more-so-appalled, giggle, and give him some sort of sweet treat or maybe simple affection as a reward later on for working so diligently on something.

But in this scenario, with Yuuji between your spread legs, thick, callused fingers dragging against the gummy slick walls of your hole, with his free hand expertly stroking up and down and up and down the shaft of your cock, it's a bit hard (no pun intended) not to be scared.

"Yu-uji, s'-- knock it off, s'not g-gonna... nuthin's gunna..."

"Shhh,"

Yuuji gently kisses the tips of his fingers against your swollen sweet spot, a small groan fluttering from his lips as he watches your spine bow and your toes curl.

"I got this. Y'don't believe me, baby?" His words come out slurred and hot, mingling with the sounds of your moans and whines. "Have I ever failed you when it comes t'..."

Yuuji presses a warm, sloppy, wet kiss to the sensitive tip of your cock, practically making out with the poor swollen thing before sucking hard, then pulling off with a filthy slurp followed by a loud 'pop!'.

"...makin' you feel good? Hm? Baby? My baby?"

All you can do in response is whine. Yuuji isn't wrong, and you both know this. It's just...

A few hours ago, everything was perfectly fine. You guys hadn't had sex in a few days, and besides getting handsy here and there, Yuuji seemed fine. In absolute mint condition, if anything. And then, miraculously, he just happened to scroll across some stupid reddit post talking about men squirting. And instead of behaving like any rational person, and just continuing to read through the strings of posts and comments, he just immediately decides that using you as his personal guinea pig is the best course of action.

So, you've been sitting here, legs forced open over the width of Yuuji's shoulders, fluttering hole stuffed with fingers with your poor cock forced to come for what's been maybe the fourth time tonight. in the past hour and a half.

You've tried everything just to try and get a break. You've squirmed, you've kicked, you've cried, you've tried to physically get up off the bed and crawl away, but nothing seems to work. It's just... nothing seemed to get through that thick skull of his.

You can't say you'd like to completely stop, but a break... a break would be nice.

While he's so dead set on making you squirt, you're adamant nothing is going to happen.

You let your head drop back, hips jerking and rolling uncontrollably when he angles his fingers and thrusts right into your prostate, his other hand wrapped around the base of your cock-- rough thumbpad gently petting the seam of your balls.

"Hm."

You let your eyes flutter shut, letting out a little moan of relief when Yuuji's free hand gently releases your cock. Your hips buck at the loss of stimulation, but ultimately, you're relieved. You let your thighs open wide and fall lax, unbothered to how absolutely debauched and utterly lewd you might look from Yuuji's point of view. Not that he'd care, anyways.

Lidded eyes watch the way your puffy rim swallows up the thick of his fingers, drooling and soft and oh-so-warm-- and, suddenly,

Yuuji gets an idea.

"Baby... baby," Yuuji practically purrs. Hesitantly, you lift your head to look down at him.

"'Need y'to be really, really good for me, okay? yeah?"

Yuuji tuts and coos when you drop your head back with a whine, thighs trembling and beginning to shut before he wrenches them open again.

"Oh, don't be like that, babe. S'just... just sit still, and I'll make you feel really good, okay? really good. Jus'..."

Yuuji doesn't wait for a reply-- instead, he spreads your thighs wide for easier access, slips his digits in just right and angles them so they dip against the soft of your sweet spot, and settles the thumb of his free hand against the silky skin of your perineum. Your cock twitches and jerks, dribbles of precome swelling at the tip in little pretty pearls.

He starts with light little taps, then small, tight circles-- then lastly, progresses to firm but gentle up and down petting motions against your perineum-- a weird, indescribably good feeling coiling deep in your gut and causing you to squirm. Meanwhile, his fingers lavish attention on your sweet spot from the inside as well, causing that same delicious feeling to intensify what feels like a thousand times more.

it feels so weird.

You try to buck away from the feeling but Yuuji just shushes you and applies a fraction more of pressure, not letting you escape the onslaught of weird, weird, so fucking weird but undeniably good sensation.

... Suddenly, another odd... but new sensation settles. Not in your tummy this time, but in your bladder.

"Yuu-- Yuuji, Yuuji--"

"Hmm?"

"G-Get it out-- get them o-out, need'ta, need t'pee, I th-ink, need--"

"No, no, sweetheart. You don't need to pee. S'not pee. It's working, you're close. S'okay, jus' let it happen, 'kay?"

Yuuji leans forwards to kiss you, his eyes fluttering shut, but you crane your neck away before he can land a successful kiss-- which, he grumbles at.

"I'm s-serious Yuuji, I ne-ed to pee, m'not fuckin' a-around--"

"Shut up n' listen to me, baby,"

And you do. Save for the occasional incoherent whines and cries.

So you sit there and take it. Just... just take it, despite this overwhelming pressure in your bladder, despite the waves of pleasure rolling off your spine, despite the over sensitivity of your hole and your cock and your body just begging for a break.

And you're so distracted by your own thoughts that when you do (finally fucking) squirt, it hits you hard. Really hard.

With a mangled shout your body curls in on itself, hands scrambling for Yuuji's shoulders as you try to force him away from you-- yet, he keeps up his gentle ministrations alllll the way through your orgasm.

It's like-- It's like that pressure in your bladder releases itself in a way that feels so fucking good, your sloppy, messy hole fluttering and clenching tight around his still pumping fingers, the muscles in your tummy tightening and contracting in such a satisfying way as you experience what doesn't feel... quite like an orgasm, but something different, and just as intense.

Something wet, something clear, but not quite as thick and sticky as come, but not pee-- shoots from your cock in messy spurts, soaking Yuuji's wrist and the sheets and leaving a little puddle on your tummy.

"O-Oh fuck, fu-uck--"

"Told you that'd feel good, hm?"

Gasping and heaving, you barely manage the beginnings of a sentence before your eyes flutter shut and you immediately pass out.

—

wet sounds filled y/n's and johnny's shared dorm, thankfully they were alone in the building. moments before they were doing the nct 2020 resonance photoshoot, watching johnny dressed as a cowboy make y/n so horny that when they finished with the photoshoots y/n whispered to johnny in the ear "i want to fuck right now" and the taller just obeyed.

johnny was handcuffed, both hands, while y/n was riding him, moving up and down, his hole swallowing all of johnny's thick fuckmeat, balls deep.

"who's a good toy huh?" asked y/n slapping gently johnny's face "m-me i'm a good t-toy" he answered quickly, who was already overstimulated because y/n has edged him two times already.

"now that's a good boy. and only good boys deserve to cum you know that. right?" said y/n and the older nodded making y/n smile. y/n start to sit hard on johnny's cock feeling the tip of his dick brushing his prostate "hng.." moaned y/n "you fill me so well johnny". johnny was hypnotized by the sight in from of him, y/n with hooded eyes, blushing like a slut and drool coming out of his mouth just make him hornier "go on whore, pound me like this was our last fuck" said y/n who leaned on johnny's shoulder allowing the taller to rail him into oblivion. johnny grabbed y/n's ass cheeks and squeezed them as hard as he could letting his handprints on them, thrusting at an animalistic pace just wanting to fill y/n up all that while sucking and biting y/n's neck. then both kissed, tongues intertwined exploring and tasting each other's mouths.

"c'mon weren't you bitching before because i didn't let you cum? what's taking so lon-" y/n was cut out when johnny slapped his ass so hard as a sign that he was gonna cum soon, he did one last hard thrust, painting y/n's insides in white, the bottom rolled his eyes while cumming on johnny's abs "fuck~ you make me cum hands free" y/n kissed johnny. "am i a good toy?" asked johnny, the younger scooped his cum on his hands and gave it to johnny to lick it "yes you are and you're the best, you did so well".

he quickly went to his closet and from a drawer he takes out a pair of red ropes that he uses to tie every limb from mingyu to each corner of the bed. the big dumb guy barely moves, it's like he doesn't feel the burning sensation of the ropes around his limbs. yn positioned himself in between his legs and started to smell the other’s dick and balls “such a manly musk”. his tongue went up and down on each side of that fat meat, making sure to leave it as wet as possible. slowly he tried to deepthroat him, relaxing his throat so he can swallow more and more each time. he finally reach the base of the shaft but quickly pulls out feeling his gag reflexes kicking in “this is so good” he slaps the saliva-smeared cock in his face leaving some of it on his face. “naughty boy who knows what you're dreaming about that is making you this hard, damn!” the bottom exclaimed, feeling it throbbing in his hand.

“hngh” mingyu moaned, yn stopped thinking he woke up but he didn't. he supposed it was just a reflex of how good he was feeling right now.

he aligned the already lubed tip right under his hole and slowly sat down on it, feeling how that thick dick stretched his walls. he was just halfway through and yn was already a moaning mess, that's how good mingyu's dick felt. when he bottomed out he waited some minutes to start moving. up and down with gentle hip movements so mingyu doesn't wake up, he was also being careful to not squeeze that hard.

“shit mingyu, i love your dick so much” unconsciously yn sped up his movements, just chasing his pleasure, “my fucking god, i want more of you… fucking ruin me” drool dripped down his chin, his hooded eyes trying to focus on something but failing at doing it. he bounces more and more fast, not caring anymore if mingyu wakes up he just wants that cum deep inside his bulging tummy “fill me up baby”.

mingyu felt some heavy weight on his crotch area so he opened his eyes, he blinked a few times to focus and see what was happening, it was yn's back and he kept staring at it while moaning and grunting, “yn?” he asks and the other stopped his movements, “yes?” he replies with some shyness laced in his voice. “what are you doing?” the top asks. yn bit his lip *looks like he woke up but his brain didn't* he thought and resumed his riding. after what feels like a long time mingyu realized that yn was fucking himself on his dick, he watched how that hungry hole swallowed all his inches, the sight made him hornier and yn knew that because he felt the cock growing and throbbing inside him. mingyu tried to meet yn's thrusts with his, the wet skin slapping sound echoing in all the room. yn laid back on top of mingyu moving his hips to massage that thick meat inside him “i fucking love you gyuuu~” yn was already gone, too cockdrunked to think straight. yn lift himself up with his arms so he can sit harder on the cock and also see better everytime mingyu's dick makes the bulge on his lower tummy when he goes deep. yn turns so he's now facing his boyfriend, riding even harder chasing that pleasant feeling. cumming hands free seconds later, squirting the cum all over his face.

yn freed mingyu from the restraints on his hands so he can take the lead in the fucking, “fucking fill me up” moaned the bottom loudly, desperation in his voice. “yes baby it's coming” mingyu reassures him by groping hardly his ass leaving his handprints in both cheeks. mincoc's cock is throbbing inside the other, spurting all the cum stored in his balls deep inside his boyfriend who clenches his hole as hard as he can to milk every single drop out of mingyu.

next day in class the gang of bullies were acting as if nothing happened but haechan was the only one feeling preoccupied, the guilt was eating him. the door opens and what they saw made their skin crawl in fear, it was yn but not the same shy outcast yn, he was.. hot?. his hair was styled differently leaving his forehead uncovered, his clothes weren’t baggy anymore they were tight, leaving nothing to the imagination, it also showed them he was hiding a big ass down there, “that’s a big cake” one of the bullies murmured despite feeling fear. yn saw them and smiled at them, leaving them with their mouths open.

wanting to know what happened to him, who was supposed to be bug’s food by now, the gang of bullies decided to have a one night stand with him and get as many answers as possible out of him. something yn has already thought about so it made it easier for him to plot a revenge against them.

the next few weeks each one of the bullies disappeared ’’’’mysteriously’’’’, their bodies were found near the forest or in old abandoned houses. the first and only theory by now is that they were attacked by some wild animal due to their ripped bodies by what it seems are claws and razor sharp fangs, so all the town decided to hunt these so called monster, not knowing the real one was among them. haechan suspected from yn because the only ones dying were the ones who took part in that ritual, and he was the next and last one of the gang. he avoided yn all he could, he even sleeps with a gun next to his bed now, how did he got it? no one cares. one day he decided to follow yn after classes to try to confirm his suspicions. yn was moving further and further away from the city and into the abandoned houses where one of his friends was found. haechan enters the same house yn entered and carefully to not make any sound he pulls the gun out and points it at anything that made a sound. his hands were shaking, fear taking over his body, “hey haechan” yn abruptly greeted him, making him shoot at him, “be careful with that, stupid” yn said with some anger in his tone.

“i know you’re the one behind that killing spree” he blurted out, “you’re supposed to be dead” he yells at yn “what are you?”.

“i’m yn silly. well… a better version of him actually” the calmness of his voice sending shivers down haechan’s spine “thanks to those bastards you used to call friends” he laughs “they did something good in their life at least” he walks towards haechan, “stop or i’ll shoot” he says desperately. yn storms towards haechan putting the cold metal of the gun right at his chest “i dare you to do it, but would you be able to?” his iris turning white and his pupil into a slit like when a feline is chasing a prey “thought so” haechan can feel the disappointment in his voice “you’re just a pussy haechannie” he takes a deep breath and yells “you’ve never been able to do something on your own” slapping haechan’s hand making him throw the gun away. haechan falls to the floor and crawls away from yn “what the fuck are you?” he asks once again, yn crouches down and starts to walk sensually in all fours, chasing haechan “you’re stupid ass friends offered me in sacrifice thinking i was a virgin but i wasn’t” haechan’s back hits against a wall and yn corners him, his face now on the side of haechan’s “you shouldn’t assume other’s sexual life, channie” he whispers.

haechan felt mesmerized, was he wrong for liking this side of yn?, maybe this is his punishment for not doing anything to stop his friends bullying yn. he was ready to be ripped into pieces to death but instead he felt kisses?, yn’s lips latched against his neck already leaving hickeys on it. “w-what” he moaned, “all this foreplay made me so horny haechannie” yn admits putting his hand on haechan’s growing bulge, “it wasn’t a foreplay dumb bitch i was trying to kill you” yn talks back. “seeing you trying to act all manly fuckkkk… my ass is itching for you and your friend here looks like he wants it too” he grabs the bulge hard drawing a loud moan out of the other’s mouth…

“you’re being such a good boy channie” yn spoke while riding haechan’s rock hard cock, “hmm?” haechan asks, his face buried in between yn’s chest sucking his nipples, “yeah” yn reassures. haechan also grabs yn’s dick and put it against his toned abs so he can rub it there while he rides, “those abs are making my dick feel so good channie, i wanna paint them in white”, “please” he begs already falling into submission.

“be a fucking man and pound me hard” yn demands slapping haechan’s cheek, haechan’s pace grow faster and faster, his dick reaching parts no one has ever reached before “yes yes right there! fuhh..” he lets out all the air, feeling haechan brushing his prostate. “fuck i’m gonna cum” haechan cries, emptying his load inside yn, after he rode his high he tries to pull out but yn clenches his hole hard with a superhuman strength, not letting the other’s dick to go away “we’re not done here” he licks his lips “demon pussy isn’t satisfied by just one load”.

yn rides once again haechan while spitting inside his mouth and haechan swallows it with no complaints, he was so ass drunk that the only thing that crosses his mind is to satisfy yn’s needs. “uff, yeahh… i’m gonna milk you dry channie” yn plays with his nipples and then with haechan’s, “give me your next load” he sits hard and faster and on top of that he grips again with that superhuman strength he apparently possess now overwhelming haechan in the process who couldn’t take it anymore and just lets out his sperm inside him once again. the next hours yn kept milking him until not even pre-cum came out of him, some times haechan tries to take control by pulling yn’s hair or spanking him until his ass is bright red but somehow yn always manages to take back the control and made him writhe and cry in pleasure. their hair sticking on their foreheads due to the sweat, the beads of it rolling down their bodies, especially on haechan’s abs they’re so perfect that yn could pass a whole day licking them non-stop. for the last load haechan fucked yn in a roast chicken position so he can have an easy access to his cum-filled hole. his thrusts churned the sperm inside and also caused some delicious gushy wet sounds, “yeahh keep filling this pussy up, use your own cum as lube” he pouts. after some final nasty words the last load from haechan’s balls were deposited on yn’s cumdump hole and after a kiss haechan falls tired on top of yn’s body.

haechan’s life has been spared by yn but in return he has to find new victims or at least a way to suppress yn’s hunger for human flesh and also let him use him as his human dildo, something that he didn’t mind because the sex was good and his dick feels amazing inside yn’s warm demon pussy.

Clark whispered to you as you walked past him to put the dirty plates in the sink after dinner with his parents at the Kent Farm.

You cocked an eyebrow at him as you turned on the water, Clark stood beside you with a washcloth to wipe the wet plates that you handed him. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh you know,” Clark’s voice went a little higher as if your obliviousness to his words was just an act. “Strutting around being the perfect partner in front of my parents as if that doesn’t drive me nuts.”

“Are you saying that you’re turned on because I’m being a good guest in your parents’ home?” You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at Clark, who blushed at you as he continued to wipe down the plates.

Clark shrugged. “Everything about you turns me on, honey.”

“Ah, now I get it. Me putting the no sex rule under your parents’ roof is making you malfunction since you could do whatever you wanted in the safety of our apartment in Metropolis.” You whispered to Clark, your tone teasing.

Clark huffed. “You won’t even let me touch you down there when we’re in bed. The blankets cover us just fine.”

You handed Clark the last plate, moving away from the sink to dry your hands with one of the towels hanging on the side before you patted Clark on the cheek and winked at him. “We’re here for a week and it’s only been three days so far baby. You wanted me to meet your parents so you’re going to have to deal with it.”

You walked out of the kitchen leaving a pouting Clark behind to finish up his task as he heard you converse with his mother in the living room.

“Trouble in paradise?”

Clark jumped slightly at the voice of his father right behind him, making him shake his head sheepishly at the older man. “No Pa, of course not. We were just riffing.”

Jonathan laughed. “Look I get it. When your Ma told me that you were coming back with your boyfriend to visit for a week, I was elated and then I remembered I can’t do anything in the bedroom with your mother considering that super hearing of yours.”

“Pa that’s gross! I didn’t need to know that.” Clark chastised his father, his face turning red before getting a belly laugh out from the older man as Jonathan left the kitchen.

Clark covered his blushing face with his hands, at least now he didn’t have to worry about feeling frisky with you after that piece of information about his parents.

~~~~~

On the fourth day, you offered to go to the store in town, which was a short drive away, to get some fresh produce for dinner.

It was still pretty early in the afternoon so you weren’t rushing and Clark already said that he’d drive.

“Oh you don’t have to do all that, you’re our guest.” Martha sweetly told you.

You shook your head. “No, it’s fine. It’d be good to stretch outside for a little bit and I can already tell Clark’s getting antsy from constantly staying indoors.”

You and Martha turned your heads to the window, the sight of Clark using his powers to help out in the field with Jonathan makes you smile.

“You know after Lois, I wasn’t sure if Clark was going to be this open and happy again. That breakup made him hide his pain behind the Superman mantle and I thought the boy I raised was gone.” Martha wistfully told you, making you turn your head back to her to only see a sad smile on her face.

You reached out, curling your fingers over her wrist and smiling comfortingly at her when she met your eyes. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that anymore. I promise to bring him back here more often despite our busy schedules.”

“You know, the first time Clark came home a year or so after the breakup, he couldn’t stop talking about the gorgeous man he met in the Justice League.” Martha whispered at you as if it was a kept secret between her and Clark, making you chuckle.

“I’m sure Clark was just exaggerating,” You told Martha, remembering your first meeting with Clark in the Watch Tower’s break room. “I wasn’t that much of a name when my sister asked me to join the League with her.”

“Oh dear, Clark was raving about you all night. The man that surpassed him in talent and wittiness without even trying and I saw the light come back into his eyes. You’re amazing for him.” Martha told you, making you gulp at the sudden onslaught of information that you weren’t privy to before.

You wondered if Clark was eavesdropping on the conversation and your question was answered when the back door to the kitchen suddenly slammed open.

“Ma! You can’t just share that stuff with him!” Clark exasperatedly said to Martha, his face turning crimson with embarrassment.

Martha laughed, waving him off. “I didn’t say anything too embarrassing, I was just telling him the truth.”

You took pity on Clark, standing up from the table to kiss him on the cheek. “Go and change, we still have to get groceries from town.”

“You sure, hun? It looks like it’s about to rain.” Clark replied.

You glanced outside, just noticing the grey clouds in the sky and a thought came into your mind. “Well even if we’re caught in the rain, we’d still be in the car so it’s fine.”

Clark merely shrugged at that before disappearing to the bathroom for a quick shower and to change out of his sweaty clothes.

You spent most of the time chatting with Martha and Jonathan before Clark walked out into the living room in just a white shirt and jeans, his glasses sitting perfectly on his face to keep his secret identity while in town.

“Shall we, honey?”

You nodded, making your way out of the door before turning back to the older Kents. “We’ll be out for a bit and might even be a little longer if it rains, so don’t worry about us.”

Martha and Jonathan nodded before seeing the both of you off at the front door. Clark waved at them before opening the passenger door for you like the gentleman that he was before getting to the other side so he could start the drive.

The both of you drove off in a jeep that Clark rented for the trip back to Smallville from Metropolis, the inside of the car spacious for all the stuff you brought over the week long stay.

“How far’s the market again?” You asked Clark, your eyes paying attention to the sky darkening as Clark drove.

Clark glanced at you. “About a half hour or so, hopefully the rain won’t be too bad.”

You nodded, a small smile on your face as the plan in your head began to unravel perfectly.

~~~~~

Just as you predicted, the rain started to pour halfway through the ride.

“Baby, let’s just park on the side so we don’t get into any accidents.” You told Clark, the other man glancing at you in confusion before doing so.

Clark parked the jeep a little off the road, just far enough so no other vehicles would accidentally cause a collision due to the heavy downpour.

Clark hummed, looking out the window. “We can barely see the road. Well, technically I can but better to be safe than sorry.”

“Cigam edih su morf gnirednaw seye.” You murmured under your breath, making Clark turn to you in confusion at you randomly conjuring up a spell.

Clark gave you a small smile, his hand squeezing your thigh in reassurance. “You don’t have to protect us with magic hun, I’m sure the rain will subside soon and then we can make our way to the market and back to the farm in no time.”

“Actually, I’m betting on the rain lasting a little while longer so we could have some privacy of our own.” You replied, getting an alarmed look from Clark as he glanced outside in case there were any other vehicles passing by.

Clark laughed nervously. “I thought you said no sex while we’re here.”

“I said no sex under your parents’ roof,” You corrected him as you began unbuttoning your shirt, Clark’s eyes immediately entranced by the exposed skin of your chest. “Right now? We’re free to do whatever we want.”

Clark opened and closed his mouth, still processing what was happening in front of him as you continued to strip. “What if people drive by and see us.”

You paused, your hands on the button of your pants as you gave Clark an amused smile. “Baby, I put a cloaking spell on the jeep. No one’s going to see us, all they’re gonna see is a giant tree log on the side of the road.”

“Oh.” Clark replied, his face turning red at realising the truth before he cleared his throat as he left his glasses on the dashboard and took his shirt off when you raised your eyebrows at him to join you.

“We should probably do this in the back, more leg room for the both of us.” Clark murmured, his eyes already glazed over with lust as he watched you crawl into the backseat.

You smiled as Clark crawled in behind you, the man hovering over you with a hungry look on his face. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to kiss you, I want to mark you, I want to open you up and then I want to make love to you. Is that okay hun?” Clark asked, leaning his body down so both your chests were touching.

You let out a happy sigh, feeling Clark’s weight comfortably on top of you before you nodded and grabbed Clark’s face to pull him into a kiss.

Clark let out a deep groan as deepened the kiss, claiming your lips with his before slipping his tongue to tangle it with yours.

You threw your arms over Clark’s shoulders, your fingers playing with the curls on the back of his head as he began rutting his massive bulge against yours.

Clark broke the kiss, only to redirect his mouth to your exposed shoulder and neck. You whimpered as he nibbled on the skin before licking the spot with his tongue to soothe the pain.

“You taste so good.” Clark said to you before sinking his dull teeth into your neck, making you cry out as he began to suck a hickey that was big enough for everyone to see.

Clark’s breath hot and damp with his tongue lapping up the mark on your neck before he descends so he was at face level with your chest.

Clark’s hands were now on your waist, holding you down. You squirmed in his grip as Clark’s mouth sucked on one of your nipples, the man letting out groan when you whimpered in response.

Clark released your nipple from his mouth with an audible pop, looking up at your blissed out expression with a feral grin on his own face. “You love that, hun?”

“God, yes.” You moaned out, shivering slightly when Clark blew against the nipple that he practically chewed on.

Clark’s hands then slipped into the waistband of your pants, pulling them down your legs as you lifted your hips to help him take them off.

“Take yours off too.” You whispered before moving to the side to make room for Clark so he could get his jeans off along with his boxers, leaving him completely nude.

You licked your lips at the erotic sight, moving to touch yourself when Clark intercepted your movement by grabbing your hand and tutting disapprovingly at you.

“I’m not done yet, honey.” Clark told you before readjusting so he was lying back on the seats, his legs hanging slightly over at the front.

You blinked in surprise when Clark tapped his chin with an expectant look on his face, it made you blush.

“Come on hun, take a seat.” Clark told you, patiently waiting for you to move.

You carefully adjusted yourself, kneeling right over Clark’s face before lowering yourself down and whimpering when Clark’s tongue immediately licked up into your hole.

The slick sounds of Clark’s tongue eating you out accompanied by your own whimpers turned you on, your cock now rock hard.

You glanced behind you and smiled seeing Clark’s incredible member bouncing along as you started to ride his face.

You let out a cry when Clark’s hands grabbed your hips and pulled you down until you were fully seated on his face, the feeling of his warm tongue filling you up as it wriggled inside you.

Clark lets out a deep moan, the vibration from his voice reverberated inside you causing you to gasp as your body shuddered in delight.

“Clark, that’s enough.” You panted out before dislodging yourself from Clark’s face, his face covered in slick and sweat as he sat up to catch his breath.

Clark grinned, as he got off the floor to sit in the middle of the seats. “That was amazing.”

“Now sit back and relax, baby.” You pushed against his chest before leaning down so the top half of your body was draped over his lap.

Clark’s hand traveling down your back as he let out a sigh when you took his cock into your mouth and began bobbing your head on his impressive length.

Clark’s breath hitched when you took him deeper into your throat, trying his best to not raise his hips up so he didn’t accidentally choke you.

You moaned around his cock when Clark’s finger tapped on your hole, circling the rim before dipping his finger in.

You bobbed your head in the same rhythm as Clark’s fingering, letting out a muffled whimper with your mouth full when Clark added another finger into you.

“You did so good, honey.” Clark told you when he pulled your mouth off his cock before he sweetly kissed you on the lips. “Get on my lap.”

You nodded before getting up and straddling Clark’s hips, letting Clark manhandle you so he could line his cock up with your hole.

You let out a satisfied chuckle when you sank down on Clark’s cock, the familiar feeling of him stretching you out was comforting after not having sex for almost a week.

Clark must’ve agreed with you with how his arms immediately wrapped themselves around your middle before he burrowed his face into your neck as he thrusted his hips up into you while your arms were cradling the back of his head and his broad shoulders.

You slowly gyrated your hips on Clark’s lap, carefully riding the man and enjoying your time together since the both of you were on a time limit.

“Oh…yeah…” Clark moaned out, his eyes rolling to back of his head at the sensually delicious pace you were going at as you continued to ride him.

You let out a sigh, leaning back with your arms over the headrests of the front seat in act of display for Clark as his eyes hungrily rake over your body while his hands gripped your waist.

You smirked, looking at the ravenous expression on Clark’s face. “Let loose.”

That was enough for Clark to thrust up into you renewed vigour, his hands controlling your body’s movements by your waist by moving you up and down on his cock.

You loved when Clark gets like this, his usual responsible and demeanour changing into one of lust and desperation.

You loved that only you were able to make Clark this way, the other man’s face contorting to one of pure animalistic bliss.

“Fuck!” You exclaimed after a particular thrust that hit your prostate. “Clark, I love you.”

Those three simple words were more powerful and magical than any other spell you’ve ever used when it sent Clark into a frenzy state as he immediately gathered your body into his arms and sunk his teeth into your shoulder while thrusting into you.

You felt a familiar heat tug in your gut and you couldn’t even stop it before you cried out as you came in between your and Clark’s sweaty bodies.

Clark let out a deep guttural groan, spilling his seed into you when your hole squeezed his cock so tightly after your own ejaculation.

Clark cried out, feeling you milk him with every squeeze of your hole. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, panting heavily. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“I know baby, it’s okay. You did well, you can rest now.” You smiled rubbing the back of Clark’s head soothingly as you cooed at him, helping him calm down after such an intense high.

You glanced outside the back window and huffed out a laugh. “Looks like we fucked till the rain clouds left the skies.”

“Honey, don’t swear.” Clark grumbled against your neck, hugging your body closer to his.

You sighed, remembering that your boyfriend was never beating the boy scout allegations. You kissed the side of his head apologetically. “Okay, baby.”

~~~~~

“Teg aremac ydaer.”

You and Clark were back in the front seats of the jeep, all cleaned up and clothes were practically brand new due to your magic.

Clark chuckled, looking down at his body as he adjusted his glasses. “Do I want to know why you have a spell to clean us up after we made love?”

“You know you can say sex, baby.” You teased Clark, poking the dimple on his cheek when you saw him blush.

Clark puffed out his cheeks, feeling slightly embarrassed. “Well, I’d like to think it’s more than sex for us.”

“That’s cute, I love you too Clark.” You replied, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek when Clark turned at the last second so your lips collided with his lips instead.

Clark gives you a cheeky grin before starting the jeep and reversing back on the road before sighing. “Ma’s gonna kill me when she realises that we took way too long.”

“I’ll protect you, Superman.” You told Clark, picking his hand that wasn’t on the wheel and kissed the back of it.

Clark gave you a look of adoration. “My hero, I love you.”

“I love you more.” You challenged Clark, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Clark shook his head with a grin. “Not possible.”

*****

Author’s note:

Fun fact, there was a completely different draft of this same synopsis but I hated it so much that I deleted it and then started afresh 5 months after!

Anyways, I just realised I’ve been writing a lot of smut for Clark. Should I stop? NAH, where’s the fun in that?

you never really thought about the way jaehyun looked at you sometimes, so soft and so wondering, like he was trying to memorize your face. you never thought about how careful jaehyun was with you, how he always made sure you cum first, how he held you after even though you'd never asked him to. you never thought about the fact that jaehyun had stopped hooking up with anyone else entirely, even though you'd never discussed exclusivity.

you didn't really think about any of it, because thinking about it would mean acknowledging that something had shifted, and you weren't ready for that yet; you liked what you had, and you didn't want to lose it.

jaehyun felt the same way.

at least, that's what he told himself every single day.

because the truth was, jaehyun had been in love with you for months, maybe longer, maybe since that first day in psych when you'd handed him a pen and smiled at him like you'd known him forever. he couldn't pinpoint the exact moment it had happened, only that somewhere along the way, you'd stopped being just his friend and started being everything.

the friends with benefits thing had seemed like a good idea at the time; a way to be close to you, to touch you, to have you in a way that felt intimate without having to say the words he was terrified to speak. he'd thought it would satisfy something in him, this arrangement.

oh, he'd been so wrong.

it only made it worse — every single time jaehyun had you underneath him, every single time you moaned his name, every single time you looked at him with that hazy pleasure in your eyes, jaehyun fell a little deeper. and he couldn't say anything, because saying anything would ruin it. you'd made it clear from the start that this was casual. you'd said the words yourself, that night after the first time;

"i'm not looking for a relationship, jaehyun. i just want this. just us, like this."

so he'd nodded and said okay, and he'd locked his feelings away in a box and pretended they didn't exist.

but the box was getting full, and tonight, it was about to burst.

it was a friday night in late october, the kind of night where the air was crisp and the leaves were falling and everything felt a little bit electric.

you'd texted jaehyun around nine, a simple "you busy?" followed by the eggplant emoji simply because you were mature like that. jaehyun’s response came less than a minute later; "never for you. come over."

so here you were, standing outside his dorm room in a hoodie and sweatpants, your heart beating a little faster than it should. you knocked twice, the way you always did, and the door opened almost immediately.

jaehyun stood in the doorway, and god, he was so pretty it actually hurt; he was wearing gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips and a simple white t-shirt that stretched across his chest in a way that made your mouth water. his hair was dark and slightly damp, like he'd just showered, and his skin had that warm glow it always got after a shower.

his eyes found yours immediately, soft and familiar, and he smiled that small smile that made his dimples appear.

"hey," jaehyun said, stepping aside to let you in.

"hey," you said back, and you tried to ignore the way your stomach flipped when his hand brushed your lower back as you walked past him.

his dorm room was small and messy in the way all college dorms were messy; clothes draped over the desk chair, textbooks stacked on the floor, a half-empty cup of coffee on the nightstand. but it smelled like jaehyun — clean laundry and something woodsy, like strawberry or vanilla — and it felt safe in a way you couldn't explain.

jaehyun closed the door behind you and leaned against it, watching you with that quiet intensity he had.

he didn't say anything, just looked at you like he was trying to figure out what you were thinking. he always did that. it used to make you uncomfortable, but now you found it endearing.

"horrible week," you said by way of explanation, kicking off your shoes.

jaehyun nodded like he understood. he always understood.

"want to talk about it?"

you shook your head. "want to not think about it."

another nod, and then jaehyun pushed off the door and crossed the room toward you, and his hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. his touch was gentle, always gentle, like you were something so precious.

"okay," he said softly. "i can help with that."

and then jaehyun kissed you.

it started slow, the way it always did with jaehyun; his lips were so warm and so soft, moving against yours with a patience that drove you crazy. he never rushed, never pushed, he just kissed you like he had all the time in the world, like there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

you let your hands find his waist, your fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt, and you pulled him closer. jaehyun made a small sound against your mouth, something between a sigh and a hum, and it sent a shiver down your spine.

when he finally pulled back, his eyes were dark and his lips were pink and he was looking at you like you'd hung the moon.

"bed," he said, and it wasn't a question.

you nodded, and jaehyun softly took your hand and led you across the room.

the dorm bed was pretty small, a standard twin xl that barely fit both of you, but you'd eventually made it work before and you'd make it work again.

jaehyun sat down first, pulling you into his lap so you were straddling his thighs. his hands settled on your hips, thumbs tracing small circles through the fabric of your sweatpants.

"you're so pretty," jaehyun murmured, tilting his head up to kiss your jaw, your neck, the spot behind your ear that made you shiver. "you know that? you're so fucking pretty."

you laughed, breathless, and tangled your fingers in jaehyun’s damp dark hair.

"you're biased."

"i'm not." jaehyun’s teeth grazed your collarbone, gentle but teasing. "i have eyes. i can see."

he kissed down your throat, his lips dragging over your skin in a way that made your toes curl. his hands slid under the hem of your hoodie, palms flat against your stomach, and his fingers were warm and calloused and perfect.

"off," he said against your chest, tugging at the fabric.

you rapidly pulled your hoodie over your head and tossed it somewhere on the floor, and then jaehyun was looking at you — deeply observing — and his breath caught in a way that made your chest feel tight.

"god," he whispered, almost to himself. "look at you."

jaehyun’s soft hands slowly traced up your sides, over your ribs, his thumbs brushing across your nipples in a way that made you gasp. he watched your face as he did it, cataloging every single reaction, and there was something so hungry in his eyes that made your skin heat.

"hyunie," you breathed, and his name in your pretty mouth made him shiver.

"i know," jaehyun said. "i've got you."

he flipped you over, a move that was easy for him because he was strong and you were pliant and willing; your back hit the mattress, and he was above you, caging you in with his arms, his body a warm weight that pressed you into the sheets.

jaehyun kissed you again, deeper this time, his warm tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that had you arching your back up into him. his hips rolled down against yours, and you could feel him — hard and thick through his sweatpants — and the friction made you moan into his mouth.

"fuck," jaehyun muttered, pulling back just enough to look at you. "want to take my time with you tonight. is that okay?"

you simply nodded, because your voice had apparently stopped working.

jaehyun smiled, that soft, pretty, dimpled smile that made your heart do such stupid things, and then he started kissing his way down your body.

he started at your jaw, trailing soft, open-mouthed kisses down the column of your throat. jaehyun lingered at your pulse point, his tongue flicking out to taste your skin, and his teeth scraped gently over the spot before he sucked a mark there. it was not hard enough to bruise, just enough to feel, just enough to make you gasp.

"hyunie," you said, and your voice came out rough, broken.

"shh," he murmured against your collarbone. "let me."

jaehyun kissed across your chest, your sternum, your ribs. his lips found one of your nipples and he sucked it into his mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak, and your hands flew to his hair, holding him there.

he chuckled, the vibration shooting straight to your dick, and he gave the other side the same attention, biting down just enough to make you whine.

"awh, so responsive," jaehyun said, pulling back to admire his work. your chest was completely flushed, your nipples wet and peaked, and the look in his eyes was pure reverence. "you always react so well for me."

you wanted to say something clever, something casual, but all that came out was a breathless;

"please."

"please what?" he asked, and he was already moving lower, dragging his lips down your stomach, his tongue dipping into your belly button in a way that made you squirm.

"please touch me," you said. "i need—"

"i know what you need," jaehyun said, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of your sweatpants. "lift up."

you did, and he pulled your pants and boxers down in one smooth movement, tossing them aside. the cool air hit your skin and you shivered, your dick twitching against your stomach, already leaking precum onto your skin.

jaehyun made a sound, low and appreciative, and his hand wrapped around the base of your cock. his fingers didn't quite touch — he was big, but you were also bigger than average — and the sight of his hand around you made your head spin.

"so pretty," jaehyun said again, and he meant your dick, which was a weird thing to say but it made you blush anyway. "all of you. every part."

he leaned down and licked a stripe up the underside of your cock, from base to tip, and your hips jerked off the bed. his free hand pressed you back down, holding you in place, and he did it again, slower this time, his tongue flat and warm.

"jaehyun, please—"

"i said i want to take my time," he reminded you, and his breath was hot against your skin. "be patient."

he took the head of your cock into his mouth, just the head, and sucked gently. the sensation was electric, shooting up your spine and making your toes curl. his tongue swirled around the tip, cleaning up the precum, and he moaned like you were the best thing he'd ever tasted.

then jaehyun sank down.

your brain short-circuited; jaehyun's mouth was so hot and so wet and so perfect, and he knew exactly what he was doing. he took you deeper than you thought possible, his throat contracting around the head of your cock, and he looked up at you through his lashes with those big brown eyes and you almost came right there.

"oh f-fuck," you gasped, fisting the sheets. "fuckfuckfuck, hyunie, your mouth—"

he pulled off with a wet pop, lips swollen and shiny, and smiled up at you. "you like that?"

"you know i do."

jaehyun laughed, soft and fond, and then his mouth was on you again, bobbing up and down in a rhythm that made your vision blur. his hand worked what his mouth couldn't reach, twisting and pumping in time with his sucks, and he was moaning around you like he was the one getting pleasured.

it was too much. it was exactly enough.

"hyunie, i'm gonna—" you warned, but he didn't pull off.

jaehyun just took you deeper, his nose pressing against your pelvis, and swallowed around you.

you cum with a cry, your back arching off the bed, your hands flying to jaehyun’s hair to hold him in place. he took it all, swallowing every single drop, and he didn't stop until you were trembling and oversensitive, pushing at his shoulders.

jaehyun pulled off you slowly, licking his lips in such a hot way, and crawled back up your body. he kissed you, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and bitter, and it should have been gross but it wasn't; it was jaehyun, and everything about him made you feel good.

"told you i wanted to take my time," jaehyun murmured against your lips. "we're not done yet."

you blinked up at him, still hazy from your orgasm.

"what?"

he smiled, that stupidly pretty smile, and rolled off the bed.

you watched as jaehyun dug through his nightstand drawer, pulling out a bottle of lube and a condom. he tossed them onto the bed and then stripped off his shirt, and you forgot how to breathe for a second.

jaehyun was so beautiful. you'd known that since the day you met him, but seeing him like this — chest bare, skin golden in the lamplight, muscles moving under his skin — it never got old. jaehyun’s shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and there was a seductive light trail of hair leading from his navel down into his sweatpants.

he caught you staring and raised an eyebrow.

"what?"

"nothing," you said quickly. "you're just hot."

jaehyun’s cheeks flushed pink, which was ridiculous because he knew damn well he was hot. but jaehyun still ducked his head like he was shy, and the gesture made something warm bloom in your chest.

"shut up," he said, but he was smiling.

he stepped out of his sweatpants and boxers, and your mouth went dry. jaehyun's dick was big — long and thick, curving slightly upward, with a vein running along the side that you liked to trace with your tongue. it was already hard, flushed red at the tip, and it looked almost too big to fit inside you.

but it always fit, eventually.

jaehyun climbed back onto the bed, settling between your legs, and his hands naturally pushed your thighs apart. he looked at you — like he was memorizing every single inch of you for the first time — and his expression softened into something so tender it made your chest ache.

"you're sure?" jaehyun asked, because he always asked. "we don't have to—"

"jaehyun." you reached for him, pulling him down so his chest was pressed against yours. "i want this. i want you. okay?"

he nodded, his breath warm against your cheek.

"okay."

he kissed you again, softly and slowly, and you let yourself sink into it. jaehyun’s hands slid down your sides, over your hips, and one of them reached for the lube; you heard the click of the bottle opening, and then his long fingers were slick and cold against your inner thigh.

"warm it up first," you mumbled against jaehyun’s lips, and he softly laughed.

"bossy."

but he rubbed the lube between his fingers, warming it, and then his hand slipped between your legs.

jaehyun’s index finger circled your hole, teasing, not pushing in yet, but just getting you used to the sensation, the pressure. you breathed out slowly, relaxing into the mattress, and he pressed a soft kiss to your temple.

"good?" he asked.

"good."

he pushed in.

just one finger, slow and careful, and you clenched around him instinctively. jaehyun waited patiently, not moving, letting you adjust, and his free hand was on your hip, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your skin.

"breathe," he reminded you. "you're okay. i've got you."

you breathed. the tension in your body released, and he pushed deeper, his finger sliding all the way in. he crooked it, searching, and when he found your prostate you saw stars.

"there," you gasped. "right there."

jaehyun smiled and did it again, rubbing small circles against that sweet little spot, and your back arched off the bed again. he added a second finger, stretching you open, and the burn was good — so freaking good — and you couldn't stop the sounds falling from your lips.

"hyunie, please, i'm ready, i need—"

"mmh, not yet," jaehyun said, and his voice was strained, like he was holding himself back. "i want to make sure you're stretched enough."

he added a third finger, and you cried out, your hands gripping jaehyun’s shoulders. the stretch was intense, almost too much, but he worked you open with patience and precision, his fingers curling and scissoring and pressing against your prostate every few strokes.

"so tight," he muttered, almost to himself. "so good for me. taking my fingers so well."

"hyunie," you whined, and you were past the point of shame now. "please fuck me. i need your cock. please."

something in his expression shifted, darkened. jaehyun’s eyes went hooded, his jaw tightened, and he pulled his fingers out slowly, making you whimper at the loss.

"since you asked so nicely," jaehyun said, and he reached for the condom.

but you stopped him, your hand closing around his wrist. he looked at you, confused.

"no condom," you said. "i want to feel you."

jaehyun’s eyes widened.

"are you sure? we've never—"

"i'm sure." you pulled him down, wrapping your legs around his waist. "i trust you, hyunie. i want all of you."

he stared at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering across his face, then he nodded, slow and serious, and set the condom aside.

"okay," jaehyun said softly. "okay."

he slicked himself up with lube, his hand pumping his cock a few times, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. the head of his dick pressed against your hole, and you had to remind yourself to breathe.

"tell me if it's too much," jaehyun said, and his voice was rough. "tap my shoulder and i'll stop."

"i know. i trust you."

he pushed in.

just the tip at first, and even that was a lot.

jaehyun was big, and no matter how many times you did this, the first stretch was always intense. you gritted your teeth, focusing on breathing, on relaxing, on letting him in.

"you're doing so good," he murmured, his forehead pressed against yours. "so good for me. just a little more."

he pushed deeper, inch by inch, and your body opened up for him. the burn was there, sharp and sweet, but underneath it was pleasure, deep and overwhelming, and when he bottomed out you both let out a moan.

"f-fuck," jaehyun breathed, his eyes squeezed shut. "fuck, you feel—you're so—"

jaehyun couldn't finish the sentence, and you didn't need him to. you felt it too — the way he filled you completely, the way your bodies fit together like they were made for this, the way his heartbeat pounded against your chest.

"move," you said, your voice barely a whisper. "please move."

he pulled out slowly, almost all the way, and then pushed back in. the drag of his cock against your walls was exquisite, and you cried out, your nails digging into his back.

jaehyun found a rhythm, slow and deep, and every thrust hit your prostate dead on; you were already sensitive from your first orgasm, and the pleasure was building fast, too fast, threatening to swallow you whole.

"hyunie," you gasped, your legs tightening even more around his waist. "h-hyunie, right there, don't stop—"

"i won't," he said, and his voice was wrecked. "i won't stop. i'll give you everything. anything you want."

jaehyun’s pace increased, his hips snapping against yours, and the sound of skin on skin filled the room. he was sweating now, his hair sticking to his forehead, and he was beautiful — he was so beautiful — and you couldn't look away from him.

he changed the angle slightly, and suddenly the pleasure was blinding. your second orgasm hit you without warning, your cock spurting cum onto your stomach, and you screamed his name as your body convulsed around him.

"oh god," jaehyun groaned, and his rhythm stuttered. "you're—you just cum—"

"keep going," you said, even though you were oversensitive, even though every nerve was on fire. "don't stop, hyunie, i want you to cum inside me."

his eyes went dark, and he started moving again, faster now, chasing his own release. his thrusts were rougher, less controlled, and the overstimulation was a knife edge between pleasure and pain that made you see the stars.

"so good," he was mumbling, his voice broken and frantic. "so good, so good, you're so—i can't—"

jaehyun’s hips stuttered, and you knew he was close. you clenched around him intentionally, and he let out a sound that was almost a sob.

"fuck—i love you."

the words fell out of jaehyun like they'd been waiting for years to escape, and his eyes went wide the second he said them, and his hips stopped moving entirely.

the room went silent.

you stared at him, your chest heaving, your mind struggling to process what you'd just heard. jaehyun stared back, panic rising in his eyes, his face pale beneath the flush of arousal.

"i—" jaehyun started, and then stopped.

his jaw worked silently, like he was trying to find the words to take it back, to explain it away, but there was no taking it back now; the words hung in the air between you, heavy and real, and everything shifted.

jaehyun pulled out slowly, carefully, and the loss of him made you feel hollow in more ways than one. he sat back on his heels, still hard, still glistening with lube and your own release, and he wouldn't look at you.

"jaehyun," you said, and your voice came out raw.

"don't," he said, and his voice cracked. "please don't. i didn't mean—i mean, i did mean it, but i wasn't supposed to say it. i know we said no feelings, i know this was supposed to be casual, i know you don't—" jaehyun pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, and his shoulders shook. "fuck. i ruined it. i ruined everything."

you sat up slowly, your body aching and oversensitive, and you reached for him. your hand found jaehyun’s wrist, tugging his hands away from his face, and when he finally looked at you, his eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"hyunie," you said softly. "how long?"

he blinked. "what?"

"how long have you felt this way?"

jaehyun was quiet for a long moment, and then, so quietly you almost didn't hear him;

"months. maybe longer. i don't know. it just—it happened. and i tried to ignore it, i really did, but every time we—" he gestured vaguely at the bed, at your bodies, at everything. "it just made it worse. being with you, touching you, having you like this and knowing i couldn't have you the way i really wanted—"

his voice broke, and he looked away again.

"i'm sorry," jaehyun whispered, and his voice was trembling. "i know this isn't what you signed up for. i know you don't feel the same way. and i swear, i never meant to make things weird. i just—i couldn't help it. i love you. and i hate that i love you because it hurts, but i can't stop."

your chest felt like it was caving in.

because here was the thing; you'd told yourself this was casual, you'd told yourself you didn't have feelings, that you just wanted sex, that jaehyun was a friend and nothing more. but somewhere along the way, maybe the same way it had happened for him, the lines had blurred.

you loved the way he smiled at you, soft and private, like you were the only person in the world. you loved the way he said your name, the way it sounded in his deep voice. you loved the way he held you after sex, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin, even though you'd never asked him to. you loved the way he remembered things — your coffee order, the name of your childhood pet, the fact that you were scared of thunder.

you loved him. you'd been loving him for a while, probably, and you'd been too scared to admit it.

"jaehyun," you said again, and this time your voice was steady.

he flinched, bracing himself.

you cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. his cheeks were wet now, tears spilling over despite his best efforts, and you wiped them away with your thumbs.

"i'm not mad," you said.

jaehyun froze. "what?"

"i'm not mad. i'm not weirded out. i'm not going anywhere."

his brow furrowed, confusion replacing the panic.

"but you said—we said—"

"i know what we said." you stroked his cheekbones, his jaw, the corners of his mouth. "and i meant it at the time. but things change, hyunie. people change. feelings change."

jaehyun’s breath caught. "are you saying—"

"i'm saying i love you too." the words felt terrifying and freeing all at once. "i don't know exactly when it happened, or how, but it did. and i was too scared to say anything because i didn't want to lose you either."

he stared at you, his eyes wide and disbelieving.

"you're not just saying that?"

"i'm not just saying that."

"you really—"

"yes, jaehyun. i really love you."

a sound escaped him, something between a laugh and a sob, and then he was kissing you.

it was desperate and messy and perfect, his arms wrapping around you so tightly you could barely breathe. you kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring everything you hadn't said into the press of your lips, the slide of your tongue.

when you finally broke apart, both of you were crying a little, and it was ridiculous and sappy and you didn't care.

"i love you," jaehyun said again, like he was testing the words out loud, letting them be real.

"i love you too," you said back, and it felt like coming home.

jaehyun laughed, wet and shaky, and pressed his forehead against yours. "so what now?"

you thought about it; you thought about the mess of cum on your stomach, the lube on the sheets, the fact that jaehyun was still hard and pressing against your thigh. you thought about the way your heart was pounding, the way his hands were trembling on your hips.

"now," you said slowly with a smile, "i think you should finish what you started."

jaehyun’s eyebrows shot up.

"you want to—after everything—"

"jaehyun." you kissed the corner of his mouth, his jaw, his neck. "i just told you i love you. and you're still hard. and i'm still kind of stretched open from before. and i really, really want to feel you cum inside me."

he groaned, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily.

"you're going to kill me."

"is that a yes?"

jaehyun kissed you hard, his tongue sliding against yours, and then he was pushing you back down onto the mattress.

this time was different; you could feel it in the way he touched you, slower and more deliberate, like he was savoring every second. jaehyun kissed down your body again, but this time he lingered, pressing his lips to your chest, your stomach, the inside of your thighs. he kissed the marks he'd left earlier, soothing them with his warm tongue, and a new one appeared below your navel — a gentle bite that made you gasp.

"i love you," he murmured against your skin, and the words sent shivers down your spine. "i love your shoulders. i love your collarbones. i love the way you smell, like soap and something sweet. i love the sounds you make when i touch you."

"hyunie," you breathed, and your voice was thick with emotion.

he looked up at you, his eyes soft and glowing, and smiled.

"let me worship you, baby. please. let me show you how much i love you."

you nodded, because, well… you couldn't speak, and jaehyun went back to work.

he took his time with your cock, licking and sucking and kissing until you were writhing and begging. he didn't let you cum, though — he pulled back every time you got close, leaving you teetering on the edge.

"not yet," jaehyun said, and his voice was rough. "want you to cum when i'm inside you."

he flipped you over, onto your stomach, and you heard him slick himself up again. his hands spread your cheeks apart, and you felt his breath hot against your hole, and before you could process what was happening, his tongue was inside you.

"oh f-fuck," you loudly gasped, your face pressing into the pillow. "jaehyun—"

he hummed against you, the vibration making your toes curl, and his tongue worked you open, licking and sucking and teasing. his nose pressed against your skin, and he moaned like he was the one being pleasured.

"taste so good," he mumbled, and the words were muffled but you heard them anyway. "could do this forever."

he rimmed you until you were a trembling mess, your legs shaking, your hands fisting the sheets, then he pulled back, and you heard him spit — gross, but so hot — and then the head of his cock was pressing against your hole again.

"ready?" jaehyun asked.

"yes, god, yes, please—"

jaehyun pushed in, and this time there was no burn, and no resistance. your body welcomed him warmly, opened up for him, and jaehyun slid in all the way in one smooth movement that made you both cry out.

"fuck," jaehyun groaned, his hands gripping your hips. "you feel—i can't—"

"move," you begged. "please move, i need you to move."

and he did.

slow at first, pulling out almost all the way before pushing back in, and the drag of his huge cock against your walls was exquisite. jaehyun was hitting your prostate with every single thrust, and the pleasure was building, a slow burn that threatened to consume you entirely.

"harder," you said, pushing back against him. "please, harder."

jaehyun obliged, his pace increasing, his hips slapping against your ass. the sound was obscene, wet and loud, and you didn't care. you wanted more. you wanted everything.

"jaehyun," you moaned, and his name was a prayer on your lips. "right there, don't stop, i'm gonna—"

he reached around and wrapped his hand around your cock, pumping in time with his thrusts, and the double stimulation was too much. you cum with a scream, your body convulsing around him, and he swore loudly.

"so tight," jaehyun gasped, and his hips stuttered. "you're squeezing me so tight, i can't—"

"inside," you managed, your voice wrecked. "cum inside me. please, hyunie, i want to feel it."

jaehyun thrust into you three more times, deep and desperate, and then he was coming. you felt it — the pulse of jaehyun’s cock, the heat of his release filling you up — and he groaned your name like a benediction, collapsing onto your back.

you lay there for a long moment, both of you panting, sweaty, tangled together. his weight was heavy on top of you, but you didn't mind. you liked it. you liked the way he pressed you into the mattress, the way his breath was hot against your neck, the way his heart pounded against your spine.

"i love you," jaehyun whispered into your skin, and you felt the words more than you heard them.

"i love you too," you whispered back.

he pulled out slowly, and you both winced at the loss.

jaehyun rolled off you, onto his back, and he stared at the white ceiling. you turned your head to look at him, and he was smiling — a real smile, so wide and so bright and so full of joy it made your chest ache.

"that was—" he started.

"yeah," you agreed. "it was."

jaehyun laughed, soft and breathless, and turned onto his side to face you. his hand came up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone, and his eyes traced your face like he was seeing it for the first time.

"i can't believe you love me back," he said quietly. "i thought—i was so sure you didn't. i was so scared of losing you."

"you're not going to lose me," you said, covering his hand with yours. "i'm not going anywhere."

his eyes glistened again, but this time the tears were happy. he leaned in and kissed you, soft and slow and full of promise.

a little moment after that, jaehyun disappeared into his dorm’s bathroom and came back with a warm washcloth. he cleaned you up carefully, wiping the cum from your stomach and the lube from between your legs. his touch was so gentle, almost reverent, and jaehyun pressed kisses to your hip, your thigh, your knee as he worked.

"you did so good," jaehyun murmured softly. "you always do so good for me."

you were too tired to respond, floating in a haze of endorphins and contentment. he tossed the washcloth aside and pulled you into his arms, arranging you so your head was on his chest and his arms were wrapped around you.

"stay," jaehyun said, and it wasn't really a question. "please. stay the night."

"wasn't planning on leaving," you mumbled against his skin.

he laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest, and his fingers started tracing patterns on your back. you closed your eyes, letting yourself sink into the warmth of him, the steady beat of jaehyun’s heart.

"hey," he said after a while, his voice soft.

"hmm?"

"i meant it. everything i said."

you opened your eyes and tilted your head back to look at him. jaehyun’s face was fully open, vulnerable, all his walls down for the very first time.

"i know," you said. "me too."

he smiled, that small, dimpled smile that had made you fall for him in the first place, and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"go to sleep," he said. "we can talk more in the morning."

"promise?"

"promise."

you closed your eyes again, and the last thing you felt before sleep took you was jaehyun's lips on your hair, soft and warm, and the quiet whisper of his voice in the dark.

"i love you. i love you. i love you."

you woke up the next morning to sunlight streaming through the blinds and jaehyun's arm draped across your waist.

for a small moment, you didn't remember.

you simply felt warm and comfortable and so safe, and you didn't want to move at all. but then the events of last night came flooding back — the sex, the confession, the crying, the sex again — and your eyes snapped open.

jaehyun was watching you.

his head was propped on his hand, elbow sunk into the pillow, and he was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read. there was hope there, and fear, and something soft and tender that made your heart skip.

"good morning," jaehyun said quietly.

"morning," you said back, your voice rough with sleep.

he was quiet for a moment, his thumb stroking back and forth across your hip. then he said, carefully;

"do you remember what you said last night?"

you did. of course you did. you remembered every single word, every single look, every single touch.

"i love you," you said, and the words came easier this time. "i love you, jaehyun. i meant it."

his whole body relaxed, like he'd been holding his breath and had finally been allowed to exhale. a smile spread across his pretty face, bright and relieved, and he pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair.

"i love you too," jaehyun said, his voice muffled. "i love you so much it scares me sometimes."

"i know," you said, and you wrapped your arms around him, holding on tight. "me too."

you lay there for a long time, just holding each other, not talking. the morning light shifted across the room, and somewhere outside, someone was playing music too loud. it was ordinary and perfect and exactly what you needed.

finally, jaehyun pulled back just enough to look at you. his hair was a complete mess, sticking up in every direction, and there were pillow creases on his cheek, and he was the most beautiful thing you'd ever seen in your entire life.

"sooo," jaehyun said, and there was a hint of his usual playfulness in his voice, "does this mean we're not friends with benefits anymore?"

you laughed, the sound surprising you.

"i think we graduated to something else, yeah."

"boyfriends?" he asked, and his eyes were hopeful.

"boyfriends," you agreed.

jaehyun kissed you, soft and sweet, and when he pulled back his smile was so wide it made his eyes crinkle.

"boyfriends," jaehyun said again, like he was trying it on for size. "yeah, i like that."

"me too."

he kissed you again, and then again, and then his hand started wandering south, and you raised an eyebrow at him.

"already?" you asked.

"i've been in love with you for years," jaehyun said, grinning against your neck. "i have a lot of time to make up for."

well, you couldn't argue with that.

The apartment is warm when Toji Fushiguro gets home. Warm in that quiet, lived-in way he still hasn’t fully gotten used to. There’s laundry folded on the arm of the couch. Tiny sneakers kicked off by the door. The fridge hums steadily beneath a clutter of magnets you and Megumi collected from cheap grocery stores and corner shops like they were priceless souvenirs.

Home. His home.

The thought still catches strangely in his chest sometimes.

It’s late. Later than he promised he’d be. The job ran long, then traffic got backed up halfway through the city, and now exhaustion sits heavy in his bones as he shrugs off his jacket. 

Usually by this point, Megumi’s asleep already. Usually you’re curled on the couch waiting up for him with some shitty reality show playing quietly in the background. But you’re three states away for work this week, and the apartment feels different without you in it. Too quiet.

Toji rubs at the back of his neck as he steps farther inside. “Megs?” No answer.

His brows knit immediately. The TV glows softly in the darkened living room, muted cartoons flickering against the walls, and there, curled into the corner of the couch beneath one of your blankets is Megumi.

The little boy’s shoulders shake silently. Toji freezes. “…Megumi?”

Megumi jerks slightly at the sound of his voice. Toji’s stomach twists immediately. His son’s face is blotchy red from crying. Tears cling wetly to his lashes while he presses both fists hard against his eyes like he’s trying to stop more from coming out.

Toji moves closer automatically. “What happened?”

Megumi shakes his head hard.

“Hey.” Toji crouches carefully in front of the couch. “Talk t’me, brat.”

Another shake. Then a tiny broken hiccup. Toji feels genuine panic start crawling unpleasantly up his spine. Megumi rarely cried like this anymore. Not since you. Not since the apartment started feeling stable and warm and safe.

Toji reaches out instinctively, rough palm brushing against the little boy’s knee. “C’mere.”

Megumi immediately scoots backward instead. “No.” The word is tiny. Wobbly. But it still hits Toji square in the chest.

“…What?”

“I want dad.”

Toji blinks once. His exhausted brain struggles to process the sentence properly. “I’m right here.”

Megumi’s face crumples harder instantly. “No,” he sobs, voice cracking. “I don’t want papa.”

The words land like a punch. Toji goes still.

Megumi curls tighter into the blanket, crying openly now. “I want dad…”

And suddenly Toji understands. Not papa. Dad. You.

The apartment goes strangely quiet around him for a second. Megumi’s tiny shoulders shaking beneath your blanket. Your blanket. The one Megumi drags around the apartment whenever you travel because it smells like your detergent and the stupid citrus fabric softener you always buy.

Toji stares at his son silently, and something in his chest aches so hard it almost feels unbearable. Because Megumi misses you. Not casually. Not in the vague fond way kids miss adults sometimes. No. This is the kind of missing that lives deep in little bones. The kind built slowly over bedtime stories and packed lunches and cartoon pancakes and warm hands helping tie tiny shoes before school. You carved yourself into Megumi’s life so gently that neither of them noticed it happening.

Until now.

Toji swallows hard. “…Hey,” he says quietly.

Megumi keeps crying. Toji’s never been good at this part. He knows how to fight. Survive. Bleed quietly. But comforting people… Especially people he loves… Still feels like trying to hold water in scarred hands.

He sits carefully on the edge of the couch instead. The cushions dip beneath his weight. Megumi doesn’t move away this time.

“That bad, huh?” Toji mutters softly.

Megumi sniffles miserably. “He always reads m’story.”

The tiny devastated way he says it nearly kills Toji instantly, because yeah, you do. Every night. Even when exhausted. Even when Megumi asks for the same dinosaur book six times in a row.

Toji rubs a hand slowly over his jaw. “He’ll call tomorrow.”

“I want him now.” Christ. Toji closes his eyes briefly. Then sighs.

“C’mere, Megs.” 

This time, after a long hesitant second Megumi crawls into his lap. Still crying. Toji wraps both arms around him automatically, holding the little boy carefully against his chest while tiny fingers clutch desperately at his hoodie.

“He said four sleeps,” Megumi mumbles tearfully.

“Yeah.”

“But it’s too many.”

Toji exhales slowly through his nose. You’d only been gone two days, and apparently both of them were handling it badly. He rests his chin lightly against Megumi’s messy hair.

“He misses you too, y’know.”

Megumi sniffles. “Really?”

“Hn.”

“How do you know?”

Because the apartment feels colder without you in it. Because Toji keeps reaching for you in bed before remembering the sheets beside him are empty. Because dinner tastes wrong when someone isn’t nagging him about eating vegetables. Because the silence feels heavier now that he’s learned what your laughter sounds like filling it.

But Megumi’s six.

So Toji just says quietly, “He called twice t’day askin’ about you.”

Megumi brightens slightly at that. “He did?”

“Wouldn’t shut up about how you’re probably forgettin’ to brush your teeth.”

“I never forget!”

“That’s what I said.”

Megumi huffs weakly against his chest. Toji’s hand drifts up automatically, fingers combing carefully through soft black hair.

He learned that from you. Everything soft, he learned from you. The realization settles heavily in his chest. A year ago, this apartment was barely livable. Megumi barely spoke. And Toji… Toji thought family was something that happened to other people.

Now his son cries because he misses bedtime stories from the man who painted over water stains and made clown pancakes and loved them both stupidly enough to stay.

“Papa?”

“Hm?”

Megumi tilts his head back slightly, eyes still watery. “Do you miss him too?”

Toji stills. Dangerous question. Tiny little thing. But dangerous. Megumi watches him with your same quiet patience. Waiting.

Toji looks away first. “…Yeah,” he mutters eventually.

The word comes rough. Honest. And maybe that’s what finally breaks something open in him. Because saying it out loud makes it real. You’re not temporary anymore. Not some soft thing passing through their lives. 

You’re woven into this place now.

Into Megumi.

Into him.

Megumi nods sleepily like the answer makes perfect sense. “Me too.”

Toji huffs out a quiet laugh through his nose. “Yeah, I know.”

The crying finally slows after that. Megumi sags heavily against him, exhausted from all the tears. Toji glances toward the clock. Too late to call you. You’re probably asleep in some hotel room across the country.

Still, he reaches for his phone anyway. Megumi notices immediately.

“Calling dad?”

“Nah.” Toji opens the camera instead.

Megumi blinks. “What’re you doing?”

Toji angles the phone carefully toward the two of them. “Quit lookin’ confused,” he mutters. “He’s gonna lose his mind if he finds out you cried this hard without him.”

Megumi giggles weakly despite himself. There it is. That tiny sound. Toji snaps the picture before Megumi can hide his face. Then another. One where Megumi’s tucked sleepily against his chest beneath your blanket. Safe. Loved. Home.

Toji stares at the photo for a long second before finally typing out a message beneath it.

your kid misses you.think he’s emotionally manipulative.come home soon.

He hesitates. Then adds, after another second:

we both do.

Megumi’s already half asleep against him by the time the message sends. Toji sets the phone aside carefully before leaning back into the couch. 

It was the kind of phrase that had followed you your whole life, stitched into your memory so deeply it no longer sounded like advice. It sounded like survival. You grew up hearing it from people who woke up early, came home tired, and never had the luxury of falling apart just because life got heavy. Back then, it had been a working-class saying, something practical and blunt, a reminder that no matter what you felt, the world still expected you to get up and make something happen. Now that you were grown, with your life twisted into something far more complicated than you ever imagined, that same phrase had turned into more than a motto. It had become the rhythm of your existence. A lifestyle. A shield. A way of swallowing whatever pride, shame, exhaustion, or second thoughts tried to rise in your throat long enough to keep moving.

That mindset was written all over the way you carried yourself as you stepped through the grand entrance of The Afrodisiac.

The hotel was impossible to ignore. It didn't just look expensive—it looked intentional. Seductive. Every inch of the place was designed to make people feel like they were stepping out of ordinary life and into a fantasy they could afford to indulge in. The lobby gleamed beneath low golden lighting that made everything and everyone look softer, richer, more desirable. Black marble floors reflected the chandeliers above like liquid glass. Velvet seating in deep wine and midnight tones curved around intimate corners, meant for whispered conversations and dangerous decisions. The air itself smelled expensive—some blend of amber, vanilla, polished wood, and whatever signature fragrance the hotel pumped discreetly through its vents to make sure no guest ever forgot where they'd been.

The Afrodisiac was not an average luxury hotel, and it never tried to pretend otherwise.

Its reputation lived in hushed conversations, celebrity blogs that hinted more than they revealed, and the kind of rumors people denied with a smile. It was a place where the rich, the beautiful, and the powerful came to escape the rules they pretended to follow in public. Celebrities booked penthouses there under fake names. Athletes threw invitation-only parties behind guarded doors. Music executives, actors, socialites, politicians, heirs—people with too much money and too many secrets—treated the hotel like a playground wrapped in satin and silence. It was glamorous on the surface, but underneath the glitter was something sharper: discretion. Privacy. Control. NDAs were as common there as room keys. What happened inside The Afrodisiac stayed there, buried beneath polished service, security teams, and the unspoken understanding that everyone had something to lose.

And somehow, against all odds and every version of the future you once imagined for yourself, this had become part of your world.

You moved through the lobby like you belonged there, even if some part of you still remembered the version of yourself who would have stared at a place like this from the outside and never believed he'd one day know its hallways by heart. Your clothes were immaculate, your posture easy, your expression unreadable in that practiced way you'd perfected over time. Confidence, even when it had to be manufactured, was part of the uniform. So was mystery. People noticed you when you walked in—not loudly, not with open gawking, but in that subtle, instinctive way attention shifted toward beauty without permission. A glance from a receptionist. A pause from a guest. A flicker of interest from someone pretending not to look. You were used to it now.

Inside the hotel's infamous lounge, you were known by a different name.

Siren.

That nickname had been given to you by the lounge manager not long after he hired you, and it had stuck so well that some people no longer bothered learning your real name. According to him, you had "the ability to draw anyone in." At first, you thought it was just one of those dramatic little labels the hotel loved to hand out, part of the branding, part of the atmosphere. But over time, you realized he hadn't been exaggerating. There was something about you people responded to before you even spoke—something in the way you looked at them, moved past them, smiled just enough to make them wonder if it meant anything. You knew how to hold attention. How to make people feel chosen. How to make desire feel personal.

In the lounge, that gift had made you valuable.

You were a male dancer, yes, but that title barely covered the reality of what the job demanded. You were part performer, part fantasy, part emotional illusion wrapped in designer fabric and low light. The lounge itself was the hotel's crown jewel—a decadent, pulse-heavy sanctuary tucked away from the main lobby where music rolled through the room like heat and every detail was built to seduce the senses. Plush booths curved around candlelit tables. Mirrors stretched along the walls, reflecting bodies, movement, and sin until the whole room felt larger than it was. The stage glowed beneath colored lights, and the crowd that gathered there each night expected more than entertainment. They came for escape. For temptation. For the feeling of being close to something forbidden and beautiful.

And you delivered exactly that.

You hadn't expected to still be here, though.

When you first took the job, it was never meant to be permanent. It was supposed to be a stopgap, a desperate decision made during a chapter of your life when desperation outweighed discomfort. Bills were stacked too high. Time was running out. Pride didn't keep the lights on, and morality felt like a luxury for people who had choices. You told yourself it would only be for a little while—just long enough to breathe, just long enough to catch up, just long enough to survive whatever storm had cornered you there in the first place.

But little while had turned into a long time.

Long enough to learn the rhythms of the hotel. Long enough to memorize the faces of regulars and the habits of men who tipped with entitlement. Long enough to understand how easy it was to become useful in a world like this, and how hard it was to walk away once people started paying for the version of you they preferred. You had adapted because adaptation was what you did. You learned how to separate yourself from the role. How to slide into the silk, the cologne, the smirk, the calculated body language. How to give people just enough of a fantasy to keep them hooked without ever fully handing over the parts of yourself that still belonged to you.

At least, that was the lie you liked to tell yourself.

Because the truth was more complicated. This place had changed you. Not all at once, not dramatically, but slowly, in ways that crept in beneath the surface. It had sharpened you. Toughened you. Taught you how to read people in seconds and spot hunger in all its forms—loneliness dressed as arrogance, desire dressed as power, sadness hidden behind expensive watches and charming smiles. It taught you that people with money would pay outrageous amounts to feel wanted, even for an hour. It taught you that attention was currency, beauty was leverage, and survival sometimes demanded you make peace with things your younger self would have judged.

So when you entered The Afrodisiac that day, there was no hesitation in your step.

Just purpose.

Another day. Another dollar.

Only in your world, the dollars came wrapped in dim lights, whispered promises, expensive liquor, and the constant hum of temptation. And you—Siren, the one who drew them in—had learned exactly how to survive inside it.

BY THE TIME you slipped backstage of the lounge, the polished glamour of The Afrodisiac shifted into something far more intimate and far less illusioned.

Out front, everything was velvet, seduction, and expensive fantasy. Back here, behind the soft red curtains and mirrored hallways, the atmosphere changed. The lighting was still low, still flattering, but harsher in purpose—bright enough for makeup touch-ups, costume checks, and the quick transformations required before stepping back into character. The air carried a mix of cologne, hairspray, body shimmer, perfume, sweat, and powder, all layered together into the scent of preparation. Music from the lounge outside pulsed faintly through the walls, its bass vibrating beneath your feet like a second heartbeat, a reminder that the night was already moving whether you were ready for it or not.

You walked in with the same controlled confidence you wore everywhere in this hotel, your presence drawing a few glances as dancers moved through the room in various stages of getting ready. Some were buttoning crisp shirts over sculpted torsos only to leave most of the buttons open anyway. Some were leaning into the mirrors, carefully lining their eyes or fixing their hair with the seriousness of artists about to perform on a grand stage. Others lounged in chairs scrolling through their phones, conserving energy before the lounge opened fully and the night began demanding pieces of them.

You greeted them as you passed, tossing out a casual hello here, a nod there, maybe a small smirk in someone's direction if they caught your eye. They greeted you back well enough. Familiarity existed in the room, but warmth was another matter entirely.

Because despite the beauty, the glamour, and the shared routines, these people were not your friends.

They were your co-workers.

That distinction mattered more than anyone on the outside would understand. People liked to imagine places like this as one big, decadent family—everyone laughing in dressing rooms, sharing secrets, living in glamorous solidarity beneath the stage lights. But the truth was far less sentimental. This was a workplace, and a competitive one at that. Everyone here was selling something: fantasy, charm, sex appeal, emotional escape, attention. Everyone knew who pulled bigger tips, who got requested by name, who had the manager's favor, who got the prime sets, who had been booked for private events upstairs. Smiles were exchanged, compliments were offered, jokes were made—but underneath it all lived quiet comparison, subtle rivalry, and the unspoken understanding that in a place built on desirability, nobody could afford to be too soft for too long.

So you were cordial. Professional. Easy to be around, but never too open.

You had learned that lesson quickly.

Trust was expensive in a place like this, and you didn't spend it easily.

There was only one person backstage you allowed yourself to think of as a genuine friend.

Ciara.

Though inside these walls, nobody really used government names. Not if they wanted to keep their personal life separated from the world of dim lights, fake names, and expensive secrets. In here, Ciara was Rain.

And the nickname fit her so perfectly that sometimes even you forgot it wasn't her real name.

Rain was the kind of woman who could command a room without raising her voice. She had that rare kind of presence—smooth, dangerous, magnetic. The kind that didn't beg for attention because it knew attention would come anyway. She could walk past a table and leave silence behind her, every eye dragged in her direction without her having to do much more than glance over her shoulder. Her beauty helped, obviously, but it was more than that. It was the confidence. The control. The way she moved like she had already decided what effect she was going to have on people before she even stepped into the room.

People said she was called Rain because she was so good at making it rain money.

And that was true.

Men threw cash at her like they were trying to prove something to themselves. She had a way of making people reach deeper into their wallets without ever appearing to ask. Every smile, every touch, every teasing step and slow turn looked effortless on her part, but there was precision in everything she did. Rain knew how to build anticipation. She knew how to give just enough, then pull back right when someone thought they had her figured out. She could leave a man breathless, lighter in the bank account, and somehow grateful for the privilege.

But the other half of her nickname was just as true.

Because Rain could make a man cry, too.

Not always literally—though you had seen that happen once, and it had been equal parts tragic and embarrassing—but emotionally? Absolutely. She had a gift for getting under skin without seeming cruel about it. She could read insecurity in a heartbeat and dance along its edges like she was born for it. Some men came in thinking they wanted a fantasy, only to leave looking wrecked because Rain had reminded them, in one smile and one dismissive turn, that wanting something didn't mean you could have it. She could make a man feel like a king for ten minutes, then leave him staring after her like he'd just lost a war.

And somehow, beneath all that sharpness, she was one of the realest people you knew.

You spotted her near one of the mirrors, already halfway dressed for the night, adjusting an earring while talking to one of the bartenders who had wandered backstage under the weak excuse of saying hello. Rain caught sight of you through the reflection before you even spoke. Her lips curved instantly, that sly, knowing smile settling on her face like she'd been expecting you.

"There he is," she said, voice smooth and amused, eyes flicking over you. "The lounge's favorite bad decision."

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you came closer. "And here I thought I was a respectable employee."

She turned then, fully facing you, and the bartender wisely took that as his cue to disappear. Rain had that effect. "Please," she said dryly. "None of us are respectable employees. We're expensive coping mechanisms."

That got a real laugh out of you.

That was one of the reasons she was your person in this place. Rain understood the job for what it was without dressing it up in lies. She never romanticized it, never judged you for doing what you had to do, never pretended the hotel was something nobler than what it actually was. At the same time, she didn't let it eat her alive either. She had found a way to survive here without losing the core of herself, and in a place full of masks, that made her feel rare.

Your friendship with her had formed quietly over time. Not in some dramatic instant, but in shared glances, mutual understanding, and little moments in between shifts. A bottle of water handed over without asking. A warning about a difficult guest. A quick makeup fix before you hit the floor. A joke cracked at the exact right moment after a long night. She was one of the few people who looked at you and saw more than Siren, more than the polished fantasy everyone else paid for. She saw the exhaustion sometimes hiding beneath your confidence. She saw the sharp edges in you, the survival instincts, the parts that still bristled at what your life had become.

And because of that, you trusted her.

As much as someone like you could trust anybody in a place like this.

Rain looked you over again, more carefully this time, reading your face the way she always did. "You good?" she asked, voice dropping just enough to make the question genuine beneath the humor.

You gave a small shrug, setting your things down near your station. "I'm here, aren't I?"

She hummed at that, one brow lifting as if to say that answer told her everything she needed to know.

Backstage, around the two of you, the room continued buzzing with practiced chaos. Heels clicked against the floor. Garment bags rustled. Someone cursed because they couldn't find a cufflink. Another dancer laughed too loudly at something that wasn't that funny. The sound of the crowd outside swelled faintly as more guests entered the lounge, and all of it blended together into the familiar pre-show storm.

But in that small pocket of space beside Rain, things felt steadier.

Manageable.

Because while the rest of the dancers were people you worked beside, people you smiled at and shared space with out of necessity, Rain was the only one who made this place feel even remotely human. The only one who could stand in the middle of all this velvet-draped chaos and make you feel less alone in it.

And in a place like The Afrodisiac, that counted for more than most people would ever know.

𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑶𝑫 in front of the backstage mirror, giving yourself one last slow look as you adjusted the final details of your costume.

Tonight's theme was fantasy with bite, and your outfit delivered exactly that.

It was the stripper version of Zatanna's look, inspired by the famous DC magician but reworked for the world of The Afrodisiac—less stage illusionist and more dangerous temptation wrapped in satin, structure, and skin. The classic magician aesthetic was still there if you knew what to look for: the sharp black palette, the polished glamour, the sense of theatrical mystery. But the hotel's version had taken all of that and pushed it somewhere darker, sexier, and far more provocative.

The corset was the centerpiece.

Black, fitted, and cut to sculpt rather than simply flatter, it hugged your torso like it had been made with the sole purpose of turning your body into a weapon. It cinched your waist tightly enough to sharpen every line, forcing your posture into something naturally commanding—shoulders back, chest lifted, spine straight with the kind of elegance that looked effortless even when it wasn't. The shape it gave you was almost unfair. It made your frame look even more dramatic than usual, carving you into something sleek and decadent, your silhouette all smooth curves and controlled tension. If your body had already been tea before, that corset made it lethal.

Below it, the rest of the outfit leaned unapologetically into fantasy. The tailored black bottoms sat just right, designed to tease as much as they revealed, while sheer details and glossy finishes caught the light every time you moved. Fishnets climbed your legs, adding that signature Zatanna edge, and your boots—dark, polished, and performance-ready—gave the whole look a commanding finish. The jacket, cropped and dramatic, hung off your shoulders with just enough structure to sell the magician fantasy without softening the seduction. Add in the smoky eye makeup, the precise contouring, the shimmer dusted strategically across your skin, and the entire effect was devastating.

You looked like the kind of magic people paid to ruin themselves over.

Around you, backstage remained a blur of motion and noise—music pulsing through the walls, dancers finishing touches, voices bouncing between mirrors and garment racks—but for a second, all of that faded into the background as you took yourself in. The costume wasn't just clothing. It was armor. Performance skin. The version of you that walked out under lounge lights and made strangers forget their names and bank limits.

You rolled your shoulders once, testing the fit, then turned away from the mirror and started toward the exit that would lead you from backstage and onto the floor.

You had barely made it a few steps before a voice stopped you.

"Siren."

You turned and found your manager cutting through the room toward you with the kind of brisk, purposeful stride that immediately told you this wasn't casual. He was always polished, always composed, but there was something slightly more deliberate in his expression tonight, something that made you pause before he even said another word.

"You're not on the lounge floor for the rest of the night," he said.

Your brows lifted slightly.

That wasn't normal.

You crossed your arms loosely, more out of habit than attitude, the corset tightening subtly with the movement. "That so?"

He nodded. "Change of plans."

There was a beat where the music from outside seemed louder, the bass pressing against the walls while you studied his face for more. In this place, changes of plans could mean anything. A last-minute private booking. A high-paying guest with specific tastes. A problem upstairs. A favor for someone important. None of it ever came with full context unless you absolutely needed it.

Instead of dragging it out, he stepped closer and lowered his voice enough to keep the conversation private without making it dramatic.

"You've got a client upstairs."

That shifted something in you immediately—not fear exactly, but alertness. Lounge performances were one thing. Upstairs meant private. More exclusive. More money, usually. Also more unpredictable.

You kept your expression smooth. "Who?"

He gave the faintest shake of his head. "No name."

Of course.

That was another part of the hotel's world—names mattered less than influence. People who booked upstairs, especially through the inner circle of the hotel's elite, often preferred to remain shadows until they chose otherwise.

Your manager continued, tone measured. "What I can tell you is this—he's an athlete, hot as hell, and not just some rich fool passing through. He's a special VIP to the boss.”

That got your full attention.

The boss didn't extend that kind of language to just anybody. Plenty of wealthy clients came through The Afrodisiac. Plenty tipped obscenely, rented out suites, and acted like kings for a night. But being described as a special VIP to the boss of the hotel meant this man sat in a different category entirely. Protected. Favored. Important enough that everyone around him would be expected to handle things carefully.

You glanced at your manager, eyes narrowing just slightly. "And you're telling me this because...?"

"Because," he said, looking you over in that assessing way managers did when they were calculating brand, performance, and profit all at once, "he specifically requested one of our best. The boss agreed. So congratulations."

The word sounded flattering on the surface, but you heard the assignment underneath it.

This wasn't a suggestion. It was a directive wrapped in praise.

Still, you didn't let any irritation show. You had been here long enough to know how this worked. If the boss made a call, the room adjusted accordingly. And if someone that protected wanted a private dancer upstairs, you either handled it professionally or you made yourself replaceable.

So you tilted your head, your expression unreadable. "Anything else I should know?"

Your manager considered that. "He's fresh in. Wants privacy. Wants discretion. And from what I gathered, he's used to getting exactly what he asks for."

A faint, humorless smile touched your mouth.

"So," you said, "an athlete."

That earned a short breath of amusement from him. "Something like that."

He stepped aside then, motioning toward the private hallway that led away from the lounge floor and toward the elevators reserved for high-end clientele, the ones whose desires were not meant to be watched by the general crowd downstairs.

As you turned in that direction, the mood of the night changed around you.

The lounge had one kind of energy—public seduction, performance, the adrenaline rush of being watched by many at once. Upstairs was different. More intimate. More controlled. The stakes felt sharper there, because when all the lights and crowd noise fell away, there was nowhere to hide behind choreography and stage persona. Private clients weren't buying the same fantasy as the men downstairs throwing money from velvet booths. They expected something more tailored. More personal. More convincing.

Your boots clicked against the floor as you headed toward the corridor, each step steady, measured, elegant.

Behind you, the backstage noise faded into the hum of the building, and ahead of you stretched the polished quiet of exclusivity—soft lighting, expensive artwork, thick carpet swallowing sound, the kind of hallway designed to make everyone walking through it feel like they were about to do something they shouldn't.

You could feel the corset around your waist with every breath, tight and sculpting, holding you together as neatly as your expression did. Your face remained calm, but your mind was already working. Athlete. Hot as hell. Close to the boss. No name.

That combination could mean trouble. Or money. Or both.

Probably both.

𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑫 the elevator, you had fully slipped back into yourself—or rather, into the version of yourself this hotel required. Not the man who had once stumbled into The Afrodisiac desperate and overdrawn and trying not to drown. Not the one who still sometimes felt the sting of how far necessity had pushed him. But Siren—polished, beautiful, unreadable, and dangerous enough to make strangers believe whatever fantasy they wanted to buy.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

You stepped inside alone, catching your reflection briefly in the mirrored walls.

Black corset. Fishnets. Smoke around your eyes. A body sharpened into temptation. A face composed enough to hide every second thought.

As the doors closed and the elevator began carrying you upstairs toward a faceless VIP with too much pull and not enough introduction, a strange tension curled low in your stomach—not quite dread, not quite anticipation, but something restless in between.

The ride up felt longer than it actually was.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the shift in atmosphere the higher you went, as though the building itself understood there was a difference between the fantasies sold downstairs and the arrangements made above. In the lounge, desire was loud—music, bodies, lights, attention. Upstairs, it became quieter. More private. More expensive. The kind of quiet that made you aware of every sound: the faint hum of the elevator, the soft breath leaving your nose, the subtle creak of your corset when you adjusted your posture.

You stood tall in the mirrored elevator, one hand loosely at your side, the other brushing once over the front of your jacket as if checking that everything was sitting exactly the way it should. Your reflection stared back at you from every angle—sharp, polished, put together. The black Zatanna-inspired costume still hit exactly how it was supposed to: dangerous elegance, theatrical seduction, all mystery and control. The corset had your frame looking snatched beyond reason, your silhouette almost unreal beneath the low amber light overhead. Fishnets, boots, smoky eyes, glossy mouth, just enough shimmer to catch the light when you moved—it all came together into the kind of image people paid for before you even spoke.

Then the elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

And waiting for you on the other side was Gregory.

Gregory never looked like he belonged anywhere ordinary. He filled a hallway the same way some men filled a room—with presence first, everything else second. At six-foot-five, broad-shouldered and sharply dressed, he carried himself with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing he owned more than what was written on paper. The hotel may have had investors, executives, and hidden names attached to it, but Gregory was the face people associated with power inside these walls. A Russian with effortless charisma and a predator's instincts, he was the sort of man who could smile warmly while calculating profit, leverage, and loyalty all at once.

He had done exactly that the moment he met you.

You knew it. He knew you knew it.

The first time Gregory laid eyes on you, he hadn't looked at you the way a man merely admired beauty. He looked at you the way a businessman recognized opportunity. Dollar signs. Market value. Long-term return. He had taken one sweeping look at your face, your body, your presence, and instantly seen what everyone else would be willing to pay for it. Since then, he had treated you well enough—but never in a way that let you forget you were one of the investments he was most pleased with.

Tonight, he looked especially pleased.

"There he is," Gregory said, his deep voice smooth and welcoming, accented just enough to make everything he said sound more deliberate. His eyes moved over you once, taking in the outfit, the presentation, the effect. A small grin touched his mouth. "I knew that costume would print money."

You stepped out of the elevator with a controlled ease, your expression cool even as you clocked every detail around you. This floor was different from the rest of the hotel—quieter, richer, more insulated. The lighting was low and warm. The carpets were thick enough to silence footsteps. The doors to the suites were spaced farther apart, each one elegant and understated, because on this level, nobody needed flashy décor to prove they had money.

You looked back at Gregory. "Good evening to you too."

That earned a short laugh from him.

He was dressed in one of his usual dark tailored suits, expensive enough that even the fabric seemed to hold authority. No tie tonight, just an open collar that softened the look enough to make him seem more approachable—though nothing about Gregory was ever truly soft. He wore a watch that probably cost more than some people's cars, a ring that caught the light when he moved his hand, and the kind of scent that announced wealth without being loud about it. Every detail was intentional. Gregory understood image better than most. He had built an empire on fantasy, and he knew how to dress like the man who controlled it.

He came closer, stopping just near enough that the conversation stayed private without feeling intimate.

"This customer," he said, his tone shifting from amused to businesslike, "is not like the usual upstairs requests."

You kept your face composed. "That's what I've been hearing."

Gregory's mouth curved, as if he appreciated that you weren't acting dazzled by the mystery. "He is a close friend of mine."

There it was again—that emphasis.

Not just a client. Not just a VIP. A close friend.

That changed the shape of things immediately. Gregory protected what was his, and he favored very few people in a way that felt personal. If he was making a point to tell you this man belonged to that inner circle, then tonight wasn't simply about giving a performance. It was about representation. About trust. About keeping one of Gregory's chosen people more than satisfied.

Your gaze stayed on him. "And what exactly are you asking?"

Gregory held your eyes for a beat, and when he answered, his voice was calm—almost too calm.

"You are to do whatever he wants."

The words landed cleanly between you.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just direct.

You didn't react outwardly, but internally your attention sharpened another degree. Gregory noticed everything, so you gave him nothing he could read too easily. That was a skill this place had taught you well. Still, his wording told you more than enough. Whoever was behind that suite door, he was important enough that limits would be assumed flexible unless you made them otherwise. Important enough that Gregory expected the night to go smoothly, generously, and without complaint.

Then, as if to underline the point in a language this place respected most, Gregory reached into the inner pocket of his jacket.

What came out was a thick stack of cash.

Not a few bills folded for show. Not a teasing little display meant to tempt. A real stack—crisp, heavy, deliberate. The kind of money that could quiet questions before they fully formed. He held it casually, but not carelessly, letting you see the thickness of it, the promise sitting there in clean-cut bills under the hallway light.

It was the best indicator of the reward.

Your eyes flicked to it, then back to him.

Gregory smiled, not missing a thing. "Half now," he said. "Half if my friend is pleased."

There was no need for him to say more. In The Afrodisiac, money often did the talking before people ever got around to being honest. That stack said plenty. It said the guest was generous. It said Gregory expected this to be handled without issue. It said that whatever happened inside that suite, your time tonight had just become significantly more valuable than anything waiting downstairs in the lounge.

It also said Gregory knew exactly how to motivate people without raising his voice.

He extended part of the stack toward you, not as a bribe exactly, but as an advance—an expectation dressed as generosity. The bills looked almost too neat in his hand, too effortless, as though this amount of money meant nothing to him. Maybe it didn't. Maybe that was the point.

You took it with measured calm, not too eager, not too hesitant. Your fingers closed around the cash, and even through the practiced professionalism written across your face, you couldn't ignore what it meant. Rent. Bills. Space to breathe. A little more time bought back from the pressure that had put you here in the first place.

Another day, another dollar.

Only this was far more than a dollar.

Gregory watched you tuck the money away, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Good," he said softly.

There was something almost paternal in the way he looked at you sometimes, if paternal instincts could be filtered through greed and strategy. He admired what you brought into his business. Protected it too, in his own way. But that protection always had strings made of profit. Gregory did not keep valuable things around out of sentiment alone.

He placed a large hand briefly on your shoulder—not affectionate, but grounding. A final bit of direction.

"My friend has had a long week," he said. "He wants privacy. No noise, no complications, no attitude. Give him a night worth remembering."

You lifted a brow slightly. "And if he's difficult?"

Gregory's expression eased into that charismatic smile of his, the one that made people trust him even when they shouldn't. "Then be unforgettable."

Of course.

Because in Gregory's world, the answer was always performance. Adapt. Charm. Seduce. Smooth it over. Turn tension into profit. Turn discomfort into elegance. Turn yourself into exactly what the room required.

He stepped back then and angled his head toward one of the suite doors down the hall—a large private suite, set slightly apart from the others, the kind reserved for guests who paid to be left entirely alone.

"That one," Gregory said.

You followed his gaze.

The hallway felt even quieter now, the kind of silence that wrapped itself around expectation. Somewhere below, the hotel was still alive with music, laughter, clinking glasses, and carefully packaged temptation. But up here, all of that felt distant. Muted. Upstairs was where the masks came off in different ways.

Gregory's eyes returned to you one last time, assessing, approving. "Take care of him," he said.

Then he turned and walked off without another word, leaving you alone in the hall with the warmth of cash tucked against your body, the tight hold of the corset around your waist, and the weight of a very specific instruction hanging in the air.

A close friend of the boss.

An athlete.

Hot as hell, according to your manager.

And important enough that Gregory himself had come to greet you at the elevator like a handoff of something valuable.

You looked toward the suite door again, your boots sinking quietly into the plush carpet as you began to move. Every step felt measured, each one carrying you deeper into the kind of arrangement that made The Afrodisiac notorious among the elite. You could already feel yourself settling into that controlled part of your mind—the place where Siren lived. Smooth. unreadable. composed. The version of you that knew how to walk into a room full of unknowns and make it look effortless.

Still, beneath all that polish, your curiosity sharpened.

Whoever waited behind that door had enough pull to redirect your entire night, enough favor with Gregory to be treated like royalty, and enough money to make sure you understood this wasn't a casual booking.

As you stopped in front of the suite, the stack of cash felt heavier than paper.

Like a promise.

Or a warning.

𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑷𝑼𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑫 the suite door open and stepped inside, and the first thing that hit you was just how little the word room fit what you were looking at.

This was no ordinary hotel suite.

It resembled a lavish penthouse carved out of money, privacy, and taste so expensive it didn't need to show off. The space opened wide before you in a sweep of polished floors, rich textures, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a living painting. The skyline stretched beyond the glass in glittering layers of gold, white, and blue, every building lit like it had its own story to tell. The lights below looked almost unreal from this height, like stars had spilled upward from the streets and gotten caught in the dark. Everything inside the suite was designed to match that view—sleek furniture in deep neutral tones, a low glass coffee table, art that was understated but unmistakably valuable, a bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and lighting dim enough to feel intimate without obscuring anything.

It was the kind of place meant for people who didn't just want luxury—they expected it.

And standing near the tall windows, half-shadowed by the city lights behind him, was the athlete.

For a second, all you saw was the silhouette.

Tall. Broad. Still.

He stood with the relaxed sort of confidence that only came naturally to men who had long since grown used to taking up space without apology. He had his back partly turned to you, his attention seemingly fixed on the city below, one hand resting near his side while the other held the weight of his own thoughts. The white button-up shirt he wore looked expensive in that effortless way simple things often did when they were tailored correctly. It skimmed his frame rather than hung off it, outlining a body that was impossible to ignore—six-foot-three, heavily built, very muscular, broad shoulders cutting a clean line through the soft light, and a tapered waist that made his proportions look even more striking.

He looked powerful without having to move.

The kind of man people noticed immediately and remembered against their will.

Then the door clicked shut behind you.

The sound made him turn.

And the moment he did, recognition hit you so quickly you almost felt it physically.

Ilya Rozanov.

Not just some nameless athlete.

Not just a protected VIP with too much money and special treatment from Gregory.

Ilya Rozanov, hockey star for the Boston Bears.

For the smallest fraction of a second, your composure threatened to crack—not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt the shift under your skin. Because the reason you knew who he was had nothing to do with celebrity gossip or casual sports headlines. It was more personal than that. Far more personal. The kind of connection that belonged nowhere near your work life, which was exactly why you locked it down the second the recognition landed.

You did not bring personal business to work.

That was one of the few rules you had managed to keep ironclad in a place like this.

So whatever flicker of history, memory, or private tension had sparked inside you at the sight of him, you buried it immediately beneath the polished calm of Siren.

Ilya, meanwhile, was even more arresting now that he was facing you.

His face had that hard, masculine beauty some men seemed to wear without trying—strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that looked like they belonged to somebody who noticed more than he let on. There was something distinctly controlled about him, the sort of restraint that made him seem even more dangerous. His hair was slightly tousled, not messy exactly, but loose enough to make it clear he hadn't spent time trying to perfect it. It only added to the effect. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to expose the strong line of his throat and the edge of his collarbone, and there, resting against his skin, catching the low warm light of the suite, was a gold Russian Orthodox cross necklace.

The sight of it made the moment feel even more intimate somehow.

Not because of the necklace itself, but because it was one of those details that humanized a man who otherwise looked carved out of money, fame, and physical force. It hinted at background, culture, habit—something real beneath the image.

You stepped further into the room, your posture elegant, your face composed, every movement measured. The Zatanna-inspired outfit did exactly what it was supposed to do under this kind of lighting. The black corset sharpened your shape to near-perfection, the fishnets and tailored details gave every step an extra kind of danger, and the cropped jacket made the whole look feel theatrical in the best way—mystery and temptation dressed up as performance art.

You gave him a small, professional smile.

"Good evening, Mr. Rozanov."

That got a reaction.

It was subtle, but unmistakable.

One of his brows lifted just slightly, surprise flickering across his face before being smoothed away. He hadn't expected to be recognized. Or maybe he hadn't expected to be recognized so formally. Either way, it caught his attention.

His gaze moved over you again, more carefully this time. "You know who I am."

His voice was deep and smooth, edged faintly with that Russian accent that made certain words sound heavier, more deliberate. It fit him too well.

You kept your tone even. "I know of you."

That answer was intentional. Clean. Neutral. Enough truth to satisfy him, not enough to expose anything you didn't want touched.

His eyes stayed on you for a moment, studying, calculating. You could almost see him deciding how much that mattered.

So you added, with the practiced calm of someone who had delivered reassurance many times before, "But don't worry. Discretion is policy in this building."

A quiet hum left him at that—something between acknowledgment and amusement.

He turned away just enough to move toward the bar area, and even that small stretch of motion made it obvious how much power lived in his frame. He moved like an athlete even when relaxed—grounded, efficient, balanced. There was no wasted movement in him. He reached for a bottle and poured himself a drink with the kind of casual familiarity that suggested he had already settled into the suite as if it belonged to him.

As amber liquor filled the glass, he spoke again.

"Gregory told me many things about this hotel."

You remained where you were for the moment, letting him set the pace while still holding your own presence in the room. "Did he?"

Ilya gave a short, low sound that might have been a laugh, though it carried more dryness than humor. "Mm." He picked up the glass and swirled it once before looking at you over the rim. "More specifically, he told me about you."

That didn't surprise you nearly as much as it should have.

Gregory loved selling a fantasy before the product ever arrived.

You tilted your head just slightly, a smooth invitation for him to continue.

Ilya took a sip, then lowered the glass. "He said," he began, voice unhurried, "that once you came upstairs, you would do whatever I want.”

The room seemed to settle around those words.

Not tense exactly, but sharper.

The city glowed behind him. The suite lights warmed the edges of glass and gold. Somewhere beneath all of it, you could hear the faintest pulse of music from floors below, like the hotel itself breathing under the scene. You didn't let the statement rattle you. Your expression stayed composed, your voice velvet-smooth when you answered.

"That is true."

The confirmation hung between you for a second.

Something in his gaze shifted at hearing you say it yourself. Not surprise—more like curiosity. As though hearing the arrangement from Gregory was one thing, but hearing you confirm it made it real in a more interesting way.

Ilya walked over to the armchair near the coffee table and lowered himself into it with easy confidence, drink still in hand. The chair was large, luxurious, but he still seemed to dominate it purely by size. One ankle came to rest over the opposite knee for a moment before he leaned back, broad shoulders relaxing into the leather, his attention fully fixed on you now.

The suite suddenly felt smaller in the way private spaces sometimes do when one person decides to truly focus on another.

He looked at you like he was assessing more than appearance. Like he was trying to figure out where the act ended and where you began.

Then, finally, he gave you his first instruction.

"Dance for me."

The words were simple. Calm. Not barked like an order, not sweetened into a request. Just said with the sort of confidence that assumed they would be followed.

And of course, they would.

You moved toward the coffee table with unhurried grace, each step deliberate, your boots quiet against the floor. On the table sat the in-room control tablet, sleek and black, already connected to the suite's entertainment system. You picked it up and turned slightly toward him, one hand cradling it while the other rested lightly against your waist.

"Then pick a song," you said.

Your tone was smooth, almost playful, but still professional. A little invitation wrapped inside obedience.

You extended the tablet toward him.

Ilya's gaze dropped to it briefly, then returned to you, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary. There was something unreadable in his expression now—something thoughtful, maybe even entertained. As if the fact that you had handed him that much control only made him more aware of how much of the room you still held anyway.

The city lights reflected softly in the glass behind him. The gold cross at his collarbone flashed once when he shifted. The drink in his hand caught the low amber light.

And there you stood in front of him—corseted, polished, beautiful, a magician's fantasy sharpened into something meant for temptation rather than tricks.

Then his long fingers swipe across the tablet screen, scrolling through the curated playlist with lazy confidence. He taps once, sets the tablet down on the armrest, and leans back deeper into the leather chair.

The opening hits immediately — that unmistakable Ayy, ayy, ayy, ayy from Honorable C.N.O.T.E., heavy 808 bass thumping low and thick through the suite's hidden speakers like a heartbeat you feel in your ribs.

Your body reacts before your mind even registers the choice.

The moment Megan Thee Stallion's voice slides in — smooth, cocky, dripping with that unapologetic "Downstairs DJ" energy — something primal clicks inside you. The Siren wakes up fully. No hesitation, no overthinking. Just pure, magnetic instinct. Your hips roll on the very first downbeat, slow and deliberate, like the bass itself is pulling the strings. Shoulders drop, spine arches just enough for the corset to bite deliciously into your waist. You become exactly what they all pay to see: the living Siren — untouchable yet impossible to look away from, the one who makes powerful men forget their own names.

You move toward him like the music is water and you're made of silk.

The intro's playful bounce has you circling the armchair once, boots clicking in perfect time with the hi-hats, cropped jacket swaying open to flash the black corset underneath. Your hands trail lightly over your own thighs, fishnets whispering under your fingertips. You don't touch him yet — just close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, close enough that the shimmer on your collarbones catches every flicker of the low suite lighting.

Then the chorus drops — Ayy, I love my pussy and my pussy love me / Play with her for a lil' while, then fall asleep — and the energy shifts.

You step between his spread thighs, one knee bracing on the cushion beside his hip, and lower yourself slowly onto his lap. The first grind is controlled, rolling your hips forward on the heavy bass line, pressing just enough that the heat of you brushes the front of his slacks. Your hands plant lightly on his broad shoulders for balance — not gripping, just resting — while your torso undulates in time with Megan's flow. Every "ayy" in the background makes your chest pop forward, the corset pushing your pecs up and out in a way that looks obscene and elegant at the same time.

Ilya's hazel eyes darken, but he stays perfectly still, letting you work. One hand rests on the armrest; the other still loosely holds his drink. The gold cross at his throat rises and falls with his steady breathing.

You feel his command before he even speaks it.

"Take the jacket off."

His voice cuts through the second verse like velvet over gravel, low and unhurried, right as Megan starts rapping about crowns and queens. You obey without breaking rhythm. Fingers hook into the lapels of the cropped jacket; you peel it off your shoulders in one fluid motion synced to the snare hits, letting it slide down your arms and drop behind you onto the floor. The sudden loss of the layer makes the corset stand out sharper — black satin gleaming, waist snatched impossibly tight, every breath visible.

The music builds, Megan's voice getting filthier, more confident. You lean in closer now, lips hovering near his ear as you roll your hips in tight, slow circles — exactly matching the "two fingers give me peace" lyric with a teasing grind that drags your body down his thigh and back up. Your fishnet-covered thighs squeeze the outside of his, the mesh catching friction against his slacks.

"Corset next," he murmurs during the pre-chorus swell, voice rougher now, the Russian accent thicker. "Slow."

You smile — small, knowing, pure Siren — and reach behind your back. The laces loosen one deliberate tug at a time, timed to every bass drop. The boning releases gradually, the satin peeling away from your skin like a second layer of armor coming undone. When the final hook gives, you let the corset fall open and slide it down your torso, revealing the smooth planes of your chest and stomach glistening faintly under the shimmer oil. You toss it aside right as the chorus crashes back in.

Now it's just you in the tailored black bottoms, fishnets, and boots — skin warm, muscles flexing with every movement.

You sink lower onto his lap, full straddle now, chest brushing his white shirt as you ride the beat. Your hands finally touch him properly — sliding up the strong column of his throat, fingers grazing the gold cross for half a second before you arch back, letting your spine curve dramatically while your hips keep grinding in perfect sync with Megan's rapid-fire bars. Every "can't stress me if he can't sex me" line earns a deeper roll, a slower drag of your body over the growing hardness beneath you.

Ilya's free hand finally moves — large palm settling on your lower back, not guiding, just feeling the heat and the rhythm. His thumb traces the edge of your fishnets in time with the hi-hats.

The final verse hits, Megan's voice turning playful and filthy. You hook your thumbs into the waistband of the bottoms and peel them down inch by inch at his next murmured command — "Everything else" — sliding them off your hips and kicking them away just as the beat cuts into the outro. The fishnets stay for now; you roll them down one leg at a time, slow and theatrical, balancing on one boot while the other leg stretches long beside the chair. The last boot comes off with a deliberate flourish on the final "ayy."

The music slows, fades, then stops completely.

You remain straddling Ilya's lap, completely bare except for the thin silver chain at your throat and the faint, glossy shimmer still clinging to your skin like liquid starlight. A light sheen of sweat traces down the center of your chest, catching the warm amber glow of the suite's recessed lighting. Your thighs are spread wide over his legs, the heat of your bare skin pressing against the expensive fabric of his slacks.

Ilya's hand stays splayed across the small of your back, fingers warm and possessive, thumb slowly tracing the dip of your spine in lazy circles. His other hand still loosely holds the forgotten glass of amber liquor on the armrest, ice long since melted. For a long moment he simply looks at you — hazel-green eyes dark with appreciation, roaming over every exposed inch of your body with the same focused intensity he probably brings to the ice.

"Ты двигаешься, как грех и шелк — You move like sin and silk," he says, voice low and rough around the edges, that Russian accent thickening the words. "Watching you dance... that was quite the experience. The way your body listens to the beat, the way you give yourself to it... dangerous. Красивый — Beautiful."

His free hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, palm gliding over the smooth plane of your ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your pec. The touch is appreciative rather than rushed, as if he's savoring the afterglow of the performance he paid for.

"But I want more."

The statement lands simple and certain, no room for negotiation.

Before you can respond, Ilya reaches into the inner pocket of his white button-up shirt with his free hand. He pulls out a sleek black silk tie — expensive, narrow, the kind that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. The fabric catches the low light as he unfolds it between his fingers, letting it dangle for a moment like a promise.

"Close your eyes."

The command is quiet, but absolute.

You obey without hesitation, lashes lowering as the world goes dark. The silk is cool and smooth against your eyelids as he carefully wraps the tie around your head, knotting it securely at the back — not too tight, but firm enough that no light leaks through. The blindfold plunges you into velvet blackness, heightening every other sense instantly. You become acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body beneath you, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with clean skin and expensive liquor, the steady thrum of his heartbeat you can almost feel through his chest. There's nothing between you and his touch except the thin barrier of his clothing.

Ilya's hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the hollows just above your hipbones, holding you steady in his lap. His voice drops even lower, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

"Now... I'm going to give you commands," he murmurs, the Russian lilt wrapping around each word like smoke. "And you are going to follow them. Exactly. No hesitation. No questions. Understand?"

The air in the suite feels thicker, charged. The city lights are still glowing beyond the windows, but you can no longer see them — only feel the faint warmth on your skin from the direction of the glass. Your pulse quickens beneath the blindfold, not from fear but from the sharp, electric edge of surrender. Siren is still fully present in the way you hold yourself — poised, elegant, responsive — even without sight.

You nod once, slow and deliberate, lips parting just slightly.

"Yes."

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest — almost a hum of approval.

His grip on your hips tightens fractionally, guiding you to stay exactly where you are, straddling him in the wide leather armchair. The blindfold heightens everything: the brush of fabric against your bare thighs, the subtle shift of his muscles beneath you, the way his gold cross occasionally grazes your chest when he leans in closer.

"Start by putting your hands behind your back," he says, voice calm and commanding, every syllable measured. "Interlace your fingers. Keep them there until I tell you otherwise."

You obey instantly, arms sliding behind you, fingers lacing together at the base of your spine. The position arches your chest forward slightly, exposing you even more to his gaze. You can feel the cool air of the suite kissing your skin, the faint tremor of anticipation running through your muscles.

Ilya's palm smooths up your stomach, slow and appreciative, as if mapping every ridge and hollow.

"Good," he murmurs, the single word carrying weight. "Now we begin."

The blindfold keeps the world in perfect darkness, but your other senses have sharpened into something almost overwhelming. The heavy, velvet-smooth weight of Ilya's cock continues its slow, deliberate torture against your parted lips — sliding, smacking lightly, rubbing the thick, glistening head back and forth until your mouth is slick and shining with him.

You can taste the faint salt of precum every time he presses forward, can feel the heavy pulse of the thick vein running along the underside. Your hands remain locked behind your back exactly as he ordered, fingers interlaced so tightly your knuckles ache, chest arched forward, thighs still spread wide over his lap in the deep leather armchair.

Then his grip on your hips tightens.

"Up," he murmurs, voice low and rough with that rich Russian accent. The single word is calm, but it carries the same absolute authority as every command before it.

He rises from the chair in one powerful, fluid motion, lifting you with him as though you weigh nothing. His large hands stay firm on your waist, steadying you until your feet find the plush carpet. The sudden shift in height makes you sway slightly; the blindfold robs you of balance, but his hold keeps you upright, chest brushing against the open front of his white button-up shirt. You feel the cool metal of the gold cross graze your sternum again, warm skin and crisp fabric against your bare body.

Ilya doesn't let you go far. One hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking once along the edge of the silk blindfold, while the other stays at your hip, guiding you down.

"Kneel."

Your knees hit the thick carpet instantly, soft and yielding beneath you. You hear the faint metallic rasp of his zipper sliding down — slow, deliberate, the sound cutting through the quiet like a promise. The soft rustle of expensive fabric follows as Ilya shifts beneath you just enough to free himself. Then the heat of him is there, sudden and undeniable.

His cock springs free, heavy and thick, the full nine inches of it.

Then without warning, he taps it against your cheek.

The smack is light but deliberate, the heavy shaft landing with a soft, fleshy sound that echoes in the quiet penthouse. Once. Twice. The third time is firmer, the thick length smacking against your other cheek, leaving a faint, warm sting and the unmistakable scent of him — clean skin, faint musk, the expensive cologne that clings to his body. Your breath catches, but you don't move. You can't. Not with your hands locked behind you and his command still ringing in your ears.

Ilya lets out a low, satisfied hum. He rubs the broad, swollen head slowly across your lips now — back and forth, teasing, painting them with the slick evidence of his arousal. The skin is fever-hot, satin-soft over steel hardness, the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your lower lip with every slow drag. He presses just enough to part your lips slightly, letting the tip nudge against the seam without slipping inside, coating your mouth with the faint salty taste of him.

"Not yet," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your temple as he continues to rub the thick head in lazy circles over your mouth. "You don't get to suck it until I say so. You just feel it. You let me use that pretty mouth like this until I decide you've earned more."

Another slow, deliberate smack — this one right against your parted lips, the heavy length bouncing lightly off them with a wet little sound that makes heat flood your face beneath the blindfold. He drags the shaft across your cheek again, then back to your mouth, rubbing the underside along your tongue where it peeks out just slightly in obedience. The denial is exquisite, maddening; your body is already aching for more, but you stay perfectly still, hands clasped tight behind you, lips soft and waiting, letting him paint and tease and claim every inch of your mouth without ever letting you close around him.

"Хороший мальчик — Good boy. Just like that. Keep those hands exactly where they are... and keep that mouth open for me."

Then his fingers thread into your hair, gripping just tightly enough to guide without hurting, tilting your head back slightly.

"Open your mouth," he says, voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. "Wide. And keep those hands exactly where they are."

You obey instantly, lips parting, jaw relaxing as far as it can go. The moment you do, he guides the thick head forward, pressing it past your lips in one slow, inexorable push.

The size is immediate, overwhelming.

Nine thick inches stretch your mouth open wide, the heavy girth forcing your jaw to open wider than feels natural. Your lips seal tight around him, but even then the fit is a struggle — the sheer thickness makes your cheeks hollow slightly, the flushed head nudging against the back of your tongue before you've even taken half. A low, wet sound escapes you as you adjust, tongue instinctively flattening and curling beneath the heavy shaft, licking slow, reverent stripes along the pulsing vein as he holds you there.

Ilya lets out a deep, satisfied exhale above you, the sound rumbling through his chest. His hand in your hair tightens, guiding you forward another inch, then another, controlling the pace with calm precision. You feel every ridge, every thick inch sliding deeper, the weight of him heavy on your tongue, the salty-sweet taste flooding your mouth as more precum leaks steadily.

You struggle — not dramatically, but noticeably. Your throat flutters around the intrusion, a soft, involuntary gag vibrating around him when he presses just a little too deep too soon. Saliva already begins to spill from the corners of your stretched lips, dripping down your chin in thin, glistening trails. Your breathing turns ragged through your nose, chest heaving as you fight to relax your throat and take more of him. The blindfold makes it all more intense — you can't see how much is left, can't anticipate the next push, can only feel the relentless stretch and the way his thick cock fills your mouth until there's almost no room left for anything else.

"Good," he praises, voice rough and low, the accent wrapping around the word like smoke. "Just like that... slow. Use your tongue. Take care of it."

He starts to guide you in earnest then — steady, controlled movements of his hand in your hair, pulling you forward and easing you back in a rhythm that lets you breathe but never quite lets you escape the overwhelming fullness. You lick and suck with everything you have, tongue swirling around the head on every withdrawal, hollowing your cheeks on every forward glide, lips sliding wetly along the thick shaft while soft, muffled sounds of effort and pleasure escape around him.

Every time you struggle — a slight choke, a flutter of your throat, a desperate little whimper — Ilya's grip gentles just enough to let you recover, then guides you right back down, pushing a fraction deeper each time, testing how much you can handle. His free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking along the stretched line of your lower lip where it's wrapped so tightly around him, feeling the way your mouth works to accommodate his size.

The penthouse is utterly silent except for the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth and the low, occasional groan that slips from his throat when you do something particularly good with your tongue. The city lights are still glowing somewhere beyond the windows, but in the velvet blackness of the blindfold, the only reality is the heavy, throbbing heat of Ilya's cock filling your mouth, his guiding hand in your hair, and the quiet, commanding Russian murmurs of approval above you.

"Deeper," he says softly, almost tenderly. "That's it... you can take it."

And you do — struggling, drooling, obedient — letting him use your mouth exactly the way he wants.

Then, suddenly, his grip tightens.

"Stop."

The single word is calm, absolute, cutting through the wet sounds like a command carved in stone.

You freeze instantly, lips still sealed tight around the thick head, tongue pressed flat beneath it. A final, involuntary swirl of your tongue earns you one last quiet groan from him before he slowly eases your head back. The heavy length slips from your mouth with a wet pop, leaving your lips swollen, shiny, and parted, strings of saliva still connecting you to him for a heartbeat before they break. You stay kneeling exactly where you are, chest heaving, blindfolded and trembling with the effort.

Ilya's fingers move to the back of your head. The silk tie loosens, then slides away completely. Light floods back in — warm, golden, almost overwhelming after the long darkness. You blink rapidly, eyes adjusting to the low glow of the suite lamps and the glittering skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The first thing you see clearly is him.

Ilya towers over you, white button-up shirt hanging open at the collar, slacks pushed low on his hips, thick nine-inch cock still heavy and glistening from your mouth, flushed dark and curving upward. His hazel-green eyes are dark with lust and control, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from where your movements had pulled at it. His gold cross rests against the strong column of his throat, catching the light with every breath.

"Stand."

His voice is low, rough, but steady. Large hands grip your upper arms and pull you effortlessly to your feet, steadying you when the sudden shift makes you sway. Once you're upright, he steps back just enough to look at you fully — bare, flushed, lips swollen, silver chain still gleaming at your throat — and gives his next order.

"Unbutton my shirt."

You don't hesitate. Your hands — finally freed — move to the front of his expensive white button-up. The fabric is still warm from his body heat, slightly damp where it clings to his skin. One by one you work the buttons open, fingers brushing against the hard planes of his chest with every release. The shirt parts slowly, revealing inch after inch of what looks like a living Greek statue carved from marble and power.

His body is breathtaking — the kind of sculpted perfection that only comes from years of elite athletic training and raw genetics. Broad, powerful shoulders taper into a wide, thick chest dusted with a light trail of dark hair that disappears lower. His pecs are heavy and defined, rising and falling with each controlled breath, nipples dark and peaked. Below them, an eight-pack of abs stands out in sharp relief, every ridge and valley carved deep, the V-lines at his hips cutting dramatic arrows toward the base of his still-hard cock. His skin is smooth and lightly tanned, a few faint scars from hockey battles marking the perfection like badges of honor.

You push the shirt fully open and slide it off his massive shoulders, letting it drop to the floor behind him. He stands there now in nothing but his slacks pushed low, every inch of that god-like torso on display — broad, powerful, impossibly strong, the body of a man who dominates on ice and off it.

Ilya watches your face the entire time, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at his mouth. Then he reaches for the black silk tie you'd been blindfolded with moments ago. He catches your wrists in one large hand, brings them together in front of you, and wraps the cool silk around them with practiced ease — looping it several times before knotting it securely. The binding isn't painfully tight, but it's firm, leaving your hands bound and useless in front of your stomach, the silk biting just enough to remind you of your place.

He steps closer, bare chest brushing against yours, the heat of his skin and the cool metal of the cross pressing into you. His voice drops to a rough murmur against your ear.

"Get on the bed."

The command is simple, absolute. His hand settles possessively on the small of your back, guiding you toward the massive king-sized bed that dominates the far side of the penthouse suite.

You lie on the massive king-sized bed exactly as he left you — wrists bound tightly in front of you with the black silk tie, the cool fabric biting just enough into your skin to remind you of your place with every small shift. The dark silk sheets feel luxurious and cool against your bare chest and stomach, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows in a soft golden wash that paints every curve of your body in dramatic shadows.

Ilya stands at the edge of the bed, towering and unhurried. His large hands move to the waistband of his slacks, thumbs hooking inside the expensive fabric. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting the material slide over the powerful V-lines of his hips and the thick, muscular swell of his thighs. The slacks pool at his ankles before he kicks them aside with one bare foot. He is completely naked now — every inch of that Greek-statue body on full display under the low ambient lighting. His legs are tree-trunk thick from years of explosive hockey power, calves carved and defined, thighs heavy with muscle that flexes as he steps closer.

Between them, his nine-inch cock hangs heavy and thick, still glistening from your mouth, the flushed head dark and swollen, curving slightly upward with renewed interest. A light trail of dark hair leads from his chiseled abs down to the thick base, and his balls hang full and heavy beneath. The gold Russian Orthodox cross rests perfectly centered between his broad pecs, swaying slightly with each step as he approaches the bed like a predator who already knows he owns the room.

He climbs onto the mattress with easy athletic grace, the bed dipping under his considerable weight. The heat of his body radiates against your skin as he kneels beside you, one large hand sliding possessively up the back of your thigh. His hazel-green eyes lock onto yours, dark with lust and that same calm control.

"Where is the lube?" he asks, voice low and rough, the Russian accent wrapping around the words like velvet gravel. A small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You didn't get my cock wet enough with that pretty mouth of yours. I need it slick before I fuck you properly."

The blunt words send a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. You nod toward the sleek nightstand built into the headboard — standard for The Afrodisiac's penthouse suites, always discreetly stocked for exactly this kind of indulgence. Ilya reaches over without hurry, opens the drawer, and pulls out a small, expensive bottle of clear lube. The cap clicks open with a soft sound that feels louder than it should in the quiet suite. He warms a generous amount between his palms, the slick scent of it — something faintly clean and expensive — drifting in the air.

"Face down in the pillow," he commands, voice dropping an octave. "Ass up. Now."

You obey instantly, turning onto your stomach and pressing your bound wrists into the silk sheets above your head. Your cheek sinks into the cool pillow, turning your face to the side so you can still breathe, while you arch your back and push your ass up high — knees spread, hips tilted, completely exposed to him. The position leaves you vulnerable and open, the cool air of the suite kissing your hole as your back arches deeper.

Ilya settles behind you on his knees, one powerful hand gripping your hip to hold you steady. The other hand — slick with lube — slides between your cheeks. Two thick fingers press against your hole, circling slowly, teasingly, spreading the cool, slippery liquid in deliberate strokes. He doesn't push inside yet; he just rubs, coating every sensitive inch, letting the slick sounds fill the room as his fingertips drag over your entrance again and again. The teasing pressure makes your thighs tremble, your bound hands flexing uselessly against the sheets.

He leans over you, bare chest brushing your back, the gold cross grazing your spine as his breath ghosts hot against your ear.

"Do you want to be fucked?" he murmurs, voice dark and low, accent thickening with desire. His fingers keep circling, pressing just a little firmer against your hole without breaching it, spreading more lube in lazy, torturous strokes. "Tell me, Siren. Use your words. Do you want this cock stretching you open? Do you want me to ruin you tonight?"

The question hangs in the charged air between you, his slick fingers still teasing, waiting for your answer while his other hand kneads the flesh of your ass, holding you perfectly in place for whatever comes next.

The answer slips out before you can stop it — breathless, raw, but still too composed for a man like him.

"Yes."

The single word hangs in the charged silence of the penthouse, barely louder than the faint hum of the city far below the glass walls. Your cheek is pressed deep into the cool silk pillow, bound wrists flexed uselessly above your head, back arched sharply so your ass stays presented high for him. The dark sheets are already rumpled beneath your knees, your body glistening faintly under the low amber lighting and the golden spill of the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ilya doesn't move for a long second. You feel the heat of his massive frame looming behind you, the heavy weight of his stare burning into your exposed skin. Then a low, disappointed hum rumbles from his chest — the sound rich with that thick Russian accent, almost amused, but edged with clear command.

"That's not begging, Siren," he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, slower. "I said tell me. I want to hear how badly you need it."

His large hands stay firm on your hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of your spine, holding you exactly where he wants you. You feel him shift closer, the thick, heavy length of his cock — still slick from the lube he'd warmed between his palms and the remnants of your earlier mouth — sliding hot and deliberate between your cheeks. The broad, flushed head catches against your lubed hole with a wet, obscene sound that echoes softly in the quiet suite. He doesn't push in. Not yet. Instead he rubs it slowly up and down, teasing the sensitive rim in lazy, torturous strokes — the thick shaft gliding over your entrance, spreading more lube with every pass, the heavy weight of him nudging and pressing just enough to make your hole flutter and clench around nothing.

The friction is maddening. Every slow drag sends sparks of heat racing up your spine; the slick, glossy head catches and slips, catching again, the sheer girth of him making your thighs tremble as he rocks his hips in tiny, controlled movements. You can feel the pulse of his cock against you, the way it throbs heavier with each teasing slide, the faint slap of skin on skin when he lets it rest fully against your hole for a heartbeat before dragging it back up.

Ilya leans over you, his breath ghosts hot against the shell of your ear.

"Beg for it," he says, voice low and rough, accent thickening with lust. "Properly. Tell me how much you want this cock splitting you open. Tell me you need me to ruin that pretty hole. Use your words, or I'll keep teasing you like this all night."

He punctuates the command by rubbing the thick head in tight, filthy circles right against your entrance — slick sounds filling the room, the pressure firm enough to make your body ache with want but never quite enough to give you what you're craving. His fingers dig harder into your hips, holding you open and immobile while he waits, patient and relentless, the heavy length of him still sliding and pressing and teasing against your hole like he has all the time in the world.

You break.

The words pour out of you in a rush, voice cracked and desperate because you have to — because the slow, filthy drag of his thick cock against your lubed hole has turned every nerve in your body into live wire. Your stomach is a tight, boiling knot of anxious heat, twisting and churning with need so sharp it feels like you might come apart if he doesn't fill you soon. Your hole clenches uselessly around nothing, fluttering and aching with every teasing glide of that heavy, swollen head. Your thighs tremble, knees sinking deeper into the dark silk sheets, bound wrists flexing helplessly above your head where the black tie bites into your skin. Sweat beads along your spine, the shimmer oil from earlier mixing with it until your entire body gleams under the low golden lights of the penthouse.

"Please," you gasp, the word raw and broken against the pillow. "Pl—please. I need it. I need your cock inside me. Fuck, I can't— I can't take the teasing anymore. My hole is aching for you, clenching around nothing, dripping for it. Please split me open. Ruin me. I want you so deep I feel you for days. I'll be so good, I swear—just fuck me."

The begging spills faster, filthier, your voice growing hoarse and needy with every slow, torturous rub of his thick shaft between your cheeks. You push your ass back against him as much as his iron grip on your hips allows, chasing the heavy weight of him, but he only chuckles low in his chest — that deep, satisfied Russian rumble that vibrates through you.

"That's better," he murmurs, accent thick and dark with approval. "Keep going. Tell me exactly how empty you feel without me stretching you."

So you do. The words tumble out between shaky breaths — "I'm so fucking empty... my body's burning for you... please, please push inside, I need to feel every thick inch splitting me open, wrecking me—" — while his cock keeps sliding, slick and relentless, the fat head catching on your rim again and again, pressing just enough to make your hole wink and flutter desperately before sliding away. The anxious heat in your stomach coils tighter, a restless, aching fire that spreads down your thighs and up your spine until you're shaking, whimpering into the pillow, every muscle taut and trembling with the need to be filled.

Ilya lets you beg until your voice cracks on a broken little sob, until the words blur together and your hips are rocking back shamelessly, chasing the denial like it's the only thing keeping you alive.

Only then does he finally still.

A low, approving growl leaves his throat. One large hand smooths up your spine, thumb pressing into the dip between your shoulder blades, while the other lines himself up. The broad, slick head of his cock presses firmly against your entrance — hot, heavy, impossibly thick — and with one slow, inexorable push he begins to slip inside.

The stretch is immediate, overwhelming, devastating.

Your hole parts around him with a wet, obscene sound, the thick head popping past your rim and forcing you open wider than you thought possible. Inch by heavy inch he sinks in, slow and relentless, the burning drag of his girth lighting up every sensitive nerve inside you. Your walls flutter and clench around the invasion, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him, but he doesn't stop — just keeps pressing forward, steady and controlled, until the first half of his nine thick inches is buried deep and your breath stutters out in a broken moan.

Ilya groans above you, the sound low and guttural, his fingers digging bruises into your hips as he holds you open for him. The gold cross on his chest brushes your back when he leans down, breath hot against your ear.

"That's it," he rasps, accent thick with restraint. "Take it. Let me in."

He pushes deeper — another inch, then another — the heavy length stretching you so full you can feel the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your walls. Your stomach flips with that same boiling heat, now mixed with overwhelming relief and pleasure as your body finally gets what it's been begging for. You can feel is the slow, powerful slide of Ilya claiming you, inch by devastating inch, until he's buried to the hilt and the heavy weight of his balls rests against you.

He stays there for a long, perfect moment — buried deep, chest pressed to your back, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him — before his hips draw back just enough to start the first real thrust.

There is no slow, sensual build-up. No gentle rocking. No teasing glide to let you adjust.

Ilya fucks like he plays hockey — hard, relentless, and with zero mercy.

His grip on your hips turns bruising in the same heartbeat. Those large, powerful hands dig deep into the flesh at the sides of your waist, fingers splaying wide for maximum leverage, thumbs pressing hard into the dimples of your lower back. He yanks you back onto him with every thrust, using your bound body like a handle. The first snap of his hips is brutal, the sound of skin meeting skin cracking through the quiet penthouse like a whip — loud, wet, obscene clap after clap after clap.

He is clapping your cheeks.

The force of each thrust makes your ass ripple and jiggle violently, the plump flesh bouncing and shaking with every powerful drive of his hips. You can feel the way your cheeks collide against the hard muscle of his pelvis, the impact sending shockwaves up your spine and down your thighs. The heavy, rhythmic smack-smack-smack fills the suite, louder than your own broken moans, louder than the faint city hum drifting through the glass walls. Each clap leaves your skin stinging, flushed hot and red where his hips slam home again and again.

Ilya's eyes are glued to the sight.

You catch a glimpse of his reflection in the dark glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows — the way his hazel-green gaze is locked downward, completely fixated on the way your ass bounces and jiggles for him with every merciless thrust. His jaw is tight, lips slightly parted, that tousled dark hair falling over his forehead as he watches your cheeks ripple and spread around the thick, glistening length of his cock. The gold cross swings heavily between his massive pecs, catching the low amber light with every brutal snap of his hips. Sweat already gleams across the carved ridges of his eight-pack, sliding down the deep V of his hips as he powers into you.

He doesn't hold back.

Every thrust is deep, punishing, the thick nine inches dragging out almost to the tip before slamming back in to the hilt with a wet, filthy slap. The angle is perfect — brutal and direct — the fat head of his cock dragging over that sensitive spot inside you on every stroke, forcing broken, desperate sounds out of your throat. Your bound wrists slide uselessly against the silk sheets above your head, the black tie digging into your skin as your whole body jolts forward with the force of him. Your cheek is smashed into the pillow, mouth open, drooling slightly as he fucks you like he owns every inch of you.

"Fuck— look at that," he growls, voice rough and low, the Russian accent thick with raw lust. His eyes never leave the hypnotic bounce of your ass. "So fucking pretty when it jiggles for me. Take it. Take every fucking inch."

His fingers dig harder into your hips, pulling you back onto his cock even faster, the wet clap-clap-clap growing louder, faster, more obscene. The bed creaks beneath you, the dark silk sheets twisting and bunching under your knees. Your thighs shake violently, hole clenching and fluttering around the relentless stretch of him, the obscene sound of lube and skin echoing through the penthouse like the only music that matters tonight.

Ilya is lost in it — eyes locked, hips snapping, using your bound, arched body like a perfect fucktoy built just for him.

Then you feel the shift before it even happens — that sudden, powerful pause in his rhythm as Ilya's hips snap one final, brutal time against your ass, burying himself to the hilt with a wet, resounding slap that leaves your cheeks stinging and rippling. A low, guttural growl rumbles from deep in his chest.

Without warning, his large hands slide under your body. In one effortless, athletic motion — the kind of raw strength that comes from years of dominating on the ice — he flips you onto your back. The dark silk sheets whisper against your sweat-slick skin as you land on the massive bed, the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling across your chest like liquid gold. Your bound wrists — still tightly wrapped in the black silk tie — are yanked upward and pinned firmly above your head by one of his massive hands, the knot digging into your skin, keeping your arms stretched and useless.

Missionary.

Now you're spread wide beneath him, thighs forced apart by his powerful hips as he settles between them. His body looms over you like a living wall of muscle — broad shoulders blocking out half the light, eight-pack abs flexing with every breath. Sweat glistens across his tanned skin, tracing every carved ridge and valley. His nine-inch cock — thick, flushed dark, and still glistening from the lube and your earlier begging — slaps heavily against your stomach for a heartbeat before he lines himself up again.

There is no gentleness in the way he re-enters you.

The same merciless pace returns instantly.

Ilya drives back inside with a single, punishing thrust, the thick head forcing your hole open wide once more, stretching you to that burning, perfect limit. The wet clap of his hips slamming into the backs of your thighs echoes through the penthouse, louder now in this new position. He doesn't ease up. Doesn't slow down. He fucks you just as hard, just as deep, just as relentlessly — hips snapping forward with brutal efficiency, the heavy length of him dragging over that sensitive spot inside you on every stroke before slamming home again and again. Your body jolts with the force of it, the bed creaking beneath you, the silk sheets twisting under your back as your bound arms stay locked above your head, fingers flexing uselessly against the tie.

But now he's looking at you.

Eye contact.

His hazel-green eyes lock onto yours and refuse to let go — intense, unblinking, devouring every single reaction that flickers across your face. He watches the way your lips part on a broken moan, the way your eyes flutter when he hits that spot just right, the way your brows furrow and your breath catches every time he bottoms out with a wet, obscene slap. His gaze is hungry, focused, almost clinical in its intensity, like he's memorizing exactly how you fall apart for him. You can't look away. You're trapped in it — pinned by his stare as much as by his hand on your wrists and the relentless pounding of his cock.

His face hovers inches above yours, close enough that you feel every hot, ragged exhale ghosting across your lips. His breath is warm, slightly minty from whatever he drank earlier, mixed with the faint salt of exertion. It brushes your mouth with every powerful thrust — in and out, in and out — the rhythm of his breathing syncing to the brutal snap of his hips. You can taste it almost, that warm air against your swollen lips, but he never closes the distance. No kiss. Not even a brush of his mouth. Just the torturous nearness, the heavy panting, the way his lips hover so close you can feel the heat radiating from them while he fucks you like he's trying to break you.

"Eyes on me," he growls, voice low and rough, accent thicker than ever. His free hand grips the back of your thigh, yanking it higher around his waist to open you up even more, allowing him to drive deeper, harder. "I want to see every fucking face you make while I ruin this hole."

The eye contact never breaks. He watches the flush crawl across your cheeks, the way your mouth falls open on a silent cry when he grinds his hips in a filthy circle, the way your lashes flutter when the pleasure edges toward too much. His own face is flushed, jaw clenched, dark hair falling messily over his forehead, but those eyes — those intense, predatory eyes — stay glued to yours, drinking in every gasp, every whimper, every desperate twitch of your body beneath him.

His thrusts never falter. The same clapping, punishing rhythm continues — hips slamming forward, balls slapping against your ass, the wet, filthy sounds of skin and lube filling the suite while the skyline sparkles indifferently beyond the glass. Your bound wrists stay pinned above your head, arms stretched tight, chest heaving against his as he fucks you straight through the new position without mercy.

And all the while, his breath keeps teasing your lips — hot, steady, intimate — promising everything and giving nothing.

No kiss.

Just the raw, unrelenting connection of his eyes on yours while he claims you completely.

The pleasure builds like a storm you can't outrun — every merciless thrust of Ilya's thick cock dragging over that perfect spot inside you, every heavy slap of his hips against the backs of your thighs, every second of unrelenting eye contact pushing you closer to the edge until it becomes impossible to hold back.

Your body locks up without warning.

The orgasm crashes through you hard and sudden, ripped out of you by the combination of his brutal pace and those intense hazel-green eyes that refuse to let you look away. Your bound wrists strain against the black silk tie and his iron grip above your head, fingers flexing uselessly as your back arches sharply off the dark silk sheets. A broken, guttural moan tears from your throat, raw and helpless, while thick ropes of cum erupt across your own stomach in heavy, pulsing spurts. The first shot lands high on your chest, warm and sticky, followed by more that streak across your abs, catching in the deep ridges of your muscles and glistening under the low amber lights of the penthouse. Your hole clenches violently around his cock with every wave, fluttering and squeezing him like it's trying to pull him even deeper, your thighs trembling uncontrollably around his waist as the orgasm rips through you in long, shuddering pulses.

Ilya sees every second of it.

His gaze stays locked on yours the entire time — intense, predatory, drinking in the way your eyes flutter and roll, the way your mouth falls open on that desperate moan, the way your entire body jerks and spasms beneath him. A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches you come undone for him. He doesn't slow down. Doesn't pause. Doesn't even break rhythm.

He just keeps thrusting.

The same relentless, clapping pace continues — hips snapping forward with brutal force, the thick nine inches driving deep again and again, the wet clap-clap-clap of skin on skin growing even filthier now that your cum is smeared between your bodies. His heavy balls slap against your ass with every punishing stroke, his cock dragging through the mess you've made on your stomach as he fucks you straight through your orgasm like it changes nothing.

"Fuck... that's it," he growls low, voice rough and accented, breath hot and ragged against your parted lips — so close you can almost taste him, but still no kiss, just the torturous warmth of every exhale. "Look at you... making such a pretty mess for me. Keep those eyes on me. I want to watch you fall apart again."

His free hand slides down to smear two fingers through the warm streaks of your release on your abs, coating them before he presses them to your lips, forcing you to taste yourself while he continues pounding into you without mercy. The eye contact never breaks. His breath keeps ghosting over your mouth. And his cock keeps driving deep, relentless and unforgiving, chasing his own pleasure while your body is still twitching and oversensitive beneath him.

His massive frame shifts, broad shoulders rolling as he straightens his posture on his knees. The hand that had been pinning your bound wrists above your head finally releases its iron grip, leaving the black silk tie still knotted tightly around your wrists, your arms stretched uselessly against the dark sheets. Both of his large, powerful hands slide down your body instead — palms hot and calloused from years of gripping hockey sticks — until they hook behind your knees. With effortless strength he yanks your legs up and outward, spreading you obscenely wide open beneath him.

Your thighs are forced apart until the muscles burn, knees bent and pushed toward your chest in a deep, exposed V that leaves you completely vulnerable. The new angle drives him even deeper, the thick nine-inch length of his cock spearing straight into your prostate with every punishing thrust. He holds your legs like handles, fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh behind your knees, using the leverage to pull you onto him harder, faster, more brutally than before.

The wet clap-clap-clap of his hips slamming into your ass grows louder, sharper, more obscene in the open penthouse. Sweat flies from his carved eight-pack with every savage snap forward; the gold cross swings wildly. His dark hair is damp and tousled, falling over his forehead as he stares down at the place where his thick cock disappears inside you again and again, watching the way your hole stretches obscenely around his girth, the way your own cum smears across your abs and his pelvis with every devastating stroke.

He doesn't speak much now — just low, guttural Russian curses mixed with rough English praise that slips out between clenched teeth — but his breathing grows harsher, heavier, the hot puffs of air no longer teasing your lips but falling across your chest instead. You can see the tension building in his body: the veins standing out along his thick forearms, the way his abs flex and ripple like steel cables, the flush crawling up his neck and across his sharp cheekbones. His thrusts become shorter, more frantic, hips grinding deep on every inward slam as if he's trying to carve his shape permanently inside you.

You feel the exact moment his release starts to crest.

His cock swells even thicker inside you, pulsing hard against your walls. A deep, animalistic groan tears from his throat — raw and accented — and his grip on your legs tightens almost painfully, spreading you wider still as he chases the edge. One final, punishing series of thrusts, each one slamming home with enough force to jolt your entire body up the bed, before he suddenly yanks himself free with a wet, filthy sound.

Ilya wraps one large hand around his glistening, throbbing cock and strokes once, twice — fast and rough — eyes still glued to your face, then to the mess already streaking your stomach. The first powerful rope of his cum erupts across your abs in a thick, hot stripe, landing right over the drying streaks of your own release. More follows in heavy, pulsing jets — thick and white, painting long lines up your chest, catching on the silver chain at your throat, some of it splashing high enough to land on your collarbone and the hollow of your neck. The heat of it is shocking against your oversensitive skin, each spurt landing with a wet sound as he milks himself dry, groaning low and deep while he watches every drop mark you.

When the last weak pulse dribbles from the swollen head, he drags the tip slowly through the mess he's made, smearing his cum and yours together across your stomach in lazy, possessive strokes, like he's claiming territory. His chest heaves, sweat sliding down the deep cuts of his abs, the gold cross rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath.

He stays there between your spread legs, still holding one of your thighs open, eyes dark and satisfied as they roam over the obscene painting he's left on your body.

The aftershocks are still flickering through your muscles when Ilya finally releases your wrists.

His large, calloused fingers make quick, efficient work of the black silk tie, loosening the knot with a surprising touch of care. The fabric whispers away from your skin, leaving behind faint red indentations where it had bitten in during the intensity of the last round. You flex your hands slowly, feeling the blood rush back into your fingers, the slight ache a reminder of how completely you'd surrendered them to him. He doesn't linger on the tenderness; he simply lets the tie drop onto the rumpled sheets like it's nothing.

Then, with that same effortless athletic grace, Ilya pushes himself off the bed. The mattress shifts under the loss of his considerable weight. Completely naked, he stands tall and unselfconscious, every inch of his Greek-statue body on full display — broad shoulders rolling, eight-pack abs still glistening with a light sheen of sweat, the deep V of his hips framing the heavy, spent weight of his cock as it hangs thick between his powerful thighs. The gold cross sways against his chest as he walks across the penthouse, bare feet silent on the polished hardwood.

He reaches the sleek console table near the windows and snatches up one of the hotel's decorative towels — thick, jet-black, impossibly soft Egyptian cotton embroidered with The Afrodisiac's discreet gold logo in the corner. Without looking back, he tosses it toward you in a casual flick of his wrist.

"Clean up," he says, voice still rough and low, the Russian accent thicker after everything.

You catch the towel mid-air. It feels luxurious against your palm, warm from the suite's ambient heat. You sit up slowly on the edge of the massive bed, legs still shaky, and begin wiping the evidence of what just happened from your body. Thick, cooling streaks of his cum — and your own — coat your stomach and chest in long, glossy ropes.

Some had even splashed high enough to land on your collarbone, catching on the silver chain at your throat. The towel glides over your skin, absorbing the mess, but a faint, sticky sheen remains behind, making your abs glisten under the low amber lighting. You wipe thoroughly, methodically, the soft fabric dragging across every ridge of muscle, every sensitive inch that still tingles from his earlier release.

Across the suite, Ilya moves to the bar cart like he owns the night. Still completely naked, he pours himself another generous measure of the same expensive amber liquor. Ice clinks crisply against crystal. The sound is sharp and intimate in the otherwise quiet penthouse, the city lights glittering far below the floor-to-ceiling windows like a silent, indifferent audience.

You take the moment to slide off the bed, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood. Your body feels used in the best and most exhausting way — thighs sore, hole still faintly throbbing, skin flushed and marked with faint fingerprints where he'd gripped you. You move with practiced efficiency now, gathering the scattered pieces of your Zatanna-inspired costume from the floor: the black corset, the glossy tailored bottoms, the fishnets, the cropped jacket, the polished boots. One by one you begin redressing, fingers steady as you slip back into the polished, professional armor of Siren.

Your expression smooths into something cool and composed, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting. Another client satisfied. Another high-paying private session complete. Time to leave with dignity, discretion, and the thick stack of cash still tucked safely in your jacket pocket — just like every other night when they got what they wanted and sent you on your way.

You're reaching for the cropped jacket, already mentally calculating the walk back to the elevator, when Ilya's deep voice cuts through the quiet like a command.

"I didn't say I was done with you yet."

You freeze mid-motion, jacket halfway in your hands. Surprise flickers hot through your chest. You'd assumed — the way you always assumed after they finished — that once he'd gotten his nut off, painted you with it, and taken what he paid for, he'd dismiss you with the same casual indifference most of the others did. A quick thank-you, a pat on the ass, maybe a half-hearted "good job," and then the door. That was the rhythm you knew. That was how this world worked.

But it seemed Ilya doesn't follow that script.

He walks back toward the seating area, drink in hand, still gloriously naked, the heavy swing of his cock and the flex of his thick thighs impossible to ignore. He drops back into the same wide leather armchair from earlier — the one where the night began with Megan Thee Stallion and your lap dance — the leather creaking softly under his weight as he settles in. Legs spread wide and comfortable, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, he looks every bit the king who has no intention of ending the evening.

He reaches for the sleek black in-room tablet that still rests on the side table, picks it up, and taps the screen once. The low glow illuminates his face as he looks straight at you, those intense hazel-green eyes locking onto yours with the same commanding focus he'd had while fucking you.

"Another round," he says, voice calm, certain, and edged with that faint smirk. "We're not finished."

The tablet waits in his hand, ready for you to choose the next song, the next performance, the next way he plans to use you tonight. The city lights continue to sparkle beyond the glass, but inside the penthouse the air has shifted again — thicker, heavier, full of new possibility.

And you realize, with a slow curl of heat low in your stomach, that Ilya Rozanov has no intention of letting you walk out of this suite just yet.

𝑩𝒀 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 the night finally let go of you, the sky was already beginning to change.

Not fully morning—not yet—but that fragile, in-between hour where darkness starts to thin and the world feels like it's holding its breath. The kind of hour most people never see unless they've been up all night or are just waking up. For you, it was familiar. Routine, almost.

Another day, another dollar.

Only now, your body felt the cost of it.

You stepped into your apartment complex with slow, measured steps, the echo of your boots softer here than they had been in the polished halls of The Afrodisiac. The building wasn't anything special—older, a little worn around the edges, the kind of place that carried the quiet weight of people just trying to get by. The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in that pale, unforgiving glow that made the glamour of your night job feel like it belonged to a completely different life.

Because it did.

You moved toward the stairs instead of the elevator, your hand brushing lightly along the railing as you climbed. One floor. Then another. Then the third. Each step pulled you further away from velvet lounges, expensive cologne, and whispered promises—and closer to something real. Something that didn't care how good you looked under dim lighting or how much money someone had handed you hours earlier.

By the time you reached the third floor landing, your shoulders had dropped just a fraction.

Apartment 4A.

You slipped your key into the lock and pushed the door open, stepping inside quietly out of habit. The space greeted you with stillness. It was modest—clean, lived-in, practical. Nothing like the penthouse suite you had just left, but it didn't need to be. This place wasn't built for illusion. It was built for survival.

You set your things down without making much noise—jacket, keys, whatever you carried from the night—and for a second, you just stood there, letting the silence settle around you.

Then you turned.

Because your night wasn't done yet.

You stepped back into the hallway and crossed the short distance to Apartment 4B, your hand lifting to knock—gentle, respectful, the kind of knock that knew who was on the other side and didn't want to startle them awake.

It didn't take long.

A few minutes at most before the door opened, and there stood Shelia.

She looked exactly like someone who had been up for reasons that didn't involve nightlife or luxury—soft house clothes, hair pulled back, eyes a little tired but still kind. She didn't ask questions. She never did. Not about where you'd been. Not about how late you came in. Not about the life you lived outside these walls.

That was part of why you trusted her.

"Hey," she said softly, stepping aside to let you in.

You gave her a small, grateful nod as you walked past her, your voice low. "Hey... thank you."

She waved it off like it was nothing, already turning to guide you down the short hallway of her apartment. "They knocked out not too long ago," she murmured. "Didn't give me any trouble."

Of course they didn't.

You followed her into the spare bedroom, and the moment you stepped inside, something in you softened in a way nothing else that night had managed to do.

Because there they were.

The real reason.

Your little sister and your little brother, fast asleep, side by side in a bed that was probably a little too small for both of them now but still somehow worked. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a small lamp in the corner. Their breathing was slow, even, peaceful in a way that made the rest of the world feel like it existed miles away.

This—right here—was why you did what you did.

Not the money itself.

Not the lifestyle.

Not the hotel.

Them.

You stepped closer to the bed, your movements careful, quiet, as if even the floor might betray you if you weren't gentle enough. Your eyes moved over them, taking in every detail like you needed to reassure yourself they were still here, still safe, still yours to protect.

You reached down first for your brother.

Carefully, you slipped one arm under him, lifting him just enough not to wake him. He stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent under his breath, but didn't open his eyes. As you adjusted him against your chest, the fabric of what he was wearing shifted—and that's when you saw it.

A mini Boston Bears jersey.

Small. Slightly oversized on him. And on the back—

Rozanov.

For a brief second, your chest tightened.

Because suddenly, the distance between your two worlds didn't feel so clean anymore.

Just hours ago, you had been in a penthouse suite with Ilya Rozanov, standing in front of him, dancing for him, getting your back blow out by him, speaking to him like he was just another client. And now, here in your arms, your little brother slept wearing his name like a badge of admiration, of fandom, of something simple and innocent.

It made the night feel... strange.

Connected in a way you didn't like.

But you pushed that thought down just as quickly as it came.

Because this wasn't about him.

This was about them.

You adjusted your grip, holding your brother securely before reaching down to gently wake your sister just enough to move her without startling her. She stirred, blinking sleepily as you lifted her, her small hands instinctively curling into your shirt as if she knew it was you without needing to fully wake up.

"Shh," you whispered softly. "I got you."

Behind you, Shelia watched quietly, leaning against the doorframe with a small, knowing smile. She had seen this routine before. Knew the rhythm of your life better than most people probably did.

You turned toward her once both of them were in your arms, your voice low but sincere. "Thank you, Shelia. Really."

She waved her hand again, brushing off the gratitude like it was unnecessary. "Anytime. You know that.”

And you did.

That was why you knocked on her door instead of anyone else's.

You shifted your siblings slightly to make sure they were comfortable, then stepped out into the hallway again, moving carefully back toward your own apartment. The walk from 4B to 4A was only a few steps, but it felt like crossing an entire boundary between two lives.

You opened your door quietly and slipped inside.

The apartment welcomed you back with that same stillness, only now it felt warmer somehow. Fuller. You carried your brother and sister down the short hallway to their shared bedroom, pushing the door open with your shoulder before stepping in.

The room was simple but cared for. Two beds. A few scattered toys. Clothes folded neatly where you could manage it. Little pieces of childhood trying to exist in a world that didn't always make space for it.

You laid your brother down first, carefully pulling the blanket over him, the Boston Bears jersey still visible for a second before you covered him. Then you turned to your sister, settling her into her bed just as gently, tucking her in and brushing a hand lightly over her hair.

They didn't wake.

They just slept.

Peacefully.

And for a moment, you stood there between their beds, looking at them, letting the silence wrap around you.

The music. The money. The penthouse. Ilya.

All of it felt distant now.

Because this—this quiet room, this responsibility, this love—was the real reason you kept going.

Another day.

Another dollar.

But not for you.

It was the kind of phrase that had followed you your whole life, stitched into your memory so deeply it no longer sounded like advice. It sounded like survival. You grew up hearing it from people who woke up early, came home tired, and never had the luxury of falling apart just because life got heavy. Back then, it had been a working-class saying, something practical and blunt, a reminder that no matter what you felt, the world still expected you to get up and make something happen. Now that you were grown, with your life twisted into something far more complicated than you ever imagined, that same phrase had turned into more than a motto. It had become the rhythm of your existence. A lifestyle. A shield. A way of swallowing whatever pride, shame, exhaustion, or second thoughts tried to rise in your throat long enough to keep moving.

That mindset was written all over the way you carried yourself as you stepped through the grand entrance of The Afrodisiac.

The hotel was impossible to ignore. It didn't just look expensive—it looked intentional. Seductive. Every inch of the place was designed to make people feel like they were stepping out of ordinary life and into a fantasy they could afford to indulge in. The lobby gleamed beneath low golden lighting that made everything and everyone look softer, richer, more desirable. Black marble floors reflected the chandeliers above like liquid glass. Velvet seating in deep wine and midnight tones curved around intimate corners, meant for whispered conversations and dangerous decisions. The air itself smelled expensive—some blend of amber, vanilla, polished wood, and whatever signature fragrance the hotel pumped discreetly through its vents to make sure no guest ever forgot where they'd been.

The Afrodisiac was not an average luxury hotel, and it never tried to pretend otherwise.

Its reputation lived in hushed conversations, celebrity blogs that hinted more than they revealed, and the kind of rumors people denied with a smile. It was a place where the rich, the beautiful, and the powerful came to escape the rules they pretended to follow in public. Celebrities booked penthouses there under fake names. Athletes threw invitation-only parties behind guarded doors. Music executives, actors, socialites, politicians, heirs—people with too much money and too many secrets—treated the hotel like a playground wrapped in satin and silence. It was glamorous on the surface, but underneath the glitter was something sharper: discretion. Privacy. Control. NDAs were as common there as room keys. What happened inside The Afrodisiac stayed there, buried beneath polished service, security teams, and the unspoken understanding that everyone had something to lose.

And somehow, against all odds and every version of the future you once imagined for yourself, this had become part of your world.

You moved through the lobby like you belonged there, even if some part of you still remembered the version of yourself who would have stared at a place like this from the outside and never believed he'd one day know its hallways by heart. Your clothes were immaculate, your posture easy, your expression unreadable in that practiced way you'd perfected over time. Confidence, even when it had to be manufactured, was part of the uniform. So was mystery. People noticed you when you walked in—not loudly, not with open gawking, but in that subtle, instinctive way attention shifted toward beauty without permission. A glance from a receptionist. A pause from a guest. A flicker of interest from someone pretending not to look. You were used to it now.

Inside the hotel's infamous lounge, you were known by a different name.

Siren.

That nickname had been given to you by the lounge manager not long after he hired you, and it had stuck so well that some people no longer bothered learning your real name. According to him, you had "the ability to draw anyone in." At first, you thought it was just one of those dramatic little labels the hotel loved to hand out, part of the branding, part of the atmosphere. But over time, you realized he hadn't been exaggerating. There was something about you people responded to before you even spoke—something in the way you looked at them, moved past them, smiled just enough to make them wonder if it meant anything. You knew how to hold attention. How to make people feel chosen. How to make desire feel personal.

In the lounge, that gift had made you valuable.

You were a male dancer, yes, but that title barely covered the reality of what the job demanded. You were part performer, part fantasy, part emotional illusion wrapped in designer fabric and low light. The lounge itself was the hotel's crown jewel—a decadent, pulse-heavy sanctuary tucked away from the main lobby where music rolled through the room like heat and every detail was built to seduce the senses. Plush booths curved around candlelit tables. Mirrors stretched along the walls, reflecting bodies, movement, and sin until the whole room felt larger than it was. The stage glowed beneath colored lights, and the crowd that gathered there each night expected more than entertainment. They came for escape. For temptation. For the feeling of being close to something forbidden and beautiful.

And you delivered exactly that.

You hadn't expected to still be here, though.

When you first took the job, it was never meant to be permanent. It was supposed to be a stopgap, a desperate decision made during a chapter of your life when desperation outweighed discomfort. Bills were stacked too high. Time was running out. Pride didn't keep the lights on, and morality felt like a luxury for people who had choices. You told yourself it would only be for a little while—just long enough to breathe, just long enough to catch up, just long enough to survive whatever storm had cornered you there in the first place.

But little while had turned into a long time.

Long enough to learn the rhythms of the hotel. Long enough to memorize the faces of regulars and the habits of men who tipped with entitlement. Long enough to understand how easy it was to become useful in a world like this, and how hard it was to walk away once people started paying for the version of you they preferred. You had adapted because adaptation was what you did. You learned how to separate yourself from the role. How to slide into the silk, the cologne, the smirk, the calculated body language. How to give people just enough of a fantasy to keep them hooked without ever fully handing over the parts of yourself that still belonged to you.

At least, that was the lie you liked to tell yourself.

Because the truth was more complicated. This place had changed you. Not all at once, not dramatically, but slowly, in ways that crept in beneath the surface. It had sharpened you. Toughened you. Taught you how to read people in seconds and spot hunger in all its forms—loneliness dressed as arrogance, desire dressed as power, sadness hidden behind expensive watches and charming smiles. It taught you that people with money would pay outrageous amounts to feel wanted, even for an hour. It taught you that attention was currency, beauty was leverage, and survival sometimes demanded you make peace with things your younger self would have judged.

So when you entered The Afrodisiac that day, there was no hesitation in your step.

Just purpose.

Another day. Another dollar.

Only in your world, the dollars came wrapped in dim lights, whispered promises, expensive liquor, and the constant hum of temptation. And you—Siren, the one who drew them in—had learned exactly how to survive inside it.

BY THE TIME you slipped backstage of the lounge, the polished glamour of The Afrodisiac shifted into something far more intimate and far less illusioned.

Out front, everything was velvet, seduction, and expensive fantasy. Back here, behind the soft red curtains and mirrored hallways, the atmosphere changed. The lighting was still low, still flattering, but harsher in purpose—bright enough for makeup touch-ups, costume checks, and the quick transformations required before stepping back into character. The air carried a mix of cologne, hairspray, body shimmer, perfume, sweat, and powder, all layered together into the scent of preparation. Music from the lounge outside pulsed faintly through the walls, its bass vibrating beneath your feet like a second heartbeat, a reminder that the night was already moving whether you were ready for it or not.

You walked in with the same controlled confidence you wore everywhere in this hotel, your presence drawing a few glances as dancers moved through the room in various stages of getting ready. Some were buttoning crisp shirts over sculpted torsos only to leave most of the buttons open anyway. Some were leaning into the mirrors, carefully lining their eyes or fixing their hair with the seriousness of artists about to perform on a grand stage. Others lounged in chairs scrolling through their phones, conserving energy before the lounge opened fully and the night began demanding pieces of them.

You greeted them as you passed, tossing out a casual hello here, a nod there, maybe a small smirk in someone's direction if they caught your eye. They greeted you back well enough. Familiarity existed in the room, but warmth was another matter entirely.

Because despite the beauty, the glamour, and the shared routines, these people were not your friends.

They were your co-workers.

That distinction mattered more than anyone on the outside would understand. People liked to imagine places like this as one big, decadent family—everyone laughing in dressing rooms, sharing secrets, living in glamorous solidarity beneath the stage lights. But the truth was far less sentimental. This was a workplace, and a competitive one at that. Everyone here was selling something: fantasy, charm, sex appeal, emotional escape, attention. Everyone knew who pulled bigger tips, who got requested by name, who had the manager's favor, who got the prime sets, who had been booked for private events upstairs. Smiles were exchanged, compliments were offered, jokes were made—but underneath it all lived quiet comparison, subtle rivalry, and the unspoken understanding that in a place built on desirability, nobody could afford to be too soft for too long.

So you were cordial. Professional. Easy to be around, but never too open.

You had learned that lesson quickly.

Trust was expensive in a place like this, and you didn't spend it easily.

There was only one person backstage you allowed yourself to think of as a genuine friend.

Ciara.

Though inside these walls, nobody really used government names. Not if they wanted to keep their personal life separated from the world of dim lights, fake names, and expensive secrets. In here, Ciara was Rain.

And the nickname fit her so perfectly that sometimes even you forgot it wasn't her real name.

Rain was the kind of woman who could command a room without raising her voice. She had that rare kind of presence—smooth, dangerous, magnetic. The kind that didn't beg for attention because it knew attention would come anyway. She could walk past a table and leave silence behind her, every eye dragged in her direction without her having to do much more than glance over her shoulder. Her beauty helped, obviously, but it was more than that. It was the confidence. The control. The way she moved like she had already decided what effect she was going to have on people before she even stepped into the room.

People said she was called Rain because she was so good at making it rain money.

And that was true.

Men threw cash at her like they were trying to prove something to themselves. She had a way of making people reach deeper into their wallets without ever appearing to ask. Every smile, every touch, every teasing step and slow turn looked effortless on her part, but there was precision in everything she did. Rain knew how to build anticipation. She knew how to give just enough, then pull back right when someone thought they had her figured out. She could leave a man breathless, lighter in the bank account, and somehow grateful for the privilege.

But the other half of her nickname was just as true.

Because Rain could make a man cry, too.

Not always literally—though you had seen that happen once, and it had been equal parts tragic and embarrassing—but emotionally? Absolutely. She had a gift for getting under skin without seeming cruel about it. She could read insecurity in a heartbeat and dance along its edges like she was born for it. Some men came in thinking they wanted a fantasy, only to leave looking wrecked because Rain had reminded them, in one smile and one dismissive turn, that wanting something didn't mean you could have it. She could make a man feel like a king for ten minutes, then leave him staring after her like he'd just lost a war.

And somehow, beneath all that sharpness, she was one of the realest people you knew.

You spotted her near one of the mirrors, already halfway dressed for the night, adjusting an earring while talking to one of the bartenders who had wandered backstage under the weak excuse of saying hello. Rain caught sight of you through the reflection before you even spoke. Her lips curved instantly, that sly, knowing smile settling on her face like she'd been expecting you.

"There he is," she said, voice smooth and amused, eyes flicking over you. "The lounge's favorite bad decision."

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you came closer. "And here I thought I was a respectable employee."

She turned then, fully facing you, and the bartender wisely took that as his cue to disappear. Rain had that effect. "Please," she said dryly. "None of us are respectable employees. We're expensive coping mechanisms."

That got a real laugh out of you.

That was one of the reasons she was your person in this place. Rain understood the job for what it was without dressing it up in lies. She never romanticized it, never judged you for doing what you had to do, never pretended the hotel was something nobler than what it actually was. At the same time, she didn't let it eat her alive either. She had found a way to survive here without losing the core of herself, and in a place full of masks, that made her feel rare.

Your friendship with her had formed quietly over time. Not in some dramatic instant, but in shared glances, mutual understanding, and little moments in between shifts. A bottle of water handed over without asking. A warning about a difficult guest. A quick makeup fix before you hit the floor. A joke cracked at the exact right moment after a long night. She was one of the few people who looked at you and saw more than Siren, more than the polished fantasy everyone else paid for. She saw the exhaustion sometimes hiding beneath your confidence. She saw the sharp edges in you, the survival instincts, the parts that still bristled at what your life had become.

And because of that, you trusted her.

As much as someone like you could trust anybody in a place like this.

Rain looked you over again, more carefully this time, reading your face the way she always did. "You good?" she asked, voice dropping just enough to make the question genuine beneath the humor.

You gave a small shrug, setting your things down near your station. "I'm here, aren't I?"

She hummed at that, one brow lifting as if to say that answer told her everything she needed to know.

Backstage, around the two of you, the room continued buzzing with practiced chaos. Heels clicked against the floor. Garment bags rustled. Someone cursed because they couldn't find a cufflink. Another dancer laughed too loudly at something that wasn't that funny. The sound of the crowd outside swelled faintly as more guests entered the lounge, and all of it blended together into the familiar pre-show storm.

But in that small pocket of space beside Rain, things felt steadier.

Manageable.

Because while the rest of the dancers were people you worked beside, people you smiled at and shared space with out of necessity, Rain was the only one who made this place feel even remotely human. The only one who could stand in the middle of all this velvet-draped chaos and make you feel less alone in it.

And in a place like The Afrodisiac, that counted for more than most people would ever know.

𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑺𝑻𝑶𝑶𝑫 in front of the backstage mirror, giving yourself one last slow look as you adjusted the final details of your costume.

Tonight's theme was fantasy with bite, and your outfit delivered exactly that.

It was the stripper version of Zatanna's look, inspired by the famous DC magician but reworked for the world of The Afrodisiac—less stage illusionist and more dangerous temptation wrapped in satin, structure, and skin. The classic magician aesthetic was still there if you knew what to look for: the sharp black palette, the polished glamour, the sense of theatrical mystery. But the hotel's version had taken all of that and pushed it somewhere darker, sexier, and far more provocative.

The corset was the centerpiece.

Black, fitted, and cut to sculpt rather than simply flatter, it hugged your torso like it had been made with the sole purpose of turning your body into a weapon. It cinched your waist tightly enough to sharpen every line, forcing your posture into something naturally commanding—shoulders back, chest lifted, spine straight with the kind of elegance that looked effortless even when it wasn't. The shape it gave you was almost unfair. It made your frame look even more dramatic than usual, carving you into something sleek and decadent, your silhouette all smooth curves and controlled tension. If your body had already been tea before, that corset made it lethal.

Below it, the rest of the outfit leaned unapologetically into fantasy. The tailored black bottoms sat just right, designed to tease as much as they revealed, while sheer details and glossy finishes caught the light every time you moved. Fishnets climbed your legs, adding that signature Zatanna edge, and your boots—dark, polished, and performance-ready—gave the whole look a commanding finish. The jacket, cropped and dramatic, hung off your shoulders with just enough structure to sell the magician fantasy without softening the seduction. Add in the smoky eye makeup, the precise contouring, the shimmer dusted strategically across your skin, and the entire effect was devastating.

You looked like the kind of magic people paid to ruin themselves over.

Around you, backstage remained a blur of motion and noise—music pulsing through the walls, dancers finishing touches, voices bouncing between mirrors and garment racks—but for a second, all of that faded into the background as you took yourself in. The costume wasn't just clothing. It was armor. Performance skin. The version of you that walked out under lounge lights and made strangers forget their names and bank limits.

You rolled your shoulders once, testing the fit, then turned away from the mirror and started toward the exit that would lead you from backstage and onto the floor.

You had barely made it a few steps before a voice stopped you.

"Siren."

You turned and found your manager cutting through the room toward you with the kind of brisk, purposeful stride that immediately told you this wasn't casual. He was always polished, always composed, but there was something slightly more deliberate in his expression tonight, something that made you pause before he even said another word.

"You're not on the lounge floor for the rest of the night," he said.

Your brows lifted slightly.

That wasn't normal.

You crossed your arms loosely, more out of habit than attitude, the corset tightening subtly with the movement. "That so?"

He nodded. "Change of plans."

There was a beat where the music from outside seemed louder, the bass pressing against the walls while you studied his face for more. In this place, changes of plans could mean anything. A last-minute private booking. A high-paying guest with specific tastes. A problem upstairs. A favor for someone important. None of it ever came with full context unless you absolutely needed it.

Instead of dragging it out, he stepped closer and lowered his voice enough to keep the conversation private without making it dramatic.

"You've got a client upstairs."

That shifted something in you immediately—not fear exactly, but alertness. Lounge performances were one thing. Upstairs meant private. More exclusive. More money, usually. Also more unpredictable.

You kept your expression smooth. "Who?"

He gave the faintest shake of his head. "No name."

Of course.

That was another part of the hotel's world—names mattered less than influence. People who booked upstairs, especially through the inner circle of the hotel's elite, often preferred to remain shadows until they chose otherwise.

Your manager continued, tone measured. "What I can tell you is this—he's an athlete, hot as hell, and not just some rich fool passing through. He's a special VIP to the boss.”

That got your full attention.

The boss didn't extend that kind of language to just anybody. Plenty of wealthy clients came through The Afrodisiac. Plenty tipped obscenely, rented out suites, and acted like kings for a night. But being described as a special VIP to the boss of the hotel meant this man sat in a different category entirely. Protected. Favored. Important enough that everyone around him would be expected to handle things carefully.

You glanced at your manager, eyes narrowing just slightly. "And you're telling me this because...?"

"Because," he said, looking you over in that assessing way managers did when they were calculating brand, performance, and profit all at once, "he specifically requested one of our best. The boss agreed. So congratulations."

The word sounded flattering on the surface, but you heard the assignment underneath it.

This wasn't a suggestion. It was a directive wrapped in praise.

Still, you didn't let any irritation show. You had been here long enough to know how this worked. If the boss made a call, the room adjusted accordingly. And if someone that protected wanted a private dancer upstairs, you either handled it professionally or you made yourself replaceable.

So you tilted your head, your expression unreadable. "Anything else I should know?"

Your manager considered that. "He's fresh in. Wants privacy. Wants discretion. And from what I gathered, he's used to getting exactly what he asks for."

A faint, humorless smile touched your mouth.

"So," you said, "an athlete."

That earned a short breath of amusement from him. "Something like that."

He stepped aside then, motioning toward the private hallway that led away from the lounge floor and toward the elevators reserved for high-end clientele, the ones whose desires were not meant to be watched by the general crowd downstairs.

As you turned in that direction, the mood of the night changed around you.

The lounge had one kind of energy—public seduction, performance, the adrenaline rush of being watched by many at once. Upstairs was different. More intimate. More controlled. The stakes felt sharper there, because when all the lights and crowd noise fell away, there was nowhere to hide behind choreography and stage persona. Private clients weren't buying the same fantasy as the men downstairs throwing money from velvet booths. They expected something more tailored. More personal. More convincing.

Your boots clicked against the floor as you headed toward the corridor, each step steady, measured, elegant.

Behind you, the backstage noise faded into the hum of the building, and ahead of you stretched the polished quiet of exclusivity—soft lighting, expensive artwork, thick carpet swallowing sound, the kind of hallway designed to make everyone walking through it feel like they were about to do something they shouldn't.

You could feel the corset around your waist with every breath, tight and sculpting, holding you together as neatly as your expression did. Your face remained calm, but your mind was already working. Athlete. Hot as hell. Close to the boss. No name.

That combination could mean trouble. Or money. Or both.

Probably both.

𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑪𝑯𝑬𝑫 the elevator, you had fully slipped back into yourself—or rather, into the version of yourself this hotel required. Not the man who had once stumbled into The Afrodisiac desperate and overdrawn and trying not to drown. Not the one who still sometimes felt the sting of how far necessity had pushed him. But Siren—polished, beautiful, unreadable, and dangerous enough to make strangers believe whatever fantasy they wanted to buy.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

You stepped inside alone, catching your reflection briefly in the mirrored walls.

Black corset. Fishnets. Smoke around your eyes. A body sharpened into temptation. A face composed enough to hide every second thought.

As the doors closed and the elevator began carrying you upstairs toward a faceless VIP with too much pull and not enough introduction, a strange tension curled low in your stomach—not quite dread, not quite anticipation, but something restless in between.

The ride up felt longer than it actually was.

Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the shift in atmosphere the higher you went, as though the building itself understood there was a difference between the fantasies sold downstairs and the arrangements made above. In the lounge, desire was loud—music, bodies, lights, attention. Upstairs, it became quieter. More private. More expensive. The kind of quiet that made you aware of every sound: the faint hum of the elevator, the soft breath leaving your nose, the subtle creak of your corset when you adjusted your posture.

You stood tall in the mirrored elevator, one hand loosely at your side, the other brushing once over the front of your jacket as if checking that everything was sitting exactly the way it should. Your reflection stared back at you from every angle—sharp, polished, put together. The black Zatanna-inspired costume still hit exactly how it was supposed to: dangerous elegance, theatrical seduction, all mystery and control. The corset had your frame looking snatched beyond reason, your silhouette almost unreal beneath the low amber light overhead. Fishnets, boots, smoky eyes, glossy mouth, just enough shimmer to catch the light when you moved—it all came together into the kind of image people paid for before you even spoke.

Then the elevator chimed.

The doors slid open.

And waiting for you on the other side was Gregory.

Gregory never looked like he belonged anywhere ordinary. He filled a hallway the same way some men filled a room—with presence first, everything else second. At six-foot-five, broad-shouldered and sharply dressed, he carried himself with the kind of confidence that only came from knowing he owned more than what was written on paper. The hotel may have had investors, executives, and hidden names attached to it, but Gregory was the face people associated with power inside these walls. A Russian with effortless charisma and a predator's instincts, he was the sort of man who could smile warmly while calculating profit, leverage, and loyalty all at once.

He had done exactly that the moment he met you.

You knew it. He knew you knew it.

The first time Gregory laid eyes on you, he hadn't looked at you the way a man merely admired beauty. He looked at you the way a businessman recognized opportunity. Dollar signs. Market value. Long-term return. He had taken one sweeping look at your face, your body, your presence, and instantly seen what everyone else would be willing to pay for it. Since then, he had treated you well enough—but never in a way that let you forget you were one of the investments he was most pleased with.

Tonight, he looked especially pleased.

"There he is," Gregory said, his deep voice smooth and welcoming, accented just enough to make everything he said sound more deliberate. His eyes moved over you once, taking in the outfit, the presentation, the effect. A small grin touched his mouth. "I knew that costume would print money."

You stepped out of the elevator with a controlled ease, your expression cool even as you clocked every detail around you. This floor was different from the rest of the hotel—quieter, richer, more insulated. The lighting was low and warm. The carpets were thick enough to silence footsteps. The doors to the suites were spaced farther apart, each one elegant and understated, because on this level, nobody needed flashy décor to prove they had money.

You looked back at Gregory. "Good evening to you too."

That earned a short laugh from him.

He was dressed in one of his usual dark tailored suits, expensive enough that even the fabric seemed to hold authority. No tie tonight, just an open collar that softened the look enough to make him seem more approachable—though nothing about Gregory was ever truly soft. He wore a watch that probably cost more than some people's cars, a ring that caught the light when he moved his hand, and the kind of scent that announced wealth without being loud about it. Every detail was intentional. Gregory understood image better than most. He had built an empire on fantasy, and he knew how to dress like the man who controlled it.

He came closer, stopping just near enough that the conversation stayed private without feeling intimate.

"This customer," he said, his tone shifting from amused to businesslike, "is not like the usual upstairs requests."

You kept your face composed. "That's what I've been hearing."

Gregory's mouth curved, as if he appreciated that you weren't acting dazzled by the mystery. "He is a close friend of mine."

There it was again—that emphasis.

Not just a client. Not just a VIP. A close friend.

That changed the shape of things immediately. Gregory protected what was his, and he favored very few people in a way that felt personal. If he was making a point to tell you this man belonged to that inner circle, then tonight wasn't simply about giving a performance. It was about representation. About trust. About keeping one of Gregory's chosen people more than satisfied.

Your gaze stayed on him. "And what exactly are you asking?"

Gregory held your eyes for a beat, and when he answered, his voice was calm—almost too calm.

"You are to do whatever he wants."

The words landed cleanly between you.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just direct.

You didn't react outwardly, but internally your attention sharpened another degree. Gregory noticed everything, so you gave him nothing he could read too easily. That was a skill this place had taught you well. Still, his wording told you more than enough. Whoever was behind that suite door, he was important enough that limits would be assumed flexible unless you made them otherwise. Important enough that Gregory expected the night to go smoothly, generously, and without complaint.

Then, as if to underline the point in a language this place respected most, Gregory reached into the inner pocket of his jacket.

What came out was a thick stack of cash.

Not a few bills folded for show. Not a teasing little display meant to tempt. A real stack—crisp, heavy, deliberate. The kind of money that could quiet questions before they fully formed. He held it casually, but not carelessly, letting you see the thickness of it, the promise sitting there in clean-cut bills under the hallway light.

It was the best indicator of the reward.

Your eyes flicked to it, then back to him.

Gregory smiled, not missing a thing. "Half now," he said. "Half if my friend is pleased."

There was no need for him to say more. In The Afrodisiac, money often did the talking before people ever got around to being honest. That stack said plenty. It said the guest was generous. It said Gregory expected this to be handled without issue. It said that whatever happened inside that suite, your time tonight had just become significantly more valuable than anything waiting downstairs in the lounge.

It also said Gregory knew exactly how to motivate people without raising his voice.

He extended part of the stack toward you, not as a bribe exactly, but as an advance—an expectation dressed as generosity. The bills looked almost too neat in his hand, too effortless, as though this amount of money meant nothing to him. Maybe it didn't. Maybe that was the point.

You took it with measured calm, not too eager, not too hesitant. Your fingers closed around the cash, and even through the practiced professionalism written across your face, you couldn't ignore what it meant. Rent. Bills. Space to breathe. A little more time bought back from the pressure that had put you here in the first place.

Another day, another dollar.

Only this was far more than a dollar.

Gregory watched you tuck the money away, satisfaction gleaming in his eyes. "Good," he said softly.

There was something almost paternal in the way he looked at you sometimes, if paternal instincts could be filtered through greed and strategy. He admired what you brought into his business. Protected it too, in his own way. But that protection always had strings made of profit. Gregory did not keep valuable things around out of sentiment alone.

He placed a large hand briefly on your shoulder—not affectionate, but grounding. A final bit of direction.

"My friend has had a long week," he said. "He wants privacy. No noise, no complications, no attitude. Give him a night worth remembering."

You lifted a brow slightly. "And if he's difficult?"

Gregory's expression eased into that charismatic smile of his, the one that made people trust him even when they shouldn't. "Then be unforgettable."

Of course.

Because in Gregory's world, the answer was always performance. Adapt. Charm. Seduce. Smooth it over. Turn tension into profit. Turn discomfort into elegance. Turn yourself into exactly what the room required.

He stepped back then and angled his head toward one of the suite doors down the hall—a large private suite, set slightly apart from the others, the kind reserved for guests who paid to be left entirely alone.

"That one," Gregory said.

You followed his gaze.

The hallway felt even quieter now, the kind of silence that wrapped itself around expectation. Somewhere below, the hotel was still alive with music, laughter, clinking glasses, and carefully packaged temptation. But up here, all of that felt distant. Muted. Upstairs was where the masks came off in different ways.

Gregory's eyes returned to you one last time, assessing, approving. "Take care of him," he said.

Then he turned and walked off without another word, leaving you alone in the hall with the warmth of cash tucked against your body, the tight hold of the corset around your waist, and the weight of a very specific instruction hanging in the air.

A close friend of the boss.

An athlete.

Hot as hell, according to your manager.

And important enough that Gregory himself had come to greet you at the elevator like a handoff of something valuable.

You looked toward the suite door again, your boots sinking quietly into the plush carpet as you began to move. Every step felt measured, each one carrying you deeper into the kind of arrangement that made The Afrodisiac notorious among the elite. You could already feel yourself settling into that controlled part of your mind—the place where Siren lived. Smooth. unreadable. composed. The version of you that knew how to walk into a room full of unknowns and make it look effortless.

Still, beneath all that polish, your curiosity sharpened.

Whoever waited behind that door had enough pull to redirect your entire night, enough favor with Gregory to be treated like royalty, and enough money to make sure you understood this wasn't a casual booking.

As you stopped in front of the suite, the stack of cash felt heavier than paper.

Like a promise.

Or a warning.

𝒀𝑶𝑼 𝑷𝑼𝑺𝑯𝑬𝑫 the suite door open and stepped inside, and the first thing that hit you was just how little the word room fit what you were looking at.

This was no ordinary hotel suite.

It resembled a lavish penthouse carved out of money, privacy, and taste so expensive it didn't need to show off. The space opened wide before you in a sweep of polished floors, rich textures, and floor-to-ceiling windows that framed the city like a living painting. The skyline stretched beyond the glass in glittering layers of gold, white, and blue, every building lit like it had its own story to tell. The lights below looked almost unreal from this height, like stars had spilled upward from the streets and gotten caught in the dark. Everything inside the suite was designed to match that view—sleek furniture in deep neutral tones, a low glass coffee table, art that was understated but unmistakably valuable, a bar stocked with top-shelf liquor, and lighting dim enough to feel intimate without obscuring anything.

It was the kind of place meant for people who didn't just want luxury—they expected it.

And standing near the tall windows, half-shadowed by the city lights behind him, was the athlete.

For a second, all you saw was the silhouette.

Tall. Broad. Still.

He stood with the relaxed sort of confidence that only came naturally to men who had long since grown used to taking up space without apology. He had his back partly turned to you, his attention seemingly fixed on the city below, one hand resting near his side while the other held the weight of his own thoughts. The white button-up shirt he wore looked expensive in that effortless way simple things often did when they were tailored correctly. It skimmed his frame rather than hung off it, outlining a body that was impossible to ignore—six-foot-three, heavily built, very muscular, broad shoulders cutting a clean line through the soft light, and a tapered waist that made his proportions look even more striking.

He looked powerful without having to move.

The kind of man people noticed immediately and remembered against their will.

Then the door clicked shut behind you.

The sound made him turn.

And the moment he did, recognition hit you so quickly you almost felt it physically.

Ilya Rozanov.

Not just some nameless athlete.

Not just a protected VIP with too much money and special treatment from Gregory.

Ilya Rozanov, hockey star for the Boston Bears.

For the smallest fraction of a second, your composure threatened to crack—not visibly, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt the shift under your skin. Because the reason you knew who he was had nothing to do with celebrity gossip or casual sports headlines. It was more personal than that. Far more personal. The kind of connection that belonged nowhere near your work life, which was exactly why you locked it down the second the recognition landed.

You did not bring personal business to work.

That was one of the few rules you had managed to keep ironclad in a place like this.

So whatever flicker of history, memory, or private tension had sparked inside you at the sight of him, you buried it immediately beneath the polished calm of Siren.

Ilya, meanwhile, was even more arresting now that he was facing you.

His face had that hard, masculine beauty some men seemed to wear without trying—strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that looked like they belonged to somebody who noticed more than he let on. There was something distinctly controlled about him, the sort of restraint that made him seem even more dangerous. His hair was slightly tousled, not messy exactly, but loose enough to make it clear he hadn't spent time trying to perfect it. It only added to the effect. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to expose the strong line of his throat and the edge of his collarbone, and there, resting against his skin, catching the low warm light of the suite, was a gold Russian Orthodox cross necklace.

The sight of it made the moment feel even more intimate somehow.

Not because of the necklace itself, but because it was one of those details that humanized a man who otherwise looked carved out of money, fame, and physical force. It hinted at background, culture, habit—something real beneath the image.

You stepped further into the room, your posture elegant, your face composed, every movement measured. The Zatanna-inspired outfit did exactly what it was supposed to do under this kind of lighting. The black corset sharpened your shape to near-perfection, the fishnets and tailored details gave every step an extra kind of danger, and the cropped jacket made the whole look feel theatrical in the best way—mystery and temptation dressed up as performance art.

You gave him a small, professional smile.

"Good evening, Mr. Rozanov."

That got a reaction.

It was subtle, but unmistakable.

One of his brows lifted just slightly, surprise flickering across his face before being smoothed away. He hadn't expected to be recognized. Or maybe he hadn't expected to be recognized so formally. Either way, it caught his attention.

His gaze moved over you again, more carefully this time. "You know who I am."

His voice was deep and smooth, edged faintly with that Russian accent that made certain words sound heavier, more deliberate. It fit him too well.

You kept your tone even. "I know of you."

That answer was intentional. Clean. Neutral. Enough truth to satisfy him, not enough to expose anything you didn't want touched.

His eyes stayed on you for a moment, studying, calculating. You could almost see him deciding how much that mattered.

So you added, with the practiced calm of someone who had delivered reassurance many times before, "But don't worry. Discretion is policy in this building."

A quiet hum left him at that—something between acknowledgment and amusement.

He turned away just enough to move toward the bar area, and even that small stretch of motion made it obvious how much power lived in his frame. He moved like an athlete even when relaxed—grounded, efficient, balanced. There was no wasted movement in him. He reached for a bottle and poured himself a drink with the kind of casual familiarity that suggested he had already settled into the suite as if it belonged to him.

As amber liquor filled the glass, he spoke again.

"Gregory told me many things about this hotel."

You remained where you were for the moment, letting him set the pace while still holding your own presence in the room. "Did he?"

Ilya gave a short, low sound that might have been a laugh, though it carried more dryness than humor. "Mm." He picked up the glass and swirled it once before looking at you over the rim. "More specifically, he told me about you."

That didn't surprise you nearly as much as it should have.

Gregory loved selling a fantasy before the product ever arrived.

You tilted your head just slightly, a smooth invitation for him to continue.

Ilya took a sip, then lowered the glass. "He said," he began, voice unhurried, "that once you came upstairs, you would do whatever I want.”

The room seemed to settle around those words.

Not tense exactly, but sharper.

The city glowed behind him. The suite lights warmed the edges of glass and gold. Somewhere beneath all of it, you could hear the faintest pulse of music from floors below, like the hotel itself breathing under the scene. You didn't let the statement rattle you. Your expression stayed composed, your voice velvet-smooth when you answered.

"That is true."

The confirmation hung between you for a second.

Something in his gaze shifted at hearing you say it yourself. Not surprise—more like curiosity. As though hearing the arrangement from Gregory was one thing, but hearing you confirm it made it real in a more interesting way.

Ilya walked over to the armchair near the coffee table and lowered himself into it with easy confidence, drink still in hand. The chair was large, luxurious, but he still seemed to dominate it purely by size. One ankle came to rest over the opposite knee for a moment before he leaned back, broad shoulders relaxing into the leather, his attention fully fixed on you now.

The suite suddenly felt smaller in the way private spaces sometimes do when one person decides to truly focus on another.

He looked at you like he was assessing more than appearance. Like he was trying to figure out where the act ended and where you began.

Then, finally, he gave you his first instruction.

"Dance for me."

The words were simple. Calm. Not barked like an order, not sweetened into a request. Just said with the sort of confidence that assumed they would be followed.

And of course, they would.

You moved toward the coffee table with unhurried grace, each step deliberate, your boots quiet against the floor. On the table sat the in-room control tablet, sleek and black, already connected to the suite's entertainment system. You picked it up and turned slightly toward him, one hand cradling it while the other rested lightly against your waist.

"Then pick a song," you said.

Your tone was smooth, almost playful, but still professional. A little invitation wrapped inside obedience.

You extended the tablet toward him.

Ilya's gaze dropped to it briefly, then returned to you, lingering there for a beat longer than necessary. There was something unreadable in his expression now—something thoughtful, maybe even entertained. As if the fact that you had handed him that much control only made him more aware of how much of the room you still held anyway.

The city lights reflected softly in the glass behind him. The gold cross at his collarbone flashed once when he shifted. The drink in his hand caught the low amber light.

And there you stood in front of him—corseted, polished, beautiful, a magician's fantasy sharpened into something meant for temptation rather than tricks.

Then his long fingers swipe across the tablet screen, scrolling through the curated playlist with lazy confidence. He taps once, sets the tablet down on the armrest, and leans back deeper into the leather chair.

The opening hits immediately — that unmistakable Ayy, ayy, ayy, ayy from Honorable C.N.O.T.E., heavy 808 bass thumping low and thick through the suite's hidden speakers like a heartbeat you feel in your ribs.

Your body reacts before your mind even registers the choice.

The moment Megan Thee Stallion's voice slides in — smooth, cocky, dripping with that unapologetic "Downstairs DJ" energy — something primal clicks inside you. The Siren wakes up fully. No hesitation, no overthinking. Just pure, magnetic instinct. Your hips roll on the very first downbeat, slow and deliberate, like the bass itself is pulling the strings. Shoulders drop, spine arches just enough for the corset to bite deliciously into your waist. You become exactly what they all pay to see: the living Siren — untouchable yet impossible to look away from, the one who makes powerful men forget their own names.

You move toward him like the music is water and you're made of silk.

The intro's playful bounce has you circling the armchair once, boots clicking in perfect time with the hi-hats, cropped jacket swaying open to flash the black corset underneath. Your hands trail lightly over your own thighs, fishnets whispering under your fingertips. You don't touch him yet — just close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, close enough that the shimmer on your collarbones catches every flicker of the low suite lighting.

Then the chorus drops — Ayy, I love my pussy and my pussy love me / Play with her for a lil' while, then fall asleep — and the energy shifts.

You step between his spread thighs, one knee bracing on the cushion beside his hip, and lower yourself slowly onto his lap. The first grind is controlled, rolling your hips forward on the heavy bass line, pressing just enough that the heat of you brushes the front of his slacks. Your hands plant lightly on his broad shoulders for balance — not gripping, just resting — while your torso undulates in time with Megan's flow. Every "ayy" in the background makes your chest pop forward, the corset pushing your pecs up and out in a way that looks obscene and elegant at the same time.

Ilya's hazel eyes darken, but he stays perfectly still, letting you work. One hand rests on the armrest; the other still loosely holds his drink. The gold cross at his throat rises and falls with his steady breathing.

You feel his command before he even speaks it.

"Take the jacket off."

His voice cuts through the second verse like velvet over gravel, low and unhurried, right as Megan starts rapping about crowns and queens. You obey without breaking rhythm. Fingers hook into the lapels of the cropped jacket; you peel it off your shoulders in one fluid motion synced to the snare hits, letting it slide down your arms and drop behind you onto the floor. The sudden loss of the layer makes the corset stand out sharper — black satin gleaming, waist snatched impossibly tight, every breath visible.

The music builds, Megan's voice getting filthier, more confident. You lean in closer now, lips hovering near his ear as you roll your hips in tight, slow circles — exactly matching the "two fingers give me peace" lyric with a teasing grind that drags your body down his thigh and back up. Your fishnet-covered thighs squeeze the outside of his, the mesh catching friction against his slacks.

"Corset next," he murmurs during the pre-chorus swell, voice rougher now, the Russian accent thicker. "Slow."

You smile — small, knowing, pure Siren — and reach behind your back. The laces loosen one deliberate tug at a time, timed to every bass drop. The boning releases gradually, the satin peeling away from your skin like a second layer of armor coming undone. When the final hook gives, you let the corset fall open and slide it down your torso, revealing the smooth planes of your chest and stomach glistening faintly under the shimmer oil. You toss it aside right as the chorus crashes back in.

Now it's just you in the tailored black bottoms, fishnets, and boots — skin warm, muscles flexing with every movement.

You sink lower onto his lap, full straddle now, chest brushing his white shirt as you ride the beat. Your hands finally touch him properly — sliding up the strong column of his throat, fingers grazing the gold cross for half a second before you arch back, letting your spine curve dramatically while your hips keep grinding in perfect sync with Megan's rapid-fire bars. Every "can't stress me if he can't sex me" line earns a deeper roll, a slower drag of your body over the growing hardness beneath you.

Ilya's free hand finally moves — large palm settling on your lower back, not guiding, just feeling the heat and the rhythm. His thumb traces the edge of your fishnets in time with the hi-hats.

The final verse hits, Megan's voice turning playful and filthy. You hook your thumbs into the waistband of the bottoms and peel them down inch by inch at his next murmured command — "Everything else" — sliding them off your hips and kicking them away just as the beat cuts into the outro. The fishnets stay for now; you roll them down one leg at a time, slow and theatrical, balancing on one boot while the other leg stretches long beside the chair. The last boot comes off with a deliberate flourish on the final "ayy."

The music slows, fades, then stops completely.

You remain straddling Ilya's lap, completely bare except for the thin silver chain at your throat and the faint, glossy shimmer still clinging to your skin like liquid starlight. A light sheen of sweat traces down the center of your chest, catching the warm amber glow of the suite's recessed lighting. Your thighs are spread wide over his legs, the heat of your bare skin pressing against the expensive fabric of his slacks.

Ilya's hand stays splayed across the small of your back, fingers warm and possessive, thumb slowly tracing the dip of your spine in lazy circles. His other hand still loosely holds the forgotten glass of amber liquor on the armrest, ice long since melted. For a long moment he simply looks at you — hazel-green eyes dark with appreciation, roaming over every exposed inch of your body with the same focused intensity he probably brings to the ice.

"Ты двигаешься, как грех и шелк — You move like sin and silk," he says, voice low and rough around the edges, that Russian accent thickening the words. "Watching you dance... that was quite the experience. The way your body listens to the beat, the way you give yourself to it... dangerous. Красивый — Beautiful."

His free hand slides up your side, slow and deliberate, palm gliding over the smooth plane of your ribs, thumb brushing just beneath the curve of your pec. The touch is appreciative rather than rushed, as if he's savoring the afterglow of the performance he paid for.

"But I want more."

The statement lands simple and certain, no room for negotiation.

Before you can respond, Ilya reaches into the inner pocket of his white button-up shirt with his free hand. He pulls out a sleek black silk tie — expensive, narrow, the kind that probably costs more than most people's monthly rent. The fabric catches the low light as he unfolds it between his fingers, letting it dangle for a moment like a promise.

"Close your eyes."

The command is quiet, but absolute.

You obey without hesitation, lashes lowering as the world goes dark. The silk is cool and smooth against your eyelids as he carefully wraps the tie around your head, knotting it securely at the back — not too tight, but firm enough that no light leaks through. The blindfold plunges you into velvet blackness, heightening every other sense instantly. You become acutely aware of the heat radiating from his body beneath you, the faint scent of his cologne mixed with clean skin and expensive liquor, the steady thrum of his heartbeat you can almost feel through his chest. There's nothing between you and his touch except the thin barrier of his clothing.

Ilya's hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing gently into the hollows just above your hipbones, holding you steady in his lap. His voice drops even lower, close enough that you feel the warmth of his breath against your ear.

"Now... I'm going to give you commands," he murmurs, the Russian lilt wrapping around each word like smoke. "And you are going to follow them. Exactly. No hesitation. No questions. Understand?"

The air in the suite feels thicker, charged. The city lights are still glowing beyond the windows, but you can no longer see them — only feel the faint warmth on your skin from the direction of the glass. Your pulse quickens beneath the blindfold, not from fear but from the sharp, electric edge of surrender. Siren is still fully present in the way you hold yourself — poised, elegant, responsive — even without sight.

You nod once, slow and deliberate, lips parting just slightly.

"Yes."

A low, satisfied sound rumbles in his chest — almost a hum of approval.

His grip on your hips tightens fractionally, guiding you to stay exactly where you are, straddling him in the wide leather armchair. The blindfold heightens everything: the brush of fabric against your bare thighs, the subtle shift of his muscles beneath you, the way his gold cross occasionally grazes your chest when he leans in closer.

"Start by putting your hands behind your back," he says, voice calm and commanding, every syllable measured. "Interlace your fingers. Keep them there until I tell you otherwise."

You obey instantly, arms sliding behind you, fingers lacing together at the base of your spine. The position arches your chest forward slightly, exposing you even more to his gaze. You can feel the cool air of the suite kissing your skin, the faint tremor of anticipation running through your muscles.

Ilya's palm smooths up your stomach, slow and appreciative, as if mapping every ridge and hollow.

"Good," he murmurs, the single word carrying weight. "Now we begin."

The blindfold keeps the world in perfect darkness, but your other senses have sharpened into something almost overwhelming. The heavy, velvet-smooth weight of Ilya's cock continues its slow, deliberate torture against your parted lips — sliding, smacking lightly, rubbing the thick, glistening head back and forth until your mouth is slick and shining with him.

You can taste the faint salt of precum every time he presses forward, can feel the heavy pulse of the thick vein running along the underside. Your hands remain locked behind your back exactly as he ordered, fingers interlaced so tightly your knuckles ache, chest arched forward, thighs still spread wide over his lap in the deep leather armchair.

Then his grip on your hips tightens.

"Up," he murmurs, voice low and rough with that rich Russian accent. The single word is calm, but it carries the same absolute authority as every command before it.

He rises from the chair in one powerful, fluid motion, lifting you with him as though you weigh nothing. His large hands stay firm on your waist, steadying you until your feet find the plush carpet. The sudden shift in height makes you sway slightly; the blindfold robs you of balance, but his hold keeps you upright, chest brushing against the open front of his white button-up shirt. You feel the cool metal of the gold cross graze your sternum again, warm skin and crisp fabric against your bare body.

Ilya doesn't let you go far. One hand slides up to cup the back of your neck, thumb stroking once along the edge of the silk blindfold, while the other stays at your hip, guiding you down.

"Kneel."

Your knees hit the thick carpet instantly, soft and yielding beneath you. You hear the faint metallic rasp of his zipper sliding down — slow, deliberate, the sound cutting through the quiet like a promise. The soft rustle of expensive fabric follows as Ilya shifts beneath you just enough to free himself. Then the heat of him is there, sudden and undeniable.

His cock springs free, heavy and thick, the full nine inches of it.

Then without warning, he taps it against your cheek.

The smack is light but deliberate, the heavy shaft landing with a soft, fleshy sound that echoes in the quiet penthouse. Once. Twice. The third time is firmer, the thick length smacking against your other cheek, leaving a faint, warm sting and the unmistakable scent of him — clean skin, faint musk, the expensive cologne that clings to his body. Your breath catches, but you don't move. You can't. Not with your hands locked behind you and his command still ringing in your ears.

Ilya lets out a low, satisfied hum. He rubs the broad, swollen head slowly across your lips now — back and forth, teasing, painting them with the slick evidence of his arousal. The skin is fever-hot, satin-soft over steel hardness, the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your lower lip with every slow drag. He presses just enough to part your lips slightly, letting the tip nudge against the seam without slipping inside, coating your mouth with the faint salty taste of him.

"Not yet," he murmurs, the words brushing warm against your temple as he continues to rub the thick head in lazy circles over your mouth. "You don't get to suck it until I say so. You just feel it. You let me use that pretty mouth like this until I decide you've earned more."

Another slow, deliberate smack — this one right against your parted lips, the heavy length bouncing lightly off them with a wet little sound that makes heat flood your face beneath the blindfold. He drags the shaft across your cheek again, then back to your mouth, rubbing the underside along your tongue where it peeks out just slightly in obedience. The denial is exquisite, maddening; your body is already aching for more, but you stay perfectly still, hands clasped tight behind you, lips soft and waiting, letting him paint and tease and claim every inch of your mouth without ever letting you close around him.

"Хороший мальчик — Good boy. Just like that. Keep those hands exactly where they are... and keep that mouth open for me."

Then his fingers thread into your hair, gripping just tightly enough to guide without hurting, tilting your head back slightly.

"Open your mouth," he says, voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. "Wide. And keep those hands exactly where they are."

You obey instantly, lips parting, jaw relaxing as far as it can go. The moment you do, he guides the thick head forward, pressing it past your lips in one slow, inexorable push.

The size is immediate, overwhelming.

Nine thick inches stretch your mouth open wide, the heavy girth forcing your jaw to open wider than feels natural. Your lips seal tight around him, but even then the fit is a struggle — the sheer thickness makes your cheeks hollow slightly, the flushed head nudging against the back of your tongue before you've even taken half. A low, wet sound escapes you as you adjust, tongue instinctively flattening and curling beneath the heavy shaft, licking slow, reverent stripes along the pulsing vein as he holds you there.

Ilya lets out a deep, satisfied exhale above you, the sound rumbling through his chest. His hand in your hair tightens, guiding you forward another inch, then another, controlling the pace with calm precision. You feel every ridge, every thick inch sliding deeper, the weight of him heavy on your tongue, the salty-sweet taste flooding your mouth as more precum leaks steadily.

You struggle — not dramatically, but noticeably. Your throat flutters around the intrusion, a soft, involuntary gag vibrating around him when he presses just a little too deep too soon. Saliva already begins to spill from the corners of your stretched lips, dripping down your chin in thin, glistening trails. Your breathing turns ragged through your nose, chest heaving as you fight to relax your throat and take more of him. The blindfold makes it all more intense — you can't see how much is left, can't anticipate the next push, can only feel the relentless stretch and the way his thick cock fills your mouth until there's almost no room left for anything else.

"Good," he praises, voice rough and low, the accent wrapping around the word like smoke. "Just like that... slow. Use your tongue. Take care of it."

He starts to guide you in earnest then — steady, controlled movements of his hand in your hair, pulling you forward and easing you back in a rhythm that lets you breathe but never quite lets you escape the overwhelming fullness. You lick and suck with everything you have, tongue swirling around the head on every withdrawal, hollowing your cheeks on every forward glide, lips sliding wetly along the thick shaft while soft, muffled sounds of effort and pleasure escape around him.

Every time you struggle — a slight choke, a flutter of your throat, a desperate little whimper — Ilya's grip gentles just enough to let you recover, then guides you right back down, pushing a fraction deeper each time, testing how much you can handle. His free hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking along the stretched line of your lower lip where it's wrapped so tightly around him, feeling the way your mouth works to accommodate his size.

The penthouse is utterly silent except for the wet, obscene sounds of your mouth and the low, occasional groan that slips from his throat when you do something particularly good with your tongue. The city lights are still glowing somewhere beyond the windows, but in the velvet blackness of the blindfold, the only reality is the heavy, throbbing heat of Ilya's cock filling your mouth, his guiding hand in your hair, and the quiet, commanding Russian murmurs of approval above you.

"Deeper," he says softly, almost tenderly. "That's it... you can take it."

And you do — struggling, drooling, obedient — letting him use your mouth exactly the way he wants.

Then, suddenly, his grip tightens.

"Stop."

The single word is calm, absolute, cutting through the wet sounds like a command carved in stone.

You freeze instantly, lips still sealed tight around the thick head, tongue pressed flat beneath it. A final, involuntary swirl of your tongue earns you one last quiet groan from him before he slowly eases your head back. The heavy length slips from your mouth with a wet pop, leaving your lips swollen, shiny, and parted, strings of saliva still connecting you to him for a heartbeat before they break. You stay kneeling exactly where you are, chest heaving, blindfolded and trembling with the effort.

Ilya's fingers move to the back of your head. The silk tie loosens, then slides away completely. Light floods back in — warm, golden, almost overwhelming after the long darkness. You blink rapidly, eyes adjusting to the low glow of the suite lamps and the glittering skyline beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The first thing you see clearly is him.

Ilya towers over you, white button-up shirt hanging open at the collar, slacks pushed low on his hips, thick nine-inch cock still heavy and glistening from your mouth, flushed dark and curving upward. His hazel-green eyes are dark with lust and control, lips slightly parted, hair tousled from where your movements had pulled at it. His gold cross rests against the strong column of his throat, catching the light with every breath.

"Stand."

His voice is low, rough, but steady. Large hands grip your upper arms and pull you effortlessly to your feet, steadying you when the sudden shift makes you sway. Once you're upright, he steps back just enough to look at you fully — bare, flushed, lips swollen, silver chain still gleaming at your throat — and gives his next order.

"Unbutton my shirt."

You don't hesitate. Your hands — finally freed — move to the front of his expensive white button-up. The fabric is still warm from his body heat, slightly damp where it clings to his skin. One by one you work the buttons open, fingers brushing against the hard planes of his chest with every release. The shirt parts slowly, revealing inch after inch of what looks like a living Greek statue carved from marble and power.

His body is breathtaking — the kind of sculpted perfection that only comes from years of elite athletic training and raw genetics. Broad, powerful shoulders taper into a wide, thick chest dusted with a light trail of dark hair that disappears lower. His pecs are heavy and defined, rising and falling with each controlled breath, nipples dark and peaked. Below them, an eight-pack of abs stands out in sharp relief, every ridge and valley carved deep, the V-lines at his hips cutting dramatic arrows toward the base of his still-hard cock. His skin is smooth and lightly tanned, a few faint scars from hockey battles marking the perfection like badges of honor.

You push the shirt fully open and slide it off his massive shoulders, letting it drop to the floor behind him. He stands there now in nothing but his slacks pushed low, every inch of that god-like torso on display — broad, powerful, impossibly strong, the body of a man who dominates on ice and off it.

Ilya watches your face the entire time, a small, satisfied smirk tugging at his mouth. Then he reaches for the black silk tie you'd been blindfolded with moments ago. He catches your wrists in one large hand, brings them together in front of you, and wraps the cool silk around them with practiced ease — looping it several times before knotting it securely. The binding isn't painfully tight, but it's firm, leaving your hands bound and useless in front of your stomach, the silk biting just enough to remind you of your place.

He steps closer, bare chest brushing against yours, the heat of his skin and the cool metal of the cross pressing into you. His voice drops to a rough murmur against your ear.

"Get on the bed."

The command is simple, absolute. His hand settles possessively on the small of your back, guiding you toward the massive king-sized bed that dominates the far side of the penthouse suite.

You lie on the massive king-sized bed exactly as he left you — wrists bound tightly in front of you with the black silk tie, the cool fabric biting just enough into your skin to remind you of your place with every small shift. The dark silk sheets feel luxurious and cool against your bare chest and stomach, the city lights spilling through the floor-to-ceiling windows in a soft golden wash that paints every curve of your body in dramatic shadows.

Ilya stands at the edge of the bed, towering and unhurried. His large hands move to the waistband of his slacks, thumbs hooking inside the expensive fabric. He pushes them down slowly, deliberately, letting the material slide over the powerful V-lines of his hips and the thick, muscular swell of his thighs. The slacks pool at his ankles before he kicks them aside with one bare foot. He is completely naked now — every inch of that Greek-statue body on full display under the low ambient lighting. His legs are tree-trunk thick from years of explosive hockey power, calves carved and defined, thighs heavy with muscle that flexes as he steps closer.

Between them, his nine-inch cock hangs heavy and thick, still glistening from your mouth, the flushed head dark and swollen, curving slightly upward with renewed interest. A light trail of dark hair leads from his chiseled abs down to the thick base, and his balls hang full and heavy beneath. The gold Russian Orthodox cross rests perfectly centered between his broad pecs, swaying slightly with each step as he approaches the bed like a predator who already knows he owns the room.

He climbs onto the mattress with easy athletic grace, the bed dipping under his considerable weight. The heat of his body radiates against your skin as he kneels beside you, one large hand sliding possessively up the back of your thigh. His hazel-green eyes lock onto yours, dark with lust and that same calm control.

"Where is the lube?" he asks, voice low and rough, the Russian accent wrapping around the words like velvet gravel. A small, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You didn't get my cock wet enough with that pretty mouth of yours. I need it slick before I fuck you properly."

The blunt words send a fresh wave of heat rushing through you. You nod toward the sleek nightstand built into the headboard — standard for The Afrodisiac's penthouse suites, always discreetly stocked for exactly this kind of indulgence. Ilya reaches over without hurry, opens the drawer, and pulls out a small, expensive bottle of clear lube. The cap clicks open with a soft sound that feels louder than it should in the quiet suite. He warms a generous amount between his palms, the slick scent of it — something faintly clean and expensive — drifting in the air.

"Face down in the pillow," he commands, voice dropping an octave. "Ass up. Now."

You obey instantly, turning onto your stomach and pressing your bound wrists into the silk sheets above your head. Your cheek sinks into the cool pillow, turning your face to the side so you can still breathe, while you arch your back and push your ass up high — knees spread, hips tilted, completely exposed to him. The position leaves you vulnerable and open, the cool air of the suite kissing your hole as your back arches deeper.

Ilya settles behind you on his knees, one powerful hand gripping your hip to hold you steady. The other hand — slick with lube — slides between your cheeks. Two thick fingers press against your hole, circling slowly, teasingly, spreading the cool, slippery liquid in deliberate strokes. He doesn't push inside yet; he just rubs, coating every sensitive inch, letting the slick sounds fill the room as his fingertips drag over your entrance again and again. The teasing pressure makes your thighs tremble, your bound hands flexing uselessly against the sheets.

He leans over you, bare chest brushing your back, the gold cross grazing your spine as his breath ghosts hot against your ear.

"Do you want to be fucked?" he murmurs, voice dark and low, accent thickening with desire. His fingers keep circling, pressing just a little firmer against your hole without breaching it, spreading more lube in lazy, torturous strokes. "Tell me, Siren. Use your words. Do you want this cock stretching you open? Do you want me to ruin you tonight?"

The question hangs in the charged air between you, his slick fingers still teasing, waiting for your answer while his other hand kneads the flesh of your ass, holding you perfectly in place for whatever comes next.

The answer slips out before you can stop it — breathless, raw, but still too composed for a man like him.

"Yes."

The single word hangs in the charged silence of the penthouse, barely louder than the faint hum of the city far below the glass walls. Your cheek is pressed deep into the cool silk pillow, bound wrists flexed uselessly above your head, back arched sharply so your ass stays presented high for him. The dark sheets are already rumpled beneath your knees, your body glistening faintly under the low amber lighting and the golden spill of the skyline through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Ilya doesn't move for a long second. You feel the heat of his massive frame looming behind you, the heavy weight of his stare burning into your exposed skin. Then a low, disappointed hum rumbles from his chest — the sound rich with that thick Russian accent, almost amused, but edged with clear command.

"That's not begging, Siren," he murmurs, voice dropping into something darker, slower. "I said tell me. I want to hear how badly you need it."

His large hands stay firm on your hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples at the base of your spine, holding you exactly where he wants you. You feel him shift closer, the thick, heavy length of his cock — still slick from the lube he'd warmed between his palms and the remnants of your earlier mouth — sliding hot and deliberate between your cheeks. The broad, flushed head catches against your lubed hole with a wet, obscene sound that echoes softly in the quiet suite. He doesn't push in. Not yet. Instead he rubs it slowly up and down, teasing the sensitive rim in lazy, torturous strokes — the thick shaft gliding over your entrance, spreading more lube with every pass, the heavy weight of him nudging and pressing just enough to make your hole flutter and clench around nothing.

The friction is maddening. Every slow drag sends sparks of heat racing up your spine; the slick, glossy head catches and slips, catching again, the sheer girth of him making your thighs tremble as he rocks his hips in tiny, controlled movements. You can feel the pulse of his cock against you, the way it throbs heavier with each teasing slide, the faint slap of skin on skin when he lets it rest fully against your hole for a heartbeat before dragging it back up.

Ilya leans over you, his breath ghosts hot against the shell of your ear.

"Beg for it," he says, voice low and rough, accent thickening with lust. "Properly. Tell me how much you want this cock splitting you open. Tell me you need me to ruin that pretty hole. Use your words, or I'll keep teasing you like this all night."

He punctuates the command by rubbing the thick head in tight, filthy circles right against your entrance — slick sounds filling the room, the pressure firm enough to make your body ache with want but never quite enough to give you what you're craving. His fingers dig harder into your hips, holding you open and immobile while he waits, patient and relentless, the heavy length of him still sliding and pressing and teasing against your hole like he has all the time in the world.

You break.

The words pour out of you in a rush, voice cracked and desperate because you have to — because the slow, filthy drag of his thick cock against your lubed hole has turned every nerve in your body into live wire. Your stomach is a tight, boiling knot of anxious heat, twisting and churning with need so sharp it feels like you might come apart if he doesn't fill you soon. Your hole clenches uselessly around nothing, fluttering and aching with every teasing glide of that heavy, swollen head. Your thighs tremble, knees sinking deeper into the dark silk sheets, bound wrists flexing helplessly above your head where the black tie bites into your skin. Sweat beads along your spine, the shimmer oil from earlier mixing with it until your entire body gleams under the low golden lights of the penthouse.

"Please," you gasp, the word raw and broken against the pillow. "Pl—please. I need it. I need your cock inside me. Fuck, I can't— I can't take the teasing anymore. My hole is aching for you, clenching around nothing, dripping for it. Please split me open. Ruin me. I want you so deep I feel you for days. I'll be so good, I swear—just fuck me."

The begging spills faster, filthier, your voice growing hoarse and needy with every slow, torturous rub of his thick shaft between your cheeks. You push your ass back against him as much as his iron grip on your hips allows, chasing the heavy weight of him, but he only chuckles low in his chest — that deep, satisfied Russian rumble that vibrates through you.

"That's better," he murmurs, accent thick and dark with approval. "Keep going. Tell me exactly how empty you feel without me stretching you."

So you do. The words tumble out between shaky breaths — "I'm so fucking empty... my body's burning for you... please, please push inside, I need to feel every thick inch splitting me open, wrecking me—" — while his cock keeps sliding, slick and relentless, the fat head catching on your rim again and again, pressing just enough to make your hole wink and flutter desperately before sliding away. The anxious heat in your stomach coils tighter, a restless, aching fire that spreads down your thighs and up your spine until you're shaking, whimpering into the pillow, every muscle taut and trembling with the need to be filled.

Ilya lets you beg until your voice cracks on a broken little sob, until the words blur together and your hips are rocking back shamelessly, chasing the denial like it's the only thing keeping you alive.

Only then does he finally still.

A low, approving growl leaves his throat. One large hand smooths up your spine, thumb pressing into the dip between your shoulder blades, while the other lines himself up. The broad, slick head of his cock presses firmly against your entrance — hot, heavy, impossibly thick — and with one slow, inexorable push he begins to slip inside.

The stretch is immediate, overwhelming, devastating.

Your hole parts around him with a wet, obscene sound, the thick head popping past your rim and forcing you open wider than you thought possible. Inch by heavy inch he sinks in, slow and relentless, the burning drag of his girth lighting up every sensitive nerve inside you. Your walls flutter and clench around the invasion, trying to adjust to the sheer size of him, but he doesn't stop — just keeps pressing forward, steady and controlled, until the first half of his nine thick inches is buried deep and your breath stutters out in a broken moan.

Ilya groans above you, the sound low and guttural, his fingers digging bruises into your hips as he holds you open for him. The gold cross on his chest brushes your back when he leans down, breath hot against your ear.

"That's it," he rasps, accent thick with restraint. "Take it. Let me in."

He pushes deeper — another inch, then another — the heavy length stretching you so full you can feel the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your walls. Your stomach flips with that same boiling heat, now mixed with overwhelming relief and pleasure as your body finally gets what it's been begging for. You can feel is the slow, powerful slide of Ilya claiming you, inch by devastating inch, until he's buried to the hilt and the heavy weight of his balls rests against you.

He stays there for a long, perfect moment — buried deep, chest pressed to your back, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him — before his hips draw back just enough to start the first real thrust.

There is no slow, sensual build-up. No gentle rocking. No teasing glide to let you adjust.

Ilya fucks like he plays hockey — hard, relentless, and with zero mercy.

His grip on your hips turns bruising in the same heartbeat. Those large, powerful hands dig deep into the flesh at the sides of your waist, fingers splaying wide for maximum leverage, thumbs pressing hard into the dimples of your lower back. He yanks you back onto him with every thrust, using your bound body like a handle. The first snap of his hips is brutal, the sound of skin meeting skin cracking through the quiet penthouse like a whip — loud, wet, obscene clap after clap after clap.

He is clapping your cheeks.

The force of each thrust makes your ass ripple and jiggle violently, the plump flesh bouncing and shaking with every powerful drive of his hips. You can feel the way your cheeks collide against the hard muscle of his pelvis, the impact sending shockwaves up your spine and down your thighs. The heavy, rhythmic smack-smack-smack fills the suite, louder than your own broken moans, louder than the faint city hum drifting through the glass walls. Each clap leaves your skin stinging, flushed hot and red where his hips slam home again and again.

Ilya's eyes are glued to the sight.

You catch a glimpse of his reflection in the dark glass of the floor-to-ceiling windows — the way his hazel-green gaze is locked downward, completely fixated on the way your ass bounces and jiggles for him with every merciless thrust. His jaw is tight, lips slightly parted, that tousled dark hair falling over his forehead as he watches your cheeks ripple and spread around the thick, glistening length of his cock. The gold cross swings heavily between his massive pecs, catching the low amber light with every brutal snap of his hips. Sweat already gleams across the carved ridges of his eight-pack, sliding down the deep V of his hips as he powers into you.

He doesn't hold back.

Every thrust is deep, punishing, the thick nine inches dragging out almost to the tip before slamming back in to the hilt with a wet, filthy slap. The angle is perfect — brutal and direct — the fat head of his cock dragging over that sensitive spot inside you on every stroke, forcing broken, desperate sounds out of your throat. Your bound wrists slide uselessly against the silk sheets above your head, the black tie digging into your skin as your whole body jolts forward with the force of him. Your cheek is smashed into the pillow, mouth open, drooling slightly as he fucks you like he owns every inch of you.

"Fuck— look at that," he growls, voice rough and low, the Russian accent thick with raw lust. His eyes never leave the hypnotic bounce of your ass. "So fucking pretty when it jiggles for me. Take it. Take every fucking inch."

His fingers dig harder into your hips, pulling you back onto his cock even faster, the wet clap-clap-clap growing louder, faster, more obscene. The bed creaks beneath you, the dark silk sheets twisting and bunching under your knees. Your thighs shake violently, hole clenching and fluttering around the relentless stretch of him, the obscene sound of lube and skin echoing through the penthouse like the only music that matters tonight.

Ilya is lost in it — eyes locked, hips snapping, using your bound, arched body like a perfect fucktoy built just for him.

Then you feel the shift before it even happens — that sudden, powerful pause in his rhythm as Ilya's hips snap one final, brutal time against your ass, burying himself to the hilt with a wet, resounding slap that leaves your cheeks stinging and rippling. A low, guttural growl rumbles from deep in his chest.

Without warning, his large hands slide under your body. In one effortless, athletic motion — the kind of raw strength that comes from years of dominating on the ice — he flips you onto your back. The dark silk sheets whisper against your sweat-slick skin as you land on the massive bed, the city lights from the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling across your chest like liquid gold. Your bound wrists — still tightly wrapped in the black silk tie — are yanked upward and pinned firmly above your head by one of his massive hands, the knot digging into your skin, keeping your arms stretched and useless.

Missionary.

Now you're spread wide beneath him, thighs forced apart by his powerful hips as he settles between them. His body looms over you like a living wall of muscle — broad shoulders blocking out half the light, eight-pack abs flexing with every breath. Sweat glistens across his tanned skin, tracing every carved ridge and valley. His nine-inch cock — thick, flushed dark, and still glistening from the lube and your earlier begging — slaps heavily against your stomach for a heartbeat before he lines himself up again.

There is no gentleness in the way he re-enters you.

The same merciless pace returns instantly.

Ilya drives back inside with a single, punishing thrust, the thick head forcing your hole open wide once more, stretching you to that burning, perfect limit. The wet clap of his hips slamming into the backs of your thighs echoes through the penthouse, louder now in this new position. He doesn't ease up. Doesn't slow down. He fucks you just as hard, just as deep, just as relentlessly — hips snapping forward with brutal efficiency, the heavy length of him dragging over that sensitive spot inside you on every stroke before slamming home again and again. Your body jolts with the force of it, the bed creaking beneath you, the silk sheets twisting under your back as your bound arms stay locked above your head, fingers flexing uselessly against the tie.

But now he's looking at you.

Eye contact.

His hazel-green eyes lock onto yours and refuse to let go — intense, unblinking, devouring every single reaction that flickers across your face. He watches the way your lips part on a broken moan, the way your eyes flutter when he hits that spot just right, the way your brows furrow and your breath catches every time he bottoms out with a wet, obscene slap. His gaze is hungry, focused, almost clinical in its intensity, like he's memorizing exactly how you fall apart for him. You can't look away. You're trapped in it — pinned by his stare as much as by his hand on your wrists and the relentless pounding of his cock.

His face hovers inches above yours, close enough that you feel every hot, ragged exhale ghosting across your lips. His breath is warm, slightly minty from whatever he drank earlier, mixed with the faint salt of exertion. It brushes your mouth with every powerful thrust — in and out, in and out — the rhythm of his breathing syncing to the brutal snap of his hips. You can taste it almost, that warm air against your swollen lips, but he never closes the distance. No kiss. Not even a brush of his mouth. Just the torturous nearness, the heavy panting, the way his lips hover so close you can feel the heat radiating from them while he fucks you like he's trying to break you.

"Eyes on me," he growls, voice low and rough, accent thicker than ever. His free hand grips the back of your thigh, yanking it higher around his waist to open you up even more, allowing him to drive deeper, harder. "I want to see every fucking face you make while I ruin this hole."

The eye contact never breaks. He watches the flush crawl across your cheeks, the way your mouth falls open on a silent cry when he grinds his hips in a filthy circle, the way your lashes flutter when the pleasure edges toward too much. His own face is flushed, jaw clenched, dark hair falling messily over his forehead, but those eyes — those intense, predatory eyes — stay glued to yours, drinking in every gasp, every whimper, every desperate twitch of your body beneath him.

His thrusts never falter. The same clapping, punishing rhythm continues — hips slamming forward, balls slapping against your ass, the wet, filthy sounds of skin and lube filling the suite while the skyline sparkles indifferently beyond the glass. Your bound wrists stay pinned above your head, arms stretched tight, chest heaving against his as he fucks you straight through the new position without mercy.

And all the while, his breath keeps teasing your lips — hot, steady, intimate — promising everything and giving nothing.

No kiss.

Just the raw, unrelenting connection of his eyes on yours while he claims you completely.

The pleasure builds like a storm you can't outrun — every merciless thrust of Ilya's thick cock dragging over that perfect spot inside you, every heavy slap of his hips against the backs of your thighs, every second of unrelenting eye contact pushing you closer to the edge until it becomes impossible to hold back.

Your body locks up without warning.

The orgasm crashes through you hard and sudden, ripped out of you by the combination of his brutal pace and those intense hazel-green eyes that refuse to let you look away. Your bound wrists strain against the black silk tie and his iron grip above your head, fingers flexing uselessly as your back arches sharply off the dark silk sheets. A broken, guttural moan tears from your throat, raw and helpless, while thick ropes of cum erupt across your own stomach in heavy, pulsing spurts. The first shot lands high on your chest, warm and sticky, followed by more that streak across your abs, catching in the deep ridges of your muscles and glistening under the low amber lights of the penthouse. Your hole clenches violently around his cock with every wave, fluttering and squeezing him like it's trying to pull him even deeper, your thighs trembling uncontrollably around his waist as the orgasm rips through you in long, shuddering pulses.

Ilya sees every second of it.

His gaze stays locked on yours the entire time — intense, predatory, drinking in the way your eyes flutter and roll, the way your mouth falls open on that desperate moan, the way your entire body jerks and spasms beneath him. A slow, satisfied smirk tugs at the corner of his lips as he watches you come undone for him. He doesn't slow down. Doesn't pause. Doesn't even break rhythm.

He just keeps thrusting.

The same relentless, clapping pace continues — hips snapping forward with brutal force, the thick nine inches driving deep again and again, the wet clap-clap-clap of skin on skin growing even filthier now that your cum is smeared between your bodies. His heavy balls slap against your ass with every punishing stroke, his cock dragging through the mess you've made on your stomach as he fucks you straight through your orgasm like it changes nothing.

"Fuck... that's it," he growls low, voice rough and accented, breath hot and ragged against your parted lips — so close you can almost taste him, but still no kiss, just the torturous warmth of every exhale. "Look at you... making such a pretty mess for me. Keep those eyes on me. I want to watch you fall apart again."

His free hand slides down to smear two fingers through the warm streaks of your release on your abs, coating them before he presses them to your lips, forcing you to taste yourself while he continues pounding into you without mercy. The eye contact never breaks. His breath keeps ghosting over your mouth. And his cock keeps driving deep, relentless and unforgiving, chasing his own pleasure while your body is still twitching and oversensitive beneath him.

His massive frame shifts, broad shoulders rolling as he straightens his posture on his knees. The hand that had been pinning your bound wrists above your head finally releases its iron grip, leaving the black silk tie still knotted tightly around your wrists, your arms stretched uselessly against the dark sheets. Both of his large, powerful hands slide down your body instead — palms hot and calloused from years of gripping hockey sticks — until they hook behind your knees. With effortless strength he yanks your legs up and outward, spreading you obscenely wide open beneath him.

Your thighs are forced apart until the muscles burn, knees bent and pushed toward your chest in a deep, exposed V that leaves you completely vulnerable. The new angle drives him even deeper, the thick nine-inch length of his cock spearing straight into your prostate with every punishing thrust. He holds your legs like handles, fingers digging bruises into the soft flesh behind your knees, using the leverage to pull you onto him harder, faster, more brutally than before.

The wet clap-clap-clap of his hips slamming into your ass grows louder, sharper, more obscene in the open penthouse. Sweat flies from his carved eight-pack with every savage snap forward; the gold cross swings wildly. His dark hair is damp and tousled, falling over his forehead as he stares down at the place where his thick cock disappears inside you again and again, watching the way your hole stretches obscenely around his girth, the way your own cum smears across your abs and his pelvis with every devastating stroke.

He doesn't speak much now — just low, guttural Russian curses mixed with rough English praise that slips out between clenched teeth — but his breathing grows harsher, heavier, the hot puffs of air no longer teasing your lips but falling across your chest instead. You can see the tension building in his body: the veins standing out along his thick forearms, the way his abs flex and ripple like steel cables, the flush crawling up his neck and across his sharp cheekbones. His thrusts become shorter, more frantic, hips grinding deep on every inward slam as if he's trying to carve his shape permanently inside you.

You feel the exact moment his release starts to crest.

His cock swells even thicker inside you, pulsing hard against your walls. A deep, animalistic groan tears from his throat — raw and accented — and his grip on your legs tightens almost painfully, spreading you wider still as he chases the edge. One final, punishing series of thrusts, each one slamming home with enough force to jolt your entire body up the bed, before he suddenly yanks himself free with a wet, filthy sound.

Ilya wraps one large hand around his glistening, throbbing cock and strokes once, twice — fast and rough — eyes still glued to your face, then to the mess already streaking your stomach. The first powerful rope of his cum erupts across your abs in a thick, hot stripe, landing right over the drying streaks of your own release. More follows in heavy, pulsing jets — thick and white, painting long lines up your chest, catching on the silver chain at your throat, some of it splashing high enough to land on your collarbone and the hollow of your neck. The heat of it is shocking against your oversensitive skin, each spurt landing with a wet sound as he milks himself dry, groaning low and deep while he watches every drop mark you.

When the last weak pulse dribbles from the swollen head, he drags the tip slowly through the mess he's made, smearing his cum and yours together across your stomach in lazy, possessive strokes, like he's claiming territory. His chest heaves, sweat sliding down the deep cuts of his abs, the gold cross rising and falling rapidly with each ragged breath.

He stays there between your spread legs, still holding one of your thighs open, eyes dark and satisfied as they roam over the obscene painting he's left on your body.

The aftershocks are still flickering through your muscles when Ilya finally releases your wrists.

His large, calloused fingers make quick, efficient work of the black silk tie, loosening the knot with a surprising touch of care. The fabric whispers away from your skin, leaving behind faint red indentations where it had bitten in during the intensity of the last round. You flex your hands slowly, feeling the blood rush back into your fingers, the slight ache a reminder of how completely you'd surrendered them to him. He doesn't linger on the tenderness; he simply lets the tie drop onto the rumpled sheets like it's nothing.

Then, with that same effortless athletic grace, Ilya pushes himself off the bed. The mattress shifts under the loss of his considerable weight. Completely naked, he stands tall and unselfconscious, every inch of his Greek-statue body on full display — broad shoulders rolling, eight-pack abs still glistening with a light sheen of sweat, the deep V of his hips framing the heavy, spent weight of his cock as it hangs thick between his powerful thighs. The gold cross sways against his chest as he walks across the penthouse, bare feet silent on the polished hardwood.

He reaches the sleek console table near the windows and snatches up one of the hotel's decorative towels — thick, jet-black, impossibly soft Egyptian cotton embroidered with The Afrodisiac's discreet gold logo in the corner. Without looking back, he tosses it toward you in a casual flick of his wrist.

"Clean up," he says, voice still rough and low, the Russian accent thicker after everything.

You catch the towel mid-air. It feels luxurious against your palm, warm from the suite's ambient heat. You sit up slowly on the edge of the massive bed, legs still shaky, and begin wiping the evidence of what just happened from your body. Thick, cooling streaks of his cum — and your own — coat your stomach and chest in long, glossy ropes.

Some had even splashed high enough to land on your collarbone, catching on the silver chain at your throat. The towel glides over your skin, absorbing the mess, but a faint, sticky sheen remains behind, making your abs glisten under the low amber lighting. You wipe thoroughly, methodically, the soft fabric dragging across every ridge of muscle, every sensitive inch that still tingles from his earlier release.

Across the suite, Ilya moves to the bar cart like he owns the night. Still completely naked, he pours himself another generous measure of the same expensive amber liquor. Ice clinks crisply against crystal. The sound is sharp and intimate in the otherwise quiet penthouse, the city lights glittering far below the floor-to-ceiling windows like a silent, indifferent audience.

You take the moment to slide off the bed, bare feet meeting the cool hardwood. Your body feels used in the best and most exhausting way — thighs sore, hole still faintly throbbing, skin flushed and marked with faint fingerprints where he'd gripped you. You move with practiced efficiency now, gathering the scattered pieces of your Zatanna-inspired costume from the floor: the black corset, the glossy tailored bottoms, the fishnets, the cropped jacket, the polished boots. One by one you begin redressing, fingers steady as you slip back into the polished, professional armor of Siren.

Your expression smooths into something cool and composed, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting. Another client satisfied. Another high-paying private session complete. Time to leave with dignity, discretion, and the thick stack of cash still tucked safely in your jacket pocket — just like every other night when they got what they wanted and sent you on your way.

You're reaching for the cropped jacket, already mentally calculating the walk back to the elevator, when Ilya's deep voice cuts through the quiet like a command.

"I didn't say I was done with you yet."

You freeze mid-motion, jacket halfway in your hands. Surprise flickers hot through your chest. You'd assumed — the way you always assumed after they finished — that once he'd gotten his nut off, painted you with it, and taken what he paid for, he'd dismiss you with the same casual indifference most of the others did. A quick thank-you, a pat on the ass, maybe a half-hearted "good job," and then the door. That was the rhythm you knew. That was how this world worked.

But it seemed Ilya doesn't follow that script.

He walks back toward the seating area, drink in hand, still gloriously naked, the heavy swing of his cock and the flex of his thick thighs impossible to ignore. He drops back into the same wide leather armchair from earlier — the one where the night began with Megan Thee Stallion and your lap dance — the leather creaking softly under his weight as he settles in. Legs spread wide and comfortable, one arm draped lazily over the armrest, he looks every bit the king who has no intention of ending the evening.

He reaches for the sleek black in-room tablet that still rests on the side table, picks it up, and taps the screen once. The low glow illuminates his face as he looks straight at you, those intense hazel-green eyes locking onto yours with the same commanding focus he'd had while fucking you.

"Another round," he says, voice calm, certain, and edged with that faint smirk. "We're not finished."

The tablet waits in his hand, ready for you to choose the next song, the next performance, the next way he plans to use you tonight. The city lights continue to sparkle beyond the glass, but inside the penthouse the air has shifted again — thicker, heavier, full of new possibility.

And you realize, with a slow curl of heat low in your stomach, that Ilya Rozanov has no intention of letting you walk out of this suite just yet.

𝑩𝒀 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑰𝑴𝑬 the night finally let go of you, the sky was already beginning to change.

Not fully morning—not yet—but that fragile, in-between hour where darkness starts to thin and the world feels like it's holding its breath. The kind of hour most people never see unless they've been up all night or are just waking up. For you, it was familiar. Routine, almost.

Another day, another dollar.

Only now, your body felt the cost of it.

You stepped into your apartment complex with slow, measured steps, the echo of your boots softer here than they had been in the polished halls of The Afrodisiac. The building wasn't anything special—older, a little worn around the edges, the kind of place that carried the quiet weight of people just trying to get by. The fluorescent hallway lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in that pale, unforgiving glow that made the glamour of your night job feel like it belonged to a completely different life.

Because it did.

You moved toward the stairs instead of the elevator, your hand brushing lightly along the railing as you climbed. One floor. Then another. Then the third. Each step pulled you further away from velvet lounges, expensive cologne, and whispered promises—and closer to something real. Something that didn't care how good you looked under dim lighting or how much money someone had handed you hours earlier.

By the time you reached the third floor landing, your shoulders had dropped just a fraction.

Apartment 4A.

You slipped your key into the lock and pushed the door open, stepping inside quietly out of habit. The space greeted you with stillness. It was modest—clean, lived-in, practical. Nothing like the penthouse suite you had just left, but it didn't need to be. This place wasn't built for illusion. It was built for survival.

You set your things down without making much noise—jacket, keys, whatever you carried from the night—and for a second, you just stood there, letting the silence settle around you.

Then you turned.

Because your night wasn't done yet.

You stepped back into the hallway and crossed the short distance to Apartment 4B, your hand lifting to knock—gentle, respectful, the kind of knock that knew who was on the other side and didn't want to startle them awake.

It didn't take long.

A few minutes at most before the door opened, and there stood Shelia.

She looked exactly like someone who had been up for reasons that didn't involve nightlife or luxury—soft house clothes, hair pulled back, eyes a little tired but still kind. She didn't ask questions. She never did. Not about where you'd been. Not about how late you came in. Not about the life you lived outside these walls.

That was part of why you trusted her.

"Hey," she said softly, stepping aside to let you in.

You gave her a small, grateful nod as you walked past her, your voice low. "Hey... thank you."

She waved it off like it was nothing, already turning to guide you down the short hallway of her apartment. "They knocked out not too long ago," she murmured. "Didn't give me any trouble."

Of course they didn't.

You followed her into the spare bedroom, and the moment you stepped inside, something in you softened in a way nothing else that night had managed to do.

Because there they were.

The real reason.

Your little sister and your little brother, fast asleep, side by side in a bed that was probably a little too small for both of them now but still somehow worked. The room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a small lamp in the corner. Their breathing was slow, even, peaceful in a way that made the rest of the world feel like it existed miles away.

This—right here—was why you did what you did.

Not the money itself.

Not the lifestyle.

Not the hotel.

Them.

You stepped closer to the bed, your movements careful, quiet, as if even the floor might betray you if you weren't gentle enough. Your eyes moved over them, taking in every detail like you needed to reassure yourself they were still here, still safe, still yours to protect.

You reached down first for your brother.

Carefully, you slipped one arm under him, lifting him just enough not to wake him. He stirred slightly, mumbling something incoherent under his breath, but didn't open his eyes. As you adjusted him against your chest, the fabric of what he was wearing shifted—and that's when you saw it.

A mini Boston Bears jersey.

Small. Slightly oversized on him. And on the back—

Rozanov.

For a brief second, your chest tightened.

Because suddenly, the distance between your two worlds didn't feel so clean anymore.

Just hours ago, you had been in a penthouse suite with Ilya Rozanov, standing in front of him, dancing for him, getting your back blow out by him, speaking to him like he was just another client. And now, here in your arms, your little brother slept wearing his name like a badge of admiration, of fandom, of something simple and innocent.

It made the night feel... strange.

Connected in a way you didn't like.

But you pushed that thought down just as quickly as it came.

Because this wasn't about him.

This was about them.

You adjusted your grip, holding your brother securely before reaching down to gently wake your sister just enough to move her without startling her. She stirred, blinking sleepily as you lifted her, her small hands instinctively curling into your shirt as if she knew it was you without needing to fully wake up.

"Shh," you whispered softly. "I got you."

Behind you, Shelia watched quietly, leaning against the doorframe with a small, knowing smile. She had seen this routine before. Knew the rhythm of your life better than most people probably did.

You turned toward her once both of them were in your arms, your voice low but sincere. "Thank you, Shelia. Really."

She waved her hand again, brushing off the gratitude like it was unnecessary. "Anytime. You know that.”

And you did.

That was why you knocked on her door instead of anyone else's.

You shifted your siblings slightly to make sure they were comfortable, then stepped out into the hallway again, moving carefully back toward your own apartment. The walk from 4B to 4A was only a few steps, but it felt like crossing an entire boundary between two lives.

You opened your door quietly and slipped inside.

The apartment welcomed you back with that same stillness, only now it felt warmer somehow. Fuller. You carried your brother and sister down the short hallway to their shared bedroom, pushing the door open with your shoulder before stepping in.

The room was simple but cared for. Two beds. A few scattered toys. Clothes folded neatly where you could manage it. Little pieces of childhood trying to exist in a world that didn't always make space for it.

You laid your brother down first, carefully pulling the blanket over him, the Boston Bears jersey still visible for a second before you covered him. Then you turned to your sister, settling her into her bed just as gently, tucking her in and brushing a hand lightly over her hair.

They didn't wake.

They just slept.

Peacefully.

And for a moment, you stood there between their beds, looking at them, letting the silence wrap around you.

The music. The money. The penthouse. Ilya.

All of it felt distant now.

Because this—this quiet room, this responsibility, this love—was the real reason you kept going.

Another day.

Another dollar.

But not for you.

The bright lights of the stadium shone down on you. Staring down at the ice, you skate into your position at the center of the rink. Finally, you look up, coming face-to-face with him. Ilya Rozanov. It’s been three months since you saw him. Three months since your huge fight, where you broke things off. Three months since you’ve talked or even texted. But you thought about him every day, watched all of his games, tried drafting the perfect message over and over. 

You’re the one who ended things; you shouldn’t be wanting to reach out to him as much as you did, but here you are. Now wasn’t the time to think about Ilya or his stupid face that you’d always see in your dreams; you had a game to win. Shaking your head, you put your mind to the task at hand. Dropping your stick down, you brace yourself for the face-off that’d start the game, staring Ilya down with a determined look. He smirks but doesn’t say anything. 

You can tell he can see right through you, see that you missed him. What you couldn’t gather was whether he missed you. If he did, he didn’t let it show. That was the problem, you could never tell with him. He could read you like a book, and you never had any idea what he was thinking, what he was feeling. That was the crux of the fight you had months ago. You swallowed hard at the memory, 

“What do you want me to do? Say we are something? We are nothing, Y/N nothing!” Ilya threw his hands up, exasperated. 

“Nothing. We are nothing?”

“Yes. Nothing, we fuck, and that’s it.” He rubs his nose as he says it. He’s lying. 

You squint at him, staying quiet for a moment. You’re giving him an out, a chance to take it back. To say he didn’t mean it. 

He didn’t say anything. He couldn’t even look you in the eye. 

 Nodding quickly, you tried your best to keep the tears at bay. “Fine. We are nothing.” 

Gathering up your stuff, you move to leave his apartment quickly. 

The ref drops the puck onto the ice. The game was on. Quickly, you gain control of the puck and pass it to your teammate. No more thinking about Ilya unless it was about how you plan to beat him. 

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

“Fuck!” 

Your strong exclamation is quickly repeated, shorter this time in a whisper, as you hold your hand in pain from punching the locker in front of you. 

“Fuck.”

You lost. You fucking lost. You couldn’t get your head in the game, and you lost. All because you couldn’t stop thinking about that stupid Russian with the curly hair and the gorgeous eyes. By now, all your teammates had left. They invited you out for drinks with them, but you declined, and now you are alone in the locker room trying to blow off steam. 

Well, not completely alone. Speak of the devil. 

“Be careful, you would not want to injure your hand.” A strong russian voice spoke suddenly. 

It made you jump, and you quickly turned to see the culprit. Ilya Rozanov. You hadn’t even heard him come in. 

“What are you doing here, Rozanov?” 

“Since when am I Rozanov and not Ilya?”

“Since when were we nothing?” You shook your head and turned back to your locker, beginning to take off your gear. 

You heard him sigh, and it was silent for a long moment. Then you felt his presence next to you, you paid him no mind. Or at least you tried to. 

“Look at me.” 

You don't, you just continue to put your stuff away in your locker angrily. 

“Hey, look at me.” He says it more softly this time and places his hand on your chin, gently turning your face in his direction. 

You don't make eye contact. Not right away. Tears start to well in your eyes, not only from sadness but also from frustration. All of it is becoming too much for you. The fight, the game, letting your team down. It's all piling up. 

Ilya can see it, see the strain everything is taking on you. He presses his other hand firmly against the back of your neck, an attempt to ground you. 

“Take a breath.” 

You don’t obey at first, but the urgent look he sends you makes you comply. Closing your eyes, you let out a short, frustrated breath through your nose. 

“Okay?” 

“Okay.” You confirm. Keeping your eyes closed for a while longer, trying to keep the tears at bay. They end up slipping through anyway. 

“What are you thinking about?”

You weren’t stupid, and you were far from naive despite what Ilya might think. You know that he’s in denial. If you had nothing, you wondered what something meant to him. You weren’t just fuck buddies; you didn’t meet at a bar and decide to keep it going. You were genuine friends at first. Maybe adding sex to your relationship was a mistake, but even after everything, you don’t regret it.  

“I know we can never be something. Publicly at least. I know that-” Ilya wipes your tears away, and you let out a frustrated sigh, finally opening your eyes and looking at Ilya properly. 

“-but do you really have to act like this is… that I mean nothing to you?” 

“Ты для меня всё значишь.” You can’t understand him. But you don’t pry, you know it’s easier for him to express himself in Russian than in English. 

“Мне жаль, I'm sorry.” 

“What do you want from me, Ilya? Why are you here?” Your voice comes out more exhausted and exasperated than you intended. You were getting tired of this back-and-forth; you needed something tangible. Just something to 

“Я просто хочу тебя.” He says it so softly, so quietly, and so earnestly. You wish you could understand. You yearn to know every sweet nothing he’s whispered to you in his native language. Maybe that was the problem; he couldn’t be vulnerable with you. Not in a way that you could both share. 

You shake your head and take his hands off your face. You weren’t going to entertain this anymore. He couldn’t trust you, couldn’t talk to you, couldn’t give you a straight answer. Pushing yourself off the bench, you make a move to go past him. “I'm done with this, Ilya. Find someone else to string along.” 

He grabs onto your hips and presses you against the lockers. “Let me show you-” He leaned down and kissed you. Every thought left your brain as his lips met yours. You kissed him back just as eagerly; you always felt at home kissing Ilya. This is where you wanted to be. When you pulled away, you chased after him, but he put himself to work right away as he began kissing down your neck. It pained you that this couldn’t be forever. 

“-Show you everything I want to say.” His name slips through your teeth between whimpers as he nips and sucks at your neck. 

“Ilya, we shouldn’t do this here. What if-”

He cuts you off. “Everyone is gone. We’ll be quick, you have no idea how bad I need you.” He whispers those words right into your ear, and it makes you shudder. He turns you around, pressing your front against the lockers. Pulling your pants down, he drops to his knees. Spreading your cheeks, he spits against your hole. He continues, licking and kissing in an attempt to get you wet enough for him, savoring each one of the moans that leave your lips. He was always good with his tongue, and he knew exactly how to drive you crazy. Your hand slammed against the locker. “Stop! I'm gonna-” You warned him of your incoming release, and he immediately backed off, rising back up to his feet. He turned your face to his and kissed you. He pushes his shorts down, revealing the very thing you were craving right now.

  He spits on his cock, stroking himself before pushing the tip against your hole, moaning as he pushes it in. One hand gripping your hip, the other coming up next to yours on the lockers.  “Gonna make you come on my cock, y/n. ” You moan, letting him know how much you want it. 

And as he slips further inside you, he whispers these words as if you were his god-given solace, “Ебать, I missed you.”

The words make your knees weak. Ilya’s strong arm wraps around your front, helping you stand. Ilya pushes himself closer to you, using his body weight to keep you upright; it also moves him deeper into you, as if that were possible. His cock is thick, and it fills you up completely. With no condom, you feel all the parts of him you usually wouldn’t, and you love every second of it.  “I missed you, too, Ilya.” Your voice comes out breathless, and it’s like music to his ears. 

“Repeat it.” He says in between thrusts that are slow and deep, his cock hitting right where you need it. His lips are right against your ear. “Tell me again.” It’s a demand. Ilya urges you with another well-timed thrust that knocks the breath out of your lungs. 

“I missed you.” What you really mean is, I love you. But that’s a secret you keep to yourself. You grip the hand he has on your chest, dropping your head down onto the locker door in front of you. He buries his face into your shoulder, moaning against you as he picks up the pace. 

“Я тебя люблю-” Ilya says against your skin, like he’s breathing the words into you. Like he wants you to know that it’s true, like he wants the words to become a part of who you are. You don’t understand him, but you feel as though you’ve heard it before. 

“Как бы мне хотелось сказать тебе, как сильно я тебя люблю.” He chokes up as he says it, the hand that’s braced up against the locker clenches into a fist. His thrusts are picking up in pace; the sound of his hips slapping against your behind echoes off the walls of the empty locker room. 

He often speaks to you in Russian when you two sleep together. Nothing as long as that, though; usually it’s short, curt words that you can only assume are curses. The way he grabs at your chest and holds you so closely, like he doesn’t want to let you go. You allow yourself to get lost in the moment; you don’t want to think about what-ifs or the state of your relationship. You just want to keep the feeling of Ilya pressed up against your chest forever. His words help push you closer and closer to the edge. You reach behind you, grabbing at his thighs, wanting to feel every piece of him you can.

“Ily-” You cut yourself off with a whimper, but he knows what you want. You're close, and he’s right there with you. 

“I got you, I got you.” He kisses underneath your ear, continuing his thrusts right up into your prostate. 

“You’re mine.” He says it under his breath, but it’s loud enough for you to hear.

 The second the words leave his lips, you’re done for, ropes of cum, and as you squeeze around Ilya’s cock in ecstasy, he follows soon after, the warm feeling of his release fills you up instantly. Your breath shudders as he continues with his thrusts until he’s completely spent. 

Ilya pulls out, and immediately, it’s like your legs turn to jello. He chuckles and helps you stand. Placing a kiss on your temple, before taking a towel from his bag and beginning to clean you up. 

“I’m yours?” You ask after he helps you sit down. 

“You were always mine.” He says as he kisses you silly, you smile against his lips like a dope. Savoring the attention you were getting from him. You could only hope you weren’t making a mistake. 

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translations:

Ты для меня всё значишь - you mean everything to me

Мне жаль - im sorry

Я просто хочу тебя. - i just want you

Ебать - fuck

Я тебя люблю - i love you

Shane Hollander had a way of cutting through the noise. It didn’t matter if there were twenty thousand people screaming in the rafters; he could find you. He’d navigate a crowded room with that effortless stride and suddenly he’d be there, vibrating in your space, smiling like you were the only person who mattered. It was a lie, of course. A beautiful, practiced lie.

​He could still hear your voice if he tried. He could probably still feel your fingerprints on his skin from over a month ago, or the way your mouth tasted in that first hotel room years back—the one that started the slow, agonizing collapse of your dignity.

​Friends. That was the word he used when the mics were on. Friends who grew up on the same slushy Ottawa rinks. Friends who played hard and stayed in touch. You were friends who moaned each other's names into pillows so the neighbors wouldn't hear. You were mutual benefits when the travel schedule allowed for a quick, frantic hookup in a Montreal high-rise or a nondescript hotel.

​But you’d made the mistake of wanting the light. You wanted to be the person he looked for when he scored, not just the person he texted at midnight when the adrenaline hadn't worn off. You wanted to be more than his dirty laundry—the secret he kept folded away in that expensive, hollowed-out complex he was so busy renovating.

​Then came the silence. Twenty-eight days of it. No texts, no calls, just the haunting image of him on the TV, looking focused and entirely unbothered by your absence. It was a message loud and clear: you were a habit he was learning to quit.

​You were sitting in your apartment now, the air tasting like cologne and fresh rain. Ottawa had just dropped another game to Montreal, but the loss on the ice was nothing compared to the look Shane had given you during the handshake line. He’d looked at you like he wanted to devour you, and it made you feel sick because you knew you’d let him. You’d let him ruin you if it meant he’d just stay for breakfast once.

​Your phone buzzed. You’d been aimlessly messaging Wyatt—he was the only one who could make you laugh after a losing streak, the only one who didn’t treat you like a ghost. But the new notification wasn't from Wyatt.

​S: You home?

​Your stomach dropped. Four weeks of nothing, and he leads with a demand for your location. No "Hey," no "Can we talk?" Just the assumption that you were waiting for him.

​You: Where else would I be? Hard to go out when you play like shit.

​The bubbles appeared almost instantly. He was typing.

​S: I’m downstairs. Let me up?

​Your heart hammered against your ribs—a painful, pathetic rhythm. He wasn't even asking to see you; he was asking for the key to his favorite hiding spot.

You stared at the glowing screen of your phone, the plastic tip of your hoodie drawstring caught between your teeth. You chewed on it—a nervous, grounding habit—as you traced the cold blue of his text bubble.

​I’m downstairs. Let me up?

​Why were you doing this? The question echoed in the hollows of your chest, yet your feet were already moving. You were a moth to a flame that had already burned you a thousand times, but the darkness of being without him was worse than the fire. You found yourself at the main entrance of the building, the cool air of the lobby hitting your face, and there he was. Shane. He looked exhausted, his hair a mess, his eyes dark with something that looked suspiciously like hunger.

​You didn't say a word. You couldn't. You just reached out, your fingers curling around his hand, gripping him with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity. You led him through the halls like a smuggler with illicit cargo, terrified that if you let go, he’d vanish back into the cold night.

​The moment your apartment door clicked shut, the world narrowed down to the space between your bodies.

​You didn't even have time to breathe, let alone speak. Shane was on you instantly. He crowded you against the door, his weight a solid, grounding presence that you’d missed so much it physically ached. His lips crashed against yours in a kiss that wasn't sweet or tentative—it was a collision. It was the desperate act of a man who had been starving and had finally found a feast. His hands fisted into the fabric of your hoodie, clutching the material as if he were drowning and you were the only thing keeping him afloat.

​And you? You let him. You let him take whatever he wanted because your resolve had shattered the second his skin touched yours.

​He tasted like he always did—cool mint and the sharp, spicy zing of ginger. It was a flavor you’d memorized, a taste you’d come to associate with safety and sin in equal measure. Your thoughts scrambled, dissolving into a static of pure sensation. Your hands traveled up, your palms framing his face, your thumbs tracing the line of his jaw as you pulled him closer, deeper.

​You began to shuffle backward, a blind, clumsy dance toward the living room. You didn't need to see; you knew the layout of this cage by heart. When your calves hit the edge of the couch, you went down, the cushions sighing under the sudden weight of two men who were finished with pretending. Shane let out a low, muffled sound—halfway between a groan and a laugh—smiling against your lips as you crashed into the upholstery.

​The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more invasive. When Shane’s lips parted just enough, you didn't hesitate; you pushed your tongue inside, reclaiming the territory you’d been locked out of for a month. He responded with a ferocity that made your head spin, his tongue tangling with yours in a silent, messy argument about who had missed whom more.

​Then, his hands moved.

​They slid down from your shoulders, the heavy fabric of your hoodie bunching up as he sought the warmth beneath. His palms trailed under the hem, the calloused tips of his fingers sending electric jolts through your nervous system. He didn't stop at the hoodie; he hooked his fingers under the hem of the thin t-shirt you wore underneath, his touch finally meeting the bare skin of your waist.

​The contact was a shock. His fingers were freezing—chilled from the Ottawa winter or the ice of the arena—and the moment they brushed against the sensitive skin of your abdomen, the spell broke just enough for air to return to your lungs.

​You tore your mouth away from his, your head falling back against the couch cushion as you let out a sharp, jagged gasp. The coldness of his touch made your muscles jump, your stomach fluttering in a frantic rhythm. You looked up at him, your eyes blown wide and glassy, watching the way the dim light caught the sharp angles of his face. He looked devastating. He looked like the man who owned you, and in the silence that followed your gasp, the weight of being his secret felt heavier than ever.

Shane didn’t move. His fingers remained splayed against your abdomen, the cold of his skin finally beginning to bleed into your warmth. He seemed intoxicated by the proximity, his eyes hazy and dark as his head dipped down again, seeking your lips with the practiced ease of a man who assumed he was always welcome.

​You jerked your head to the side. His lips landed on the corner of your jaw, a dry, friction-filled contact that made your skin crawl for all the wrong reasons. He huffed a small, playful breath against your neck and tried again, tilting his chin to catch your mouth like this was just some flirtatious game of cat and mouse.

​"Stop," you whispered. The word felt like it was made of glass, sharp and fragile in the back of your throat. Your hands came up, wrapping around his wrists to physically peel his touch off your skin. "Shane, stop. I can’t do this. Not right now."

​The shift in the room was instantaneous. Shane pulled back, his weight lifting off you just enough for the cold air to rush in. His smile didn't disappear all at once; it flickered, confused, before fading into a line of genuine bewilderment.

​"What? Why?" he breathed, his voice still thick with the remnants of his earlier heat. He sat up, raking a hand through his messy hair, looking at you like you were a play he couldn't quite read. "Is this about the game? Look, I know it was a tough loss, and I know the guys were riding you, but—"

​"The game," you interrupted, the words tasting like ash. You didn't just pull away; you scrambled out from under him, putting the physical barrier of the coffee table between your bodies. You stood there, arms wrapped tightly across your chest, trying to hold yourself together. "Right. Of course. I forgot that in your world, the only thing that could possibly cause a person pain is a bad night at the game."

​You let out a sharp, jagged scoff that felt more like a sob.

​Shane stayed on the couch, looking up at you with that maddeningly handsome, puzzled expression. He looked like he honestly didn't get it. "Then what is it? We play, I come over, we...this is what we do. Why are you suddenly acting like I’m the enemy?"

​You looked at him then—really looked at him. You searched those eyes you’d spent years memorizing, looking for a glimmer of understanding, but all you saw was a man waiting for his convenience to stop being difficult. He looked stupid. He looked like a goddamn golden retriever who couldn't understand why he was being scolded.

​The ache in your chest finally split open.

​"Because I love you," you whispered. The words weren't a grand declaration; they were a confession of a crime. Your voice shook, barely carrying across the small distance of the rug. "I love you, Shane. And I’m starting to realize that to you, I’m just some fucking secret you’re going to keep hidden until the day I die."

​You gestured vaguely to the apartment, to the dim lights and the closed blinds. "I'm the guy you text when you're bored or lonely or high on a win. I can't keep being your dirty laundry just because you’re too scared to let the world see who you actually are.”

The silence that followed your confession was deafening. Shane didn’t move; he sat frozen on the edge of the cushions, his hands dangling between his knees. The mask didn't just slip—it shattered, leaving him looking raw and uncharacteristically small.

​"Don't do that," he said finally. His voice wasn't soft; it was tight, laced with a sudden, sharp edge.

​"Do what? Tell the truth?" You let out a harsh, breathless laugh, pacing the small strip of hardwood between the table and the window. "I’ve been sitting here for a month, Shane. Twenty-eight days of wondering if I did something wrong, or if you just finally got bored of the routine. And then you show up, you don't even say hello, and you expect me to just...open up like a locker for you?"

​Shane stood up then, his height suddenly filling the room, radiating that restless, competitive energy that made him a nightmare on the ice. "I was busy. The playoffs are looming, management is breathing down my neck about the renovations, and I had things to handle. I’m here now, isn’t that what matters?"

​"No, Shane! It’s not what matters!" You turned on him, your voice cracking. "You’re here because it’s safe. Because no one is looking. You treat me like a pit stop. You get to have the career, the fans, the 'Hollander' brand—and then you come here to get what you need from me before you go back out there and pretend I don't exist."

​"That’s how this works," he snapped, his eyes flashing with a defensive fire. "We talked about this. We both knew the stakes. I can't just...I have a life that requires me to be a certain person. You know what the league is like. You’re in it too! Don't act like I'm the only one with something to lose."

​"I'm not asking you to throw your career away," you shouted, the frustration finally boiling over. "I'm asking you to see me! I’m a person, Shane. I’m not a secret you can just fold up and put in a drawer when you’re done with it. I love you, and it is killing me to be the thing you’re ashamed of."

​Shane flinched as if you’d swung a stick at his ribs. His jaw tightened so hard you could see the muscle leaping in his cheek. He took a step toward you, his hands gesturing vaguely, frantically, as if he were trying to grab the words out of the air and take them back.

​"I am not ashamed of you," he hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrate. "I am protecting this. I am protecting us. If people know, it changes everything. The chirping, the media, the way the guys look at you in the room—you think you want that? You think you want to be the 'distraction' every time you miss a shot?"

​"I'd rather be a distraction than a ghost!" you threw back, tears hot and stinging in your eyes. "You’re not protecting us, Shane. You’re protecting your image. You’re protecting the version of Shane Hollander that doesn't have a messy, complicated heart. Well, guess what? I’m messy. And I’m tired of being the secret you only keep when the lights are off."

​Shane stared at you, his chest heaving under the fabric of his expensive shirt. For a second, he looked like he was going to reach out—to grab you, to shake you, or maybe just to hold you. But he stayed rooted to the spot, his hands curling into fists.

​"You’re being unfair," he said, his voice trembling with a mix of anger and something that sounded terrifyingly like fear. "I gave you everything I could give. I'm here, aren't I? I’m in your apartment, in your bed, every chance I get."

​"Yeah," you whispered, the fight suddenly draining out of you, leaving only the cold, hollow ache. "You're in my bed. But you're never in my life.”

Shane stood in the center of your living room, looking like he’d been struck. His eyes, usually so sharp and calculating on the ice, were wide and darting, searching for an exit or an argument he could actually win.

​"I have to go," he said abruptly.

​The words felt like a physical blow to your stomach. "Of course you do," you whispered, pulling your hoodie sleeves down over your palms. "The minute it gets real, you bolt. That’s the Hollander way, isn’t it? Keep it clean. Keep it professional."

​"That’s not fair!" Shane snapped, his voice cracking as he reached for his jacket on the arm of the couch. "I can't think when you're looking at me like that. Like I’m some kind of monster because I want to keep my job and my sanity."

​"I don't look at you like a monster, Shane. I look at you like a coward."

​He flinched. The word hung between you, heavy and ugly. Shane stopped mid-motion, his jacket gripped in one hand, his knuckles white. He turned to look at you, and for the first time in years, the "golden boy" was gone. He looked exhausted—not just from the game or the travel, but from the sheer weight of the lie he was carrying.

​"You think I like this?" he asked, his voice dropping to a jagged, raw whisper. "You think I like checking the hallways of hotels to make sure no one sees me go into your room? You think I like having to look past you in the handshake line when all I want to do is pull you into the tunnel and never let go?"

​He took a step toward you, his breathing shallow. "I’m terrified. Every single day, I am terrified that I’m going to lose the only thing I’ve ever been good at. And I’m terrified that if I choose you, I’ll end up resenting you for everything I had to give up. Is that what you want? You want to be the reason I lose the game?"

​"I want to be a reason you stay," you replied, your voice thick with tears you refused to let fall. "Not the reason you hide."

​Shane stared at you for a long beat. The air in the apartment felt thin, like the two of you were standing on a ledge. You could see the battle happening behind his eyes—the part of him that wanted to cross the room and bury his face in your neck, and the part of him that was already halfway out the door, calculating the PR risk.

​"I can't," he whispered. It was so quiet you almost missed it. "I can't be what you need me to be right now."

​He didn't wait for your response. He turned and headed for the door, his movements stiff and robotic. You watched him go, your heart hammering a hollow rhythm against your ribs.

​When the door clicked shut—that same click that usually signaled your secret sanctuary was safe—it sounded like a gavel hitting a block. He was gone. He was back to the bright lights, the roaring fans, and the safety of being Shane Hollander, the NHL superstar who didn't love anybody.

​You stood alone in the center of your dark living room, the taste of mint and ginger still lingering on your tongue like a ghost, realizing that being a secret was starting to feel a lot like being dead.

The months following that night had been a slow, agonizing blur. The silence from Shane was no longer a break—it was a funeral. Then came the Instagram posts. Your sister, usually your rock, had unintentionally twisted the knife by sending you the links.

​Shane Hollander spotted at a gala with Rose Landry.

Hollander and Landry: Hockey’s New Power Couple?

​Rose was radiant. She was soft where you were hard, public where you were hidden, and appropriate where you were a scandal waiting to happen. Seeing them together wasn't just heartbreak; it was a confirmation that you had been a placeholder.

​Now, you were in Montreal, a city that felt like an open wound. You were supposed to be recovering with your sister, but instead, you were three drinks deep at a high-end club, standing at a marble bar next to Ilya Rozanov.

​Ilya was exactly as he was on the ice: chaotic, blunt, and seemingly unbothered by the world's opinion. He leaned against the bar, swirling a drink, his eyes scanning the room with a predator’s boredom.

​"You look like you want to die," Ilya said, his Russian accent thick and dry. "Is depressing to look at you. Drink more."

​"I'm fine, Ilya," you lied, but your eyes betrayed you.

​Over Ilya’s shoulder, the VIP section shifted. There he was. Shane. He looked polished, his arm draped loosely around Rose’s waist. She said something that made him throw his head back and laugh—that real, genuine laugh you thought was reserved for you. She tugged on his hand, pulling him toward the crowded dance floor, and Shane followed her like it was the easiest thing in the world. No checking the hallways. No hiding.

​Ilya didn't need to follow your gaze to know who you were looking at. He noticed the way your grip tightened on your glass until your knuckles turned white. He glanced back, saw Shane playing the part of the doting boyfriend, and turned back to you with a sharp, knowing smirk.

​"He is boring," Ilya whispered, leaning in close so his voice cut through the thumping bass. "He plays the game for the cameras. Is pathetic."

​You didn't answer. You couldn't. You were watching Rose's hands slide over Shane’s shoulders—the same shoulders you had gripped in the dark.

​Ilya set his glass down with a definitive clack. "Come," he said, his eyes glinting with a sudden, mischievous malice. "Dance with me."

​Your heart skipped. "Ilya, no. We can’t. Two players from rival teams grinding in a Montreal club? The media would lose their minds. It wouldn't look good."

​Ilya shrugged, his expression completely flat. "I do not care about looking good. I am Rozanov. I do what I want." He reached out, his fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was surprisingly firm. "Besides. Is dark. And he is watching."

​He didn't give you a choice. He pulled you into the heat of the crowd, weaving through the bodies until you were right in the thick of it. The music was a physical weight, the bass thrumming in your bones. Ilya didn't dance like Shane; he didn't care about grace. He moved with a heavy, grounded confidence, pulling your back flush against his chest.

​You stiffened, but Ilya’s hands settled low on your hips, dragging you back against him. "Relax," he murmured against the shell of your ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your neck. "You are not secret here. You are just body in the dark."

​You hated that you liked it. You hated the way the heat of him seeped through your shirt, the way his brazenness felt like a middle finger to the man watching from across the room. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the exact moment Shane noticed.

​Then, Shane stopped mid-step. Rose was still moving, her hands on him, but Shane’s eyes were locked on you, burning with a sudden, frantic rage as Ilya leaned down and bit softly at the column of your throat.

The music in the club shifted, the tempo dropping into something heavy, syrupy, and dangerously low. The bass felt like a heartbeat that wasn't your own, vibrating through the soles of your shoes and settling deep in your gut.

​Ilya didn’t move away. If anything, the change in rhythm gave him an excuse to pull you closer. His hands, broad and steady, moved from your waist to the small of your back, dragging you into his space until there wasn't even a sliver of air left between you. You felt the rough denim of his jeans against your legs, the heat of his stomach pressing into yours.

​"You are thinking too much," Ilya murmured. His voice was a low rumble against your temple, muffled by the roar of the speakers. "Stop thinking. Just be body."

​You let your eyes flutter shut. You were tired—exhausted by the months of pining, the weeks of silence, and the constant, dull ache of being Shane Hollander's ghost. Ilya smelled like expensive leather and something sharp, like bourbon. It wasn't the mint and ginger that usually haunted your senses, and that was exactly why you let your head fall onto his shoulder.

​You leaned into him, your forehead resting against the pulse point of his neck. Ilya let out a low hum of approval, his hands sliding upward, fingers splaying across your shoulder blades. He began to move with you, a slow, predatory sway that felt less like dancing and more like a claim.

​"Is better, yes?" Ilya asked. He shifted his stance, hooking one of his legs between yours, forcing you to find your balance against him.

​The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. You felt his lips graze your jawline—not a kiss, but a suggestion of one. You reached up, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him down just a fraction more. You wanted to get lost. You wanted to be so consumed by the friction and the noise that the memory of a hotel room finally burned to ash.

​Ilya’s hand traveled higher, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin behind your ear, tilting your head back. You looked up at him through hooded eyes, your breath hitching as he leaned in, his nose brushing against yours. In the strobe light, his eyes were dark and mocking, full of a wild sort of freedom you had never been allowed to have.

​"Look at me," Ilya commanded softly.

​You did. You focused on the sharp line of his mouth, on the way he looked at you without a trace of shame or hesitation. He wasn't looking around to see if a camera was flashing. He was just there.

​And that’s when you felt it.

​That prickling sensation on the back of your neck, the feeling of being watched that you only ever felt when Shane was nearby. Your eyes drifted past Ilya’s shoulder, toward the edge of the VIP lounge where the shadows were deepest.

​Shane was there.

​He wasn't with Rose anymore. He was standing alone by a velvet-draped pillar, his hand white-knuckled around a drink that looked untouched. He looked like he’d been carved out of ice. His gaze was fixed entirely on you—on the way your fingers were buried in Ilya’s hair, on the way your bodies were practically fused together in the dark.

​The golden boy didn't look golden. He looked shattered. The sight of him usually made you want to run to him, to apologize, to fix whatever was broken—but tonight, seeing the raw, bleeding jealousy in his eyes only made you grip Ilya tighter.

​For the first time in your life, you weren't the one hiding in the dark. He was.

In your apartment, the air was thick with the scent of Ilya—smoke and sweat and a heavy, unapologetic heat. In Shane’s car, the air was sterile, smelling of leather and the lingering, floral perfume Rose had left behind, a scent that now felt like a suffocating shroud.

​As Ilya pushed you back into the mattress, his movements were blunt and forceful, a stark departure from the hesitant, careful way Shane used to touch you. Ilya’s hands weren't searching for permission; they were claiming territory. When he slid inside you, your head hit the headboard with a dull thud, and you squeezed your eyes shut, desperate to drown out the memory of a hotel room. You moaned his name—Ilya, Ilya, Ilya—shouting it into the quiet of the room as if the sheer volume of it could overwrite the syllables of the name that truly lived in your heart.

​Mile away, Shane’s SUV swerved toward the shoulder of the highway. His vision was a smeared, neon mess of brake lights and streetlamps, the road dissolving behind a thick veil of tears he could no longer contain. He pulled over, the tires crunching violently over gravel, and the moment the engine died, the silence of the cabin was shattered by a sound he hadn't made in years.

​It was a raw, animalistic sob that tore from his throat, leaving it scraped and bleeding. He slumped over the steering wheel, his forehead resting against the cold leather, his shoulders shaking so violently he could barely breathe. He had walked away. He had chosen Rose, chosen safety, and chosen the light. But seeing you in the dark with Rozanov—seeing you give to Ilya the very things Shane had treated like a shameful secret—was killing him.

​Back in the bedroom, Ilya leaned down, his lips biting at the juncture of your shoulder and neck, his voice a low, Russian growl against your skin. "You are here," he whispered, his fingers interlaced with yours, pinning your hands to the pillow. "Do not look for him in your head. He is not there."

​You gasped, your back arching as you tried to lose yourself in the friction. You told yourself this was what you wanted. You told yourself that if you just focused on the weight of Ilya’s body, the way he breathed your name with such casual, public ease, you could finally scrub the dirty laundry feeling off your skin. You were trying to forget Shane the way he had seemingly forgotten you—efficiently, ruthlessly, moving on to someone better. But as you pulled Ilya closer, every sensation felt like a haunting echo of what you were actually missing.

​Shane’s fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles felt like they would burst through the skin. "I'm sorry," he choked out into the empty car, the words meant for a man who wasn't there to hear them. "God, I’m so sorry."

​He could still see it when he closed his eyes: Ilya’s hand on your hip, the way you hadn't pulled away. He had wanted to protect you from the world, but in his cowardice, he had only succeeded in losing you to a man who wasn't afraid of anything. He had traded your love for a brand, and now, as he sat broken on the side of a Montreal road, he realized the brand wasn't enough to keep him warm.

​You let out a broken cry as you reached the edge, your fingers digging into Ilya’s back, leaving red marks that wouldn't be hidden. You were free. You were out of the closet, out of the hotel rooms, and out of the secret. But as Ilya collapsed against you, his breath hot against your ear, a single tear escaped the corner of your eye and vanished into the pillow.

You couldn't remember the last time you’d talked to Shane. Not truly talked.

​Since that night in Montreal, when you’d left him standing in the shadows of the VIP lounge to go home with a man who wasn't afraid to touch you in the light, the silence between you had become a living thing. At first, the silence had been a scream—a constant, vibrating frequency of what ifs and come backs. But slowly, with Ilya’s help, the volume had turned down.

​Ilya had become a steady, grounding force in your life. What started as a chaotic act of defiance in a club had matured into a genuine friendship that you held close to your chest. It wasn't about the hookups anymore; it hadn't been since that first night. Instead, it was about 1:00 AM phone calls debating the best poutine in the city and Ilya’s blunt, Russian brand of honesty that made you feel like a person instead of a punchline.

​You were lounging on your couch now, the post-practice ache in your muscles finally beginning to settle. Ottawa hadn’t made the playoffs, but the coaching staff was still running you ragged, ensuring no one got too comfortable with the early off-season. You didn't mind. The exhaustion kept the ghosts away.

​A genuine smile tugged at your lips as your phone buzzed with another message from Ilya. He was fully committed now—signing with Ottawa the second he hit free agency. He was currently sending you listings for penthouses that were "too expensive but have good view for judging people on street."

​The knock at the door was sharp, cutting through the low hum of your refrigerator. You glanced at the clock: 5:12 PM.

​Maybe a neighbor? you thought, sliding off the couch. You didn't even bother to lock your phone or turn the screen off; it stayed face-up on the coffee table, a glowing portal to your conversation with Ilya.

​You padded toward the door in your socks, your mind still half-buried in a joke about Ilya’s interior design tastes. You pulled the door open, the "Yeah?" already forming on your tongue.

​The word died in your throat.

​You froze, your fingers tightening so hard on the doorknob that the metal bit into your palm. Shane was standing there.

​He looked like a man who had been caught in a storm and hadn't yet found a place to dry off. But it wasn't his tired eyes or the way he was shifting his weight that stopped your heart. It was what he was wearing.

​It was your old team hoodie. The heavy, charcoal-grey one with your number—#18—screen-printed on the chest. The fabric was worn, the edges of the numbers peeling slightly from years of use. You’d looked for that hoodie for months, eventually convincing yourself you’d left it in some nondescript hotel in a city you didn't want to remember.

​How did he have it? How long had he been holding onto it?

​"Shane?" you whispered. The name felt heavy, like a stone you’d been carrying in your pocket and had finally decided to drop.

​He didn't move. He stood in the hallway, the fluorescent lights overhead making him look pale, almost fragile. He looked down at the sleeves of the hoodie, his fingers disappearing into the cuffs.

​"I... I know I shouldn't be here," he said, his voice a low, jagged rasp that sounded nothing like the polished superstar the media knew. He gestured vaguely to the fabric over his chest. "I found this in the back of my gear bag. I think it’s been there since the road trip to Vancouver. I tried to give it back, but... I realized if I gave it back, I wouldn't have anything left of you."

​He looked up, and for the first time, you saw it—the raw, unshielded desperation. He wasn't the golden boy right now. He was just a man wearing a stolen hoodie, standing at the door of a life he’d walked away from.

You didn't say anything. You couldn't. The silence was a heavy, physical thing, pressing against your lungs as you stepped back, pulling the door open just wide enough for him to pass. Shane didn’t rush; he moved into your space with a tentative, ghost-like step.

​As he walked past you, the scent of him hit you—it wasn't the cologne that usually stuck to your hoodie. It was the smell of travel, of cold rinks, and that faint, haunting trace of mint and ginger. You closed the door, the click echoing like a gunshot in the quiet apartment.

​Shane didn’t go far. He stopped by the coffee table, his gaze dropping to your phone. The screen was still bright, a fresh notification from Ilya mocking him from the glass: “Found a place with a balcony. You will hate the tile, but love the view.”

​"Ilya Rozanov, huh?" Shane’s voice was dry, sandpaper-rough. He didn't look at you. His eyes remained fixed on the fading light of the screen. "I heard he’s moving to Ottawa. I didn't realize he’d already moved into my spot."

​"Shane," you warned, the word a low vibration of exhaustion.

​He looked up then, a bitter, lopsided smile twisting his face. "Is he good to you? Or does he just... not give a damn who sees him walking into your building?"

​You crossed the room in two strides, snatching the phone off the table. You thumbed the power button, plunging the room into shadow as you shoved it deep into your joggers' pocket. "Why are you here, Shane? It’s five in the evening. You’re supposed to be in Montreal. You’re supposed to be anywhere but here."

​Shane didn't fire back. The fight seemed to drain out of him all at once, his shoulders slumping under the weight of the charcoal fleece. He sat down on the edge of the couch, his hands fisted in his lap, looking like a man who had finally run out of road.

​"I broke up with Rose," he said to the carpet.

​"The PR team must be thrilled," you said, though there was no bite in it, only a hollow ache.

​"I don't care," Shane snapped, his head snapping up. His eyes were bloodshot, the mask not just cracked, but pulverized. He looked at you—really looked at you—and his jaw worked as he struggled to find the air.

​"I'm gay."

​The words didn't come out as a grand declaration. They were a confession, whispered like a secret that had been rotting inside him for twenty-four years.

​"I'm gay, and I've spent every second of the last month wishing I was Rozanov," he choked out, his voice cracking. "Because he gets to touch you, and I'm still just standing in the dark.”

The silence in the room felt pressurized, like the cabin of a plane losing altitude. You took a slow, shuddering breath, the air catching in your throat as you ran a hand through your hair, tugging at the roots just to feel something grounded. In your pocket, your phone buzzed again—a steady, rhythmic vibration. It was Ilya. It was your new life, your safety net, your reality.

​And yet, you were staring at the man who had turned your heart into a demolition site.

​"You’re gay," you repeated. The words felt foreign, tasting like copper on your tongue. You let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sob. "You’re gay? Now? You’re telling me this now, Shane? In my living room?"

​Shane flinched, his fingers digging into the charcoal fabric of your old hoodie. "I had to," he whispered. "I couldn't breathe anymore."

​"Why?" you demanded, your voice rising as the anger finally began to override the shock. "Why tell me? I was moving on. I was finally starting to sleep through the night without checking my phone every ten minutes to see if you’d remembered I existed. Why do you get to come in here and drop this on me when I'm finally... when I'm getting over it?"

​"Because seeing him with you broke me," Shane said, finally looking up. His eyes were raw, swimming with a frantic, ugly sort of honesty. "In Montreal. At the club. I stood there and watched him. I watched the way he didn't care who was looking. He had his hands on you like you were his entire world, and the worst part wasn't that he was touching you—it was that I knew I should have been the one doing it."

​He let out a jagged breath, his chest heaving. "I saw the way you leaned into him. You looked...safe. You looked like you weren't looking over your shoulder for a camera for the first time in years. And I hated him for it. I wanted to kill him, but mostly, I just wanted to be him."

​Shane’s voice dropped, becoming a hollow, broken thing. "When I left that night, I didn't even make it back to the hotel. I was driving, and the road just...it disappeared. I was crying so hard I couldn't see the lines on the highway. I had to pull over on the shoulder, and I sat there for an hour, just screaming at the steering wheel because I realized I’d traded the only person who actually loved me for a brand that didn't feel like anything at all."

​He laughed then, a dry, miserable sound. "A week later, Rose took me to dinner. She knew. She’s not stupid. She looked at me across the table and asked me point-blank if I was gay. And then she asked... she asked if it was better with a man. If the sex was just different."

​Shane reached out, his hand hovering in the air between you before dropping back to the couch. "And all I could think about was you. I thought about the way we were in that hotel room—how it wasn't just a hookup for us. It wasn't just mutual benefits. You made love to me. You touched me like I was something fragile, something worth keeping. And then I pictured Ilya doing that to you. I pictured his hands where mine used to be, his mouth where mine had been... and I realized I’d rather lose everything else than lose the chance to tell you the truth."

​Your heart hammered a painful, pathetic rhythm against your ribs. The anger was still there, a hot coal in your gut, but it was being smothered by the sheer, devastating weight of his grief. You felt your feet move before your mind could register the command.

​You crossed the small gap and sank onto the cushion beside him. The couch dipped under your weight. Slowly, hesitantly, you reached out. Your fingers brushed against the sleeve of the hoodie—your hoodie—before your hand slid down, wrapping around his trembling fingers.

​His skin was cold, just like it had been that night he’d first come back, but this time, he didn't pull away. He gripped your hand back with a desperate, white-knuckled intensity, as if you were the only thing keeping him from drifting out to sea.

​"I'm a coward," he whispered, his forehead dropping toward your joined hands. "I know I'm a coward.”

You pictured him—the Great Shane Hollander, the league’s untouchable golden boy—choking on sobs in the front seat of an SUV on a dark Montreal shoulder. You’d spent months imagining him laughing with Rose, celebrating wins, and forgetting your name, but the reality was so much bleaker. He’d been haunted. He’d been grieving you while you were right there, just out of reach, trying your best to bury his memory under Ilya’s brazen heat.

​"Ilya..." Shane choked out, his voice cracking as he forced himself to look at you. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified of the answer. "Is he... is he better? Does he look at you in the morning and actually say the words? Does he love you the way I was too much of a coward to?"

​The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Shane’s grip on your hand tightened, his knuckles white, his whole body braced for the blow. He was waiting for you to tell him that you’d found someone who wasn't ashamed. He was waiting for you to confirm his worst nightmare: that he was replaceable.

​You took a breath, the air finally feeling like it could reach the bottom of your lungs. You thought of Ilya—of the way he’d held you in the club, the way he’d been a shield against the world. He was a good man, a loyal friend, and a distraction that had saved your sanity. But he wasn't the owner of the heartbeat currently racing against your palm.

​"Shane," you said, your voice a low, grounded murmur that seemed to cut through his frantic energy. You shook your head slowly, watching the way his eyes tracked the movement. "Ilya and I... we’re friends. Just friends."

​Shane froze, his breath hitching in his chest. "But that night... the club, the way he touched you, the way you went home together..."

​"It was a lie, Shane," you admitted, the truth finally coming out in a weary exhale. "A different kind of lie than yours, but a lie nonetheless. I was hurting. I wanted to feel something—anything—that wasn't the hole you left in me. And Ilya... he knew. He was playing a part because he hated seeing me look like a ghost. He wanted to give you a taste of what it felt like to be on the outside looking in."

​You looked down at your joined hands, your thumb tracing the line of his thumb, a gesture so familiar it made your chest ache.

​"That night in the club, and everything after... it didn't mean anything," you whispered, your voice thick with a sudden, rising heat. "Not like the hotel rooms. Not like the rinks in Ottawa when we were kids. It didn't mean anything because it wasn't you. I’ve spent every night since you left trying to scrub the taste of mint and ginger out of my mouth, and I couldn't do it. Not with a drink, not with a game, and not with another man."

​You looked up, meeting his gaze with a fierce, watery intensity. "Ilya is a better man than you were back then, Shane. He’s brave. But he’s not the one I love. He’s the one who held me while I cried over the man who was too scared to hold me himself."

​Shane’s face crumbled. The last of his defensive walls didn't just fall; they evaporated. He let out a broken, relieved sound—a sob that he tried to turn into a breath—and leaned forward until his forehead pressed against your shoulder. He was finally in your space again, not as a secret or a ghost, but as a man who had finally stopped running.

I don't want to be a ghost anymore," he whispered against your skin. His voice was thick and wet, the words catching in his throat as he finally let go of the rigid, polished armor he’d worn since he was a teenager. "I don't want to be a brand. I just want to be yours."

​You cupped Shane’s face, your thumbs wiping away the salt of his tears. You felt tension dissipate beneath your palms, the heat of his skin, the reality of him. You pressed your forehead firmly against his, forcing him to stay in this moment, to breathe the same air you were breathing.