SparrowFleet

You and Patrick weren’t exactly dating—or maybe you were. He’d never asked to make it official. Still, after your first date, he didn’t let up: flowers, calls, dinners, last-minute lunch invitations. Love bombing, if you were being honest with yourself. Eventually, you gave in and suggested that maybe the two of you could try building something that resembled a real relationship.

Even though you’d always sworn off Wall Street types.

It started as one of those Christmas Eve days that already felt slightly off.

The store was quiet in the way only expensive places were—muted footsteps, hushed voices, the soft click of glass cases opening and closing. Patrick moved through it like he belonged there, fingertips grazing displays without really looking, already knowing what everything cost.

“I’m having a small Christmas thing,” you said, stopping in front of a table stacked with neatly folded cashmere. “At Café Luxembourg.”

“Mm,” he replied, examining a leather wallet with mild interest.

“You could come,” you added. “It’s nothing formal. Just drinks. A few people.”

That made him pause. Not long—just enough to register the information. He set the wallet down, straightened it precisely.

“I can’t,” he said. Flat. “My mother wants me there. Christmas Eve. Sean will be there too.”

“Oh.” You nodded, reaching for a sweater and pretending to feel the fabric. “Right.”

“She’s very particular about holidays,” he went on, as if explaining a scheduling conflict at work. “It’s not optional.”

“Of course it isn’t.”

Patrick glanced at you, brief and assessing. “You understand.”

“Yeah.” You smiled, quick and practiced. “Family comes first.”

“Exactly.” He sounded satisfied. “It’ll be dinner. A few hours. I’ll leave as soon as it becomes unbearable.”

You let out a small laugh. “Lucky you.”

“You’ll still go to your party,” he added, already turning toward a sales associate. “You like that place.”

“I do.”

“And you wanted something casual,” he stated cold-bloodily. “This fits.”

You swallowed. “It does.”

Patrick nodded, decision made, and pointed at a display. “I’ll take the gloves. Black. Medium.”

As the associate walked away, he leaned closer, voice low. “You don’t need me there to have a good time.”

“I know,” you shot back easily.

He smiled—brief, self-assured. “Good.”

You watched him straighten his Rolex, gold watch catching the light, and told yourself that disappointment was just another thing you could file away neatly.

Like everything else.

Christmas arrived without much ceremony, carrying more hope with it than you were prepared to admit.

By the time the first reservation slot came and went, the table was already set.

You checked your watch anyway. Then again a few minutes later. No one hurried in apologizing, no coats were shrugged off in your direction. The candles burned clean and steady, wax pooling at their bases, untouched glasses reflecting the low light like props waiting for actors who never took the stage.

You told yourself to give it time.

Café Luxembourg moved around you as it always did—tables filling, voices rising and falling, the soft choreography of waiters weaving through the room. You smiled politely when yours passed, waved off the unspoken question, and ordered another round you didn’t really need.

Ten minutes. Then twenty.

The chair across from you stayed empty.

When your friend finally showed up—cheeks flushed from the cold, slightly out of breath—you felt relief hit sharp and sudden. You stood too fast, hugged them too tightly, laughed a beat too loud. One person was something. One person meant you hadn’t imagined the whole thing.

“Everyone else?” they asked, glancing at the empty seats.

You lifted your shoulders, reaching for your glass. “Busy, I guess.”

It was the word everyone leaned on this time of year. Busy. Family obligations. Work. Things that came up at the last minute and somehow mattered more.

You kept talking. You kept smiling. You even managed to enjoy yourself, a little.

But every time the door opened, your attention snapped up—just in case. And every time it wasn’t who you were waiting for, something inside you settled back down, quieter than before.

By the end of the night, the candles had burned down to stubs and the table felt far too large for two people. You paid the bill, thanked the staff, pulled your coat back on.

Outside, the city looked the same as it always did on Christmas—bright, indifferent, full.

You told yourself it was fine.

You were used to filing things away neatly.

Disappointment included.

On your way home, you spiraled over the flopped party—how only one person had even bothered to show up, how badly mistaken you’d been in thinking you had more friends than you did.

Reality always hit hardest afterward, when there was nothing left to distract you.

You could live with it. Or at least, you told yourself you could. You kept the tears in check, refusing to let them ruin the makeup you’d spent too long perfecting for an audience that never came. Luckily, Café Luxembourg wasn’t far from your place, so you walked. Snow swirled around you in sharp, glittering flurries, clinging to your lashes, blurring your vision just enough to give you an excuse not to look too closely at anything.

By the time you reached your block, the cold had worked its way into your bones.

That was when you noticed the sleek black car idling at the curb in front of your brownstone.

It took a few seconds to process what you were seeing before instinct pulled you closer. You trusted your instincts. Mostly. As you approached, you spotted the driver leaning against the frame, smoking, oblivious to you—until the backseat window slid down.

A cluster of red, blue, and silver balloons burst out of the car, nearly colliding with your face.

You froze when you heard his voice.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” Patrick drawled, almost sing-song as his face appeared in the window. “So—how’d your party go?”

Not that question.

Not now. Not ever.

It stung so badly you almost laughed. Or screamed. Or shouted the truth loud enough for everyone on the block to hear—that your party had been a complete disaster. But you were too polite for that. You shrugged instead and caught one of the balloons.

“You probably shouldn’t ask me that if you want to stay sane,” you said. “What are you even doing here? I thought I wouldn’t hear from you until Valentine’s Day. Or later.”

Bateman snickered, flashing his perfect teeth. “Relax. No mistletoe ambush.” He opened the door. “Get in.”

You gathered the balloon strings and slid into the backseat. The driver was already in place, hands on the wheel, waiting.

“Okay,” Patrick said, turning toward you. “Now tell me—who hurt you?”

Before you could answer, he was already pressing a champagne flute into your hand. “I’m listening.”

“Why do you think someone hurt me?”

He tilted his head slightly. “It’s written all over your face.”

You took the glass but didn’t drink. “Explain.”

Patrick sighed and drained his own drink in one swallow—J&B whiskey, most likely.

“I’m not trying to psychoanalyze you,” he said, lips thin, eyes sharp. “But I remember how excited you were about this little party. And now…” His gaze swept over you. “You look like you just came back from a funeral.”

Because it felt like one. The emptiness. The quiet. The way it settled in your chest.

“I had to cancel it,” you muttered, swirling the champagne in your unsteady hands. “No one came.”

That stopped him.

Patrick turned fully toward you, his expression caught somewhere between What did you just say? and Say that again.

“Yeah,” you added, finally taking a sip. “I’m serious. Nobody came.” You let out a humorless breath. “I guess that makes it official. I’m a loser, Patrick.”

His near-maniacal laughter scared the shit out of you, and you barely managed to keep the glass steady, not spilling it all over the obscenely expensive interior.

“What a load of bullshit,” he finally managed, brushing away a nonexistent tear. “Well. Fuck them.”

“That’s it?” You stared at him. “Really? Just—fuck them?”

You wanted to elbow him. To get out of the car. To unload everything you’d ever thought about his complete lack of sympathy. But then you stopped—because he was a man incapable of sympathy, and you’d known that long before the two of you ever started this.

Was this even a real relationship? Or just a fling—one that had lasted far too long by both your standards, while you pretended everything was under control?

Patrick drummed his fingers against his knee and poured himself another shot of whiskey.

“You might want to think about this,” he said, gesturing toward the balloons. “And this.” He tapped the rim of your champagne flute, producing a sharp, ringing ding. “I’d say that kind of overshadows everything.”

You squinted at him. “Wow. You’re so fucking full of yourself and—”

“Dom Pérignon,” he cut in smoothly, unfazed. “And the balloons came from a luxury florist. Not cheap, by the way.”

“Should I drop to my knees now and thank you for your generosity?”

He hummed, as if genuinely considering it. “Well, gratitude would be appropriate—”

“Thank you!” You blurted, grabbing the balloon strings and shoving them between you. “I’m pissed because I fooled myself for so long. About friends. About being… important to anyone.”

His hand found yours almost instantly—quick and subtle, fingers lacing with yours like they’d always belonged there. The contact sparked a small, unwelcome pang of conscience. You didn’t like it, but you said it anyway.

“I don’t want to sound like an asshole.” A beat. “That’s usually your job.”

He chuckled, brushing his thumb slowly over your palm. “That’s very sweet of you, darling. Insulting me just because I showed up and tried to make things look festive. Nice.” His smile sharpened. “…Romantic.”

“You hate romantic.”

“I hate seeing you grumpy,” he blurted, tugging the balloons aside so he could actually see your face. “And I hate seeing you not in the mood even more than that. If you’re already here—in my limo, with me—let me handle it.”

In the dim light, his eyes looked almost unreal, dark and hypnotic. As if it were even possible for him to be more handsome than he already was. You zoned out for a moment, lost in his presence, his touch, the Paul Sebastian cologne clinging to you like it had a life of its own.

It was only a matter of time before you leaned in, lips meeting in a slow, much-needed kiss. He bit your bottom lip just hard enough to pull a breath from you, pushing the moment a little too far for something meant to be purely comforting.

“Why does all of this feel like…” You hesitated, settling against his chest. “Like neither of us should be here—but we still are?”

Patrick’s mouth curved. “How illegal does it feel? Scale of one to ten.”

You shoved him lightly, laughing despite yourself. “Ten out of ten.”

“I knew it.” He smiled, already draping an arm over your shoulders. “Let’s go to my place.”

As the words settled between you, he watched you closely—fingers idly playing with the collar of your coat, lips parted, clearly ready to kiss you again if it helped tip the answer in his favor.

“You should’ve started with that,” you muttered, pinching his cheek just enough to annoy him. “Skipped the self-worshiping part.”

He offered no defense. Instead, he went on the offensive, his mouth claiming the soft slope of your neck where the coat collar had slipped just enough to allow it. The point landed hard enough that you didn’t bother trying to argue anymore.

Bateman’s place hadn’t changed since the last time you’d been there.

Unless—something had.

A small Christmas tree stood in the corner of his sterile white living room, right beside the tall stereo speaker. You actually stepped closer and touched it, just to be sure you weren’t hallucinating. It looked too festive to be real.

“A Christmas tree?” you asked. “Seriously?”

Patrick lingered behind you, hands tucked into his pockets. “I—” He paused, jaw ticking. “I’m trying to fit in, you know. Normal people decorate their lairs.”

You let out a soft laugh. “You could just admit you did it for me.”

“What? No.”

The denial came too fast. His cheeks flushed, his eyes flicked away, and a boyish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Something fluttered in your chest—and it definitely wasn’t your heart. No butterflies comparison could quite capture it. Whenever Patrick looked like this—unguarded, almost human—it hit somewhere deeper.

Several flutes of Dom Pérignon were already working their way through your system, leaving you pleasantly tipsy and far too playful. You giggled as you brushed a finger over a small blue ornament, its glitter catching the light like powdered diamonds.

You wouldn’t have minded another drink, but Patrick had something else in mind. Something you never would’ve expected to find in his fridge.

“Want some ice cream?” he asked casually, already heading into the pristine kitchen. “Picked it up at a Häagen-Dazs boutique yesterday.”

You glanced at him—standing by the fridge with an almost childlike seriousness you rarely saw—and finally let go of the tree, crossing the room to meet him halfway. Your arms were already reaching for the small, cold carton.

“At least admit you bought this for me,” you murmured as you settled onto the white couch. “No one would expect me to know your secrets.”

“And that,” he replied, voice stretching into something half-joking, half-wary, “is deeply unsettling.”

You smiled. Either way, you enjoyed it.

After a small snack, the two of you drifted into silly conversations about… nothing, really. His daily life. Yours. It barely felt like Christmas at all—just another quiet evening the two of you might’ve shared any other time.

That changed when he suddenly stood from one of his Knoll Barcelona chairs and crossed the room to the massive stereo system, which looked more like the control panel of a spaceship than anything meant for music. With a quick tap of his finger, Frank Sinatra’s Jingle Bells filled the room, and you couldn’t help smiling like an idiot.

Out of all the songs—that one.

And somehow, you loved it.

“I’m not actually a big Frank Sinatra fan,” he added quickly, as if reading your thoughts. “My father is. But since we’re pretending to celebrate Christmas like normal people…” He shrugged. “Might as well jingle all the way.”

That made you laugh.

“You’re insane. You know that, right?”

He grinned like he took it as a compliment.

“You never told me about your music taste,” he noted, settling down beside you on the couch. “Feels like the right moment.”

“I prefer listening to your monologues about it.”

Patrick laughed—unexpectedly warm. “I’ll pretend to believe you. But seriously—what do you actually like?”

You set the half-empty ice cream carton on the glass coffee table, spoon still inside—it occurred to you that he might be weirdly particular about that sort of thing. Then you tucked your legs beneath you, thinking through the question. Patrick waited, one hand absentmindedly finding your foot, thumb tracing slow circles along your sole in a way that felt brazenly good.

“Well,” you said at last, “Frank Sinatra is… honestly fine.”

He blinked. “Really? Not too old-fashioned for you?”

“My dad used to play his tapes all the time when I was a kid.”

Something lit up behind his hazel eyes—an idea forming. Probably one he’d regret later. But he did it anyway. He gave your foot a final squeeze before standing and heading back to the stereo. A CD slid out, then back in. Tap, tap—and a new song began.

Moon River, wider than a mile…

The lyrics held you frozen until he was suddenly in front of you again, offering his hand. His face was a soft mess of affection, embarrassment, and something almost boyishly earnest.

“Will you dance with me?”

You felt like you were on the verge of melting into the floor. Instead, you took his hand and let him guide you toward the floor-to-ceiling window, where snow-covered New York blinked back at you in soft white and gold.

He placed one of your hands on his shoulder, holding the other in his large palm. It didn’t surprise you that he was good at this—Patrick seemed incapable of doing anything halfway. As you swayed to Sinatra’s baritone, you rested your head against the slope of his neck, breathing him in, your fingers brushing the back of his carefully styled hair.

“Is this not too old-fashioned for you?” you teased, echoing his earlier question. “I actually can imagine your father telling you stories about dancing to this with your mother.”

A faint scoff left his lips, almost thoughtful.

“Interesting,” he murmured near your ear. “That’s a version of him I never really got to know.”

It didn’t sound sad—just cold. Like something he’d already lived through and filed away. Indifferent. You didn’t push the subject. Instead, you closed your eyes and let yourself sink into the music, the warmth of his body, the way he hummed softly along, holding you close as your bodies swayed together.

At some point, you realized you were almost sobbing into the pristine white collar of his dress shirt. It was too overwhelming, too fairytale-perfect—too hard to believe it was actually happening. Patrick felt the tremor and tilted his head, catching your gaze just as your noses brushed.

You let out a shaky laugh. He didn’t let you pull away.

The kiss felt inevitable—something your bodies had been waiting for since the moment you arrived. His lips were softer than you expected, his arms tightening around your waist as if you might disappear otherwise, slipping right through his fingers. Someone should’ve said something grounding. Something that made it real.

“Do you believe in Christmas magic?” you asked, breathless when you broke apart.

Patrick licked his lips, thumb brushing your cheek. “I believe in my platinum AmEx.”

You kicked him lightly in the chest. He didn’t budge. If anything, he pulled you closer, strong hands anchoring you there, making you feel small in the best possible way—like a snowflake caught at the peak of a mountain.

“Okay, okay, point taken,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “But seriously—have you ever had a wish you wanted to come true?”

In the background, Sinatra crooned about love and beauty. The Way You Look Tonight. Another perfect choice.

“Sweetheart, if you want to make a wish,” he deflected, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth, “you can say it out loud right now.” His lips brushed yours again. “You can believe in whatever magic you want. In the end, I’m the one who makes wishes come true.”

So arrogant.

It only made your smile widen.

“You have no idea what my imagination is capable of,” you murmured against his lips. He leaned in to kiss you, but you dodged. “Careful what you offer.”

“Try me.”

You would.

Right now.

You were the first to move, nipping his bottom lip with a teasing bite. He lifted you effortlessly, exactly the reaction you wanted, hands firm as you wrapped your legs around his waist. His suit jacket rustled between you, smooth fabric brushing your bare skin as he guided you toward the bedroom, stripping you of layers with meticulous intent.

The cool air. The crisp white sheets. Everything was exactly where it should be—including you, sprawled across that indecently large bed.

Patrick followed you down, weight settling over yours, kisses growing hotter, less restrained, as if he were mapping every inch of you by instinct alone.

“Told you magic works,” you breathed between kisses. “Always does.”

He frowned faintly. “One more word like that and I’ll gag you with glitter duct tape.” A beat. “Christmas edition.”

You laughed—until concern flickered and you realized he was already peeling you out of the rest of your clothes, down to your lingerie. Not festive. Classic. You hadn’t planned on ending up in his bed on Christmas night—but this version of events felt dangerously perfect.

The mattress dipped as he pushed you deeper into its center, then slipped away, dropping to his knees. His focus narrowed instantly, drawn to the heat between your legs like a magnetic pull. Patrick didn’t bother restraining himself; he simply leaned in, his tongue gliding over the front seam of your panties. When he found them already damp, he smirked—but said nothing.

Music drifted faintly from the other room, reduced to little more than a melodic hum. The sheets creased beneath you as he nudged your hips upward, glancing up at you now and then to read your reactions. He pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your mound, right above the waistband of your underwear. You closed your eyes, hands curling into fists as you grabbed the pillow, bracing yourself.

It would’ve been a lie to say you didn’t want this—or that you hadn’t been waiting for it. He was good at this. He knew how to work you up without even fully undressing you. Just his warm breath hovering over your core was enough to set your nerves alight. Patrick always took his time, exploring and admiring your body—especially your legs—kissing along your inner thighs, your shins, your ankles, stroking them slowly. Usually, when you looped them around his head, he’d groan like he couldn’t help himself.

This time, you didn’t.

It threw him off.

“So,” you asked quietly, “we’re just going to have sex and that’s it?”

Full stop.

He lifted his head, expression suddenly serious, like you’d just accused him of being unimaginative. “Is that not enough for you?” Patrick asked, one of your legs resting over his shoulder. “What do you want—me to call escorts? Men? Women? I don’t know.”

You nearly wheezed, but decided to play along. “I mean… that doesn’t sound terrible.”

The words hit harder than you expected. You could see it in his face—his eyes darkening, sharp as obsidian.

“I think it’s a little late for that,” he shot back. “It’s fucking Christmas. All the hookers are busy playing Snow Maidens or something worse.” He paused. “So you’ve got one option.” A beat. “Me.”

God. He sounded genuinely offended.

Smiling, you sat up and cupped his face, kissing his forehead in a grounding, reassuring way. “I was joking. You know that,” you said, tipping his chin up. “I don’t want—or need—anyone else.”

His lips flattened, unimpressed.

“And they call me the Grinch,” he muttered, turning his head slightly. “You could’ve just been specific and said you wanted an orgy for Christmas.”

A shaky laugh slipped out of you. “Jesus, you’re so dramatic.”

You wrapped your arms and legs around him, dragging him down with you as you fell back against the sheets. Being pinned beneath his solid weight felt too good to resist, so you leaned into it, knowing exactly how to soften him.

“Do you actually live at the gym?” you teased. “You’re so strong, and fit, and—”

Patrick cut you off with a kiss, tongue sliding into your mouth, stealing the rest of your sentence. You squealed softly as his hips pressed forward, the strain in his trousers obvious, rubbing against your thigh until you both gasped.

“Save the cheesy compliments,” he rasped, grinding into you. “For your friends. Or some other loser you’ll spend next Christmas with.”

You rolled your eyes but kept moving with him, matching his rhythm, your legs locked around his waist, the friction making it impossible to think.

“Stop being dramatic,” you said breathlessly, squeezing your breasts together. “You still owe me after the last time I almost choked on your dick.”

Patrick scoffed, teeth grazing your neck. “Then lie back,” he murmured, “and keep your mouth shut until you’re ready to tell me how good I make you feel.”

“Fine.”

The word had barely left your mouth before Patrick knelt on the bed and dragged your panties down in one swift motion—no hesitation, no gentleness. Just raw, barely contained hunger, the kind that threatened to tip into something reckless.

When he returned to his position at the edge of the bed, he was different. Gone were the teasing licks. Now his tongue worked with intent—long, demanding strokes against your sensitive flesh. Every time his sculpted nose brushed your clit, your legs trembled, toes curling, breath stuttering in your chest.

“Pat—Patrick,” you gasped, already squirming against the mattress. “Oh God—yes—”

You threaded your fingers into his hair, impossibly soft beneath your shaking hands. His face was flushed deep red, heat blooming from his cheeks down his neck, lashes dark and clumped with sweat. Panting, you tugged harder, forcing him closer as his tongue pressed into you with ruthless precision.

“Mmh—fuck,” you swore, nearly kicking out from the shock of it. “Shit—ah—keep going. Don’t stop. Please—”

Your whimpers spurred him on. Patrick doubled his efforts, the cold edge of his Rolex sliding along the inside of your hip as his fingers spread you open. Then he pushed them inside you—one, then another—until they vanished completely, slick sounds filling the room as your body took him without resistance.

“Already clenching,” he murmured, tongue sweeping from bottom to top. “You really think anyone else could make you feel like this?”

Typical Bateman—asking rhetorical questions mid-fuck.

You didn’t care. Your orgasm was too close for words. He could say whatever he wanted as long as he kept worshipping you like this.

Patrick felt it the moment your body tightened. His fingers scissored inside you, mouth locking onto your clit, sucking hard enough to steal the air from your lungs. Flick—pause—flick again—then pressure, exactly where it unraveled you.

You broke without screaming, breath catching uselessly in your throat as everything inside you snapped. Your body shook, legs trembling violently, muscles locking around his fingers as he refused to stop until the last aftershock tore through you. Patrick huffed against you, eyes dark and unfocused as he watched you fall apart.

The aftermath left you hollowed out, boneless.

Your vision swam, head fuzzy, body still trembling as you vaguely registered the sound of clothes shifting. Strong hands rolled you onto your stomach. Your bra was gone. His palms cupped your tits as he stretched over you, mouth at your neck, the slick head of his cock sliding between your buttocks. He ground there once, groaning.

“Always told you you had a great ass,” he murmured against your ear. “You never listen.”

His hand gripped your ass hard—enough that bruises would bloom tomorrow. Neither of you cared. You mewled anyway, and he did it again, the sadistic edge in him taking control.

“Spread your legs,” he ordered. When you obeyed, he slid a pillow beneath your hips. “You said you loved it like this.” A pause—then a sharp smack to your hip. “And unlike you, I pay attention.”

You glanced back at him—bare, sweat-slicked, every muscle defined like something sculpted for worship. He caught the look and winked, your admiration feeding him shamelessly. His throat bobbed as his gaze dropped to the curve of your ass, your slickness glistening where he brushed against you.

He exhaled sharply.

“Tell me you’re on the pill,” he said through clenched teeth, stroking himself slowly.

“I am,” you answered, propped on your elbows. “Are you really doing this again?”

He chuckled. “Come on, baby. You love it.” He leaned in, lining himself up. “You never shut up about the first time.”

Then he pushed inside.

Your focus fractured on the way his brows pulled together as he filled you inch by inch, your body clinging to him like it was made for it. Halfway in and you were already gripping the edge of the bed, burying your face in the cool sheets for balance.

It shattered the moment he shifted his weight and began to move.

Hard.

He didn’t give you time to adjust—driven by the need to claim, to hear you gasp and whimper, nails scraping along his arms as he pounded into you with relentless force.

As if it were his personal salvation.

The only way to survive the night.

His hands found yours where they hovered uselessly over the bed. He captured them in his, fingers interlacing, trapping you between the mattress and his massive body. The slow, grinding motion of his hips was worse than pounding—his cock dragging along your inner muscles with torturous precision.

“I—I’m going to black out,” you gasped, dazed.

A guttural sound tore from his throat as he sat back on his heels. His cock slipped free—slick, flushed, still hard—and he watched your body clench around nothing. For a split second, the familiar fixation flared, the urge to push further, to take you somewhere he was always drawn to. Too much, he decided. Instead, he brushed your hair aside, gripping the back of your neck with one hand and your hip with the other before pushing back inside you in one steady thrust.

This angle reduced you to something pliable in his hands. He could do anything—lifting, dragging, setting the rhythm as he fucked you down onto his cock, bearing your weight like you were nothing at all. The wet sounds grew messier, obscene, drowning out any thought of speech. Whatever you might’ve wanted to say dissolved completely as he drove you past coherence.

Each stroke numbing.

Erasing.

Patrick’s breathing turned harsh, uneven, sweat tracking along the vein standing out beneath his eye. Even if he’d wanted to last longer, the sight of you—your body reacting, your ass shuddering with every pull—was too much. He broke faster than expected. In any other situation, that might have bothered him. With you, it felt inevitable. Sex with you was different—emotion wasn’t an intrusion, but the missing piece that made everything click.

He collapsed over you like a weighty blanket, arms locking around you as he spilled everything he had, uncaring where it went. The sheets were ruined. He’d lie to the dry cleaners again.

Patrick kissed your neck, holding you close—not too tight—as his hips continued their residual rhythm. One hand slid beneath you, fingers finding the slick mess there, circling your oversensitive clit with slow, deliberate pressure.

You bit down on your lip—until he pulled you into a bruising kiss, swallowing the sound as his hand pushed you over again. His cock softened inside you, but it still felt overwhelming. The wet sounds, the friction, the relentless attention dragged you under.

And you went.

Your body seized, convulsing as you came again, moaning helplessly into his mouth. He pressed the heel of his palm to that raw bundle of nerves, working it until you thrashed beneath him, until he had to murmur something low and filthy just to keep you still.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he’d probably say.

Just another great story for your future therapist.

PLAN OR PANIC STOP CALLING ME OUT AHAHAHA

forgor who it was but someone recently told me my handwriting was already that of a doctor lmao

high stress tolerance who? maybe whe i was in hs lol my insides dissolve consantly these days XD

i cant even do 1+1 on excel im sorry :')

the ingredients are spot on tho

im also stubborn af lol. my fatal flaw truly

comets and satellites whare yall at? :3

More often after you moved in. 

Why? 

He looked at you and could turn around on his heel any given moment, muttering half in Lemurian, half in whatever language rolled off his tongue. You were his muse, and apparently, you had no mercy for his poor artistic mind. 

He blamed the way the light reflected in your eyes, or how it caressed your skin in this specific way that reminded him of the ocean in the morning, shimmering in pinks and oranges; other times it was because a shirt draped over your figure and the next moment he was deep into a study of whatever material it was you wore, capturing the exact tension in the stretch and the shadows of the folds that is created (Thomas was crying tears of joy at this uptick in works). 

Moving in also showed how different your routines were. 

His alarm always rang before yours (even if he went to bed an hour earlier than the alarm was set to), just to whisper a good morning into your ear when he hugged you closer, a tempting attempt to lure you into staying in bed with him. A payback for when you were dragging him into bed when you woke up for a glass of water — he tried tricking you by leaving a glass of water near the bed to no avail. 

He slept when he wished, more often after a creative frenzy, while you stayed in the routine of late nights and early mornings. But it worked — you falling asleep on his couch while he was painting, for him to find you a moment later and carry you to bed, too enamored by your sleeping face to not succumb to the temptation and join you in bed. You spent sleepless nights, too excited for the finishing touches he was applying to his latest work, half-conscious when you hugged him tight once he was done in the morning. Watching the canvas from the comfort of the sofa, just to wake up hours later to both of you cuddling, paint smeared on both of you from where he hugged you, still in his working clothes. 

Moving in with Rafayel should also mean that you had an opportunity to build up resistance to his charms — you failed (who wouldn’t). 

His charms shining the brightest when he had an urge to spend his bathing time with you, his idea of spending hours in water, you got teased when your fingers were becoming a raisins (thanks Raf); when the urge to dance with after a ridiculous exposition wanting nothing more than to burn the halls down to the ground, tired and deflated ( that gave you a fright first time around), or to hold you close and drown in your smell and warmth. You were a lost cause - what a sweet defeat it was. 

Moving with Rafayel meant constant touching. 

He would pick you up when you walked with a basket full of clothes, delivering you to the laundry room and then kidnapping you, once the machine was doing what it had to. He would flop on top of you while you were reading, nuzzling his head before his fingers started tracing your collarbones, neck, cheeks with devotion and awe — you were here, with him, you were his. A true miracle he has the privilege to witness. 

Moving in made his space yours, and yours his. 

You’ve seen him eyeing your creams, checking your outfits like they personally offended him if there was any indication that the material might not be soft enough to his standards to touch your skin.

He saw you, squinting at the mess of his shoes, sneakily (in your eyes) putting those you didn’t like to the back. The way you organize yours and his accessories together in one place. The way you stole his clothes, a moment of hesitation, before you snuck them anyway — you did it on purpose to parade before him moments later. “For comfort,” you said, to drive him mad was more likely. 

Moving with him meant silly quarrels ending with stomping, huffing, and pouty cheeks. Argues over things that didn’t matter just to earn a firm hug, as he wobbled you right and left in his hold, to shake away the anger and turn it into giggles — his secret way of diffusing any conflict you both might drift into. 

Moving with him included sharing chaste kisses in the kitchen, deep dives underwater, where the currents mingle, and the fish steal kisses to your fingertips. It was trying to fit in one hoodie on movie nights; tangled bodies after a surprise nap; tickle attacks before going out; the quiet sleepless nights, and the nights stained in tears. 

Patrick used words you’d never heard him say before—something about seeing you and feeling like he was looking into a mirror.

It broke you from the inside—in a good way, if that’s even possible. It freed you. It stripped away all the doubts you’d had since the first time you met him at the Yale Club in ’82. He was always eye-catching. Girls turned their heads when he walked by—and not just girls.

That didn’t justify his arrogance, but... damn. That bastard was a narcissist for a reason.

A 6-foot reason with a sculpted body, perfect brown locks, and a huge, veiny cock hidden beneath those tailored pants.

Your husband definitely had a few trump cards.

Even after nearly six months of marriage, the honeymoon still wasn’t over. Patrick had finally taken you to Paris, where you were staying in an upscale hotel facing the Eiffel Tower. Every morning, you woke up to the scent of freshly baked croissants and coffee. Patrick had learned early on how much you loved breakfast in bed—and on this trip, it became a ritual.

But today, you woke before him.

The rain was falling softly outside, and though it was barely 5 a.m., you couldn’t sleep. You were still a bit disoriented from the time difference, but this feeling was something else—something deeper. Not sadness. Not anxiety. Just... untethered.

As if your brain was still trying to process the fact that you were married.

You remembered the night he told you he’d marry you one day—during a date that honestly hadn’t gone well. A few months later, your mother arranged a dinner with Mrs. Bateman, and of course she brought her eldest son. That night?

You ended up in his bed.

How the hell did that happen?

Now he was lying on his back, snoring softly, one hand tucked behind his head. His toned chest rose and fell steadily. His hair was a little messy but still perfect. And right below his Adam’s apple, you could see the hickey you’d left the night before, centered neatly over his mole. He hadn’t noticed it yet—but he definitely would, and you knew he’d hate having to cover it up. He always wanted to look pristine.

The rain lashed gently against the window in waves. You stood there, watching the water trail down the glass like it was the first time you’d really stopped to admire the world.

All your life, you’d chased what your family told you was right. But this marriage—this—felt like the only thing you could truly call your own. The one good decision in a sea of choices made for you.

“Darling?”

Patrick’s hoarse voice came from behind. The creak of the mattress followed, coaxing you to glance back. He yawned and stretched, the white blanket sliding over his body. Neither of you acknowledged the tented fabric over his groin. Morning wood was nothing new.

“Considering you woke up before me,” he said, rolling onto his side to face you, “you’re spiraling again.”

“How observant,” you muttered, arms crossed.

You expected him to leave it alone—sensing your mood—but instead he just smirked, eyes drifting down to your bare legs as you shifted your weight from foot to foot. Even in your worst moods, he still looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing in the world.

“What’s the matter?” he asked, still watching you.

He always asked that—every time you weren’t sparkling like one of his Rolexes just from breathing the same air.

“I don’t know. I think I’m just—”

“Overthinking again?”

“No! Let me talk.” You turned around sharply. “I don’t think we can keep pretending this sham of a marriage is real.”

“Are you pretending?”

His voice dropped an octave—calm, dark, dangerous. The kind of voice that always made your heart stutter.

You’d expected the question. You wanted it.

Slowly, you walked back to the bed and sat on the edge. He reached out almost instantly, his fingers gliding down your arm like a feather.

“I bet you want me to say yes,” you murmured. “Would that make it easier?”

Patrick propped himself up on one elbow, wrapping an arm around your waist. When you didn’t pull away, he leaned in and kissed the curve of your neck. Warm breath, soft lips, goosebumps. He always knew your weak spots.

“If I told you I wasn’t pretending—that I never pretended—would that make it easier for you?”

The question stuck in your brain like wire wrapping around your thoughts. Did he mean it? That all the flowers, the gifts, the lustful nights where he let you use him however you wanted—those tearful mornings when you told him how much you loved him and it hurt—had it all been real?

Genuine?

Not performance?

Patrick felt the emotion rising in you before you could say a word. He pulled you into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe, for him, it was.

You leaned into his touch until your foreheads met. You kissed him softly—no tongue, no teeth—just pure, unfiltered affection. The kind of thing people called “love” when they weren’t afraid of saying it.

“I guess,” you whispered against his lips.

“Let it be, then.”

He leaned over, grabbed a small bottle of mouth spray from the bedside table, spritzed once, and turned back to kiss you again. You rolled your eyes, giggling—until his mouth was on yours again, and this time, the kiss wasn’t innocent.

He yanked you into his lap with practiced ease, and you straddled him. His hands were strong at your waist. He kissed you deeply, breath warm and wanting. The bulge in his briefs throbbed beneath your slick heat.

You gasped, arching into him. His mouth moved to your neck, and you whimpered when his hands slid down to cup your ass—firm, possessive, claiming. Your sexy black panties were the only barrier now, and they were already damp, clinging to you.

“You’re getting needy faster and faster these days,” he murmured, biting your shoulder gently before licking it. “Aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You rolled your hips—again, and again—and he groaned, sliding a hand between your bodies to free his painfully hard cock. You tugged your panties aside. He lifted you slightly, smearing your slick over the head of his cock. The friction alone made you moan.

“Patrick—”

He grinned, pressing kisses to your cheek, teasing your clit with slow, torturous circles of his thick tip. Just when you thought he’d finally enter you—

He stopped.

“Say my name again,” he whispered, sucking softly at your jaw. “Louder.”

Your eyes fluttered shut, embarrassment and desperation crashing together inside you.

“Mmm... Patrick... please. I want you inside.”

He growled—low and possessive—like he’d been waiting forever for you to say it.

“I love how you sound when you stop holding back,” he murmured. “I love when you let yourself be you. I love you.”

You whimpered—from his words, and from the moment he sheathed himself inside you in one smooth thrust.

Wet, obscene sounds filled the room as you moved—less bouncing, more grinding. And he loved every second. His hands on your waist. Legs crossed beneath you in a tight lotus. Guiding you.

By the time you were both completely fucked out, the sun was rising over Paris. You didn’t want to ask that question ever again—not about pretending, not about whether your marriage was real.

You just wanted to stay in this man’s arms—your husband. The one whose chest you lay on now, whose heartbeat ticked in your ear like a clock, whose warm breath had finally slowed in sleep.

You followed him there, free of fear and spiraling thoughts.

Because you loved him harder than anything in this world.

Even more than the most brutal force could compare.

He’d have to find out the fun way.

Patrick usually came home around 9 p.m. on weekdays, so by the time the lock clicked open, you were already sitting in the hallway wearing that sinful cat costume—one that didn’t hide anything, somehow managing to reveal even more than being naked. You had even considered getting on all fours so the first thing he’d see was your ass in the air.

But then you heard another voice.

A voice that did not belong to your boyfriend.

Jesus Christ.

You tried to retreat just as the door swung open, and now two pairs of eyes were staring at you like you were some kind of hallucination. Patrick went furious immediately, while the other guy—some faceless yuppie in a suit—actually whistled, not even bothering to hide the way he devoured you with his eyes. Patrick’s expression darkened so fast you were genuinely worried someone would die tonight.

At least you managed to cover yourself a little.

“What the—” Patrick choked on his own saliva, nostrils flaring. “—actual fuck are you doing here?”

You looked away, guilty. “I thought you’d be alone… like always. I just wanted to make you happy—”

“Go to the bedroom. Now.”

He barked it like an order, and as you backed away, both men froze the moment they spotted the tail. The other guy let out another low whistle and muttered:

“Wow, Bateman… she’s a hot number.”

“Shut up.”

They bickered briefly before heading into the living room, where Patrick of course blasted his stereo like a Talking Heads tape could diffuse the situation. You sat behind the closed bedroom door for what felt like a century before the asshole who’d ruined everything finally left.

Then came Patrick’s voice—sharp, low, commanding:

“Get over here, slut.”

For a moment you considered staying put, letting him stew until he stormed in and ripped the costume off with his bare hands, fucking you senseless like he always did when you managed to fry his nerves. But tonight… that might actually be dangerous.

Slowly, you slid open the white bedroom doors. Patrick was standing behind the couch, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, navy silk tie hanging loose around his neck.

“Patrick, I—”

“No.” He cut you off immediately, raising a finger while holding a glass of amber liquid in the same hand. “You don’t get to talk right now.”

What an asshole—talking like you had planned the whole catastrophe.

“I didn’t know you had company, okay?”

Patrick swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, eyes dragging over your costume again—this time slower, more focused, more undeniably hungry. He stepped toward you, one hand in his pocket, and hissed:

“Turn around.”

You obeyed.

Something between a groan and a laugh slipped through his perfect teeth. “A tail? A fucking tail? How does it even—”

He didn’t finish the sentence, but you knew exactly what he meant:

How the hell is that thing even in you?

A thick silence settled between you. Then he reached for the tail and tugged—lightly, but still too sudden. You hissed like an actual cat.

“Oh, easy, easy, kitty,” he murmured—not angry anymore but dangerously aroused. “This tail makes you look really dumb… but fucking obscene at the same time. Want me to bring you a bowl of milk? Or—” he leaned in, dragging a wet line along your neck, “—would you rather be fed another way?”

Oh shit.

His voice was gross, unhinged, sinful—and your entire body trembled as heat coiled deep inside you.

“A bowl? Seriously?” Your voice wavered as he kissed your throat, messy and wet.

“If we’re indulging in your little pet-play fantasy, I want to do it properly,” he muttered into your ear, rutting his hips against your ass so you could feel just how painfully hard he was. “I have that porcelain bowl from Christofle, imported from France…” His hand slid up your side and pinched your nipple. “I never let you touch it. But today… I might reconsider.”

His fingers twisted your nipple—slow at first, then faster, tugging until a shiver ran down your spine. You leaned back into him without thinking. Patrick groaned against your hair, cock straining against his expensive trousers, balls aching with how full they were—full of the cum he wanted to feed you.

You didn’t protest when your crazy boyfriend actually walked to the kitchen to get the damn bowl. Part of you expected him not to—that he’d just lose control and fuck you right there. But no.

Patrick returned with that exact bowl you always wanted to eat ice cream out of. You blinked in disbelief as he beckoned you forward with one elegant finger, standing beside the floor‑to‑ceiling window. Your legs moved before your brain caught up, like he had cast a spell.

Maybe he was a wizard—because never in your life had you imagined kneeling like this, plugged and tailed, awaiting command.

“Such a good little kitten,” he murmured, towering over you. “When she behaves.”

You were about to tell him to fuck off—but then he pushed a finger into your mouth.

Patrick added another finger too fast, forcing you to swallow a gasp. He pushed them deep, not rhythmic, nails grazing too hard, ignoring your muffled whimpers. His other hand cupped the bulge in his pants as he watched you suck his fingers. When you whimpered, his cock jerked in his grip, a low groan vibrating through his chest.

For God’s sake—he looked perfect when he lost control. The way he wanted you fed your ego in sinful, delicious ways. Tears pricked your eyes from the gag reflex, but you kept going just to hear that sound again—and again. You ignored the stretch of the plug inside you. You should have replaced it before this… too late now.

Patrick undid his pants with a single smooth motion. You hadn’t even realized his cock was free until it nearly slapped your cheek. He pulled his fingers from your mouth and dragged the head of his cock along your slick lips. You gasped as he traced your face with his length, guiding the tip to your mouth.

Your lips parted.

He pushed inside with a wet, obscene pop.

“Oh, fuck,” he cursed, tipping his head back as one hand landed on top of your head, fingers toying with the silly fluffy ears you were wearing.

He was already leaking—his pre‑cum salty on the tip of your tongue—but you wanted more. You bobbed your head once, pushing him deeper, and without using your hands, you milked him with your mouth until more spilled down your throat. Patrick let out a guttural sound, one hand frantically unbuttoning his dress shirt, the other almost grabbing your fluffy ears.

“Don’t hit the bowl,” he warned suddenly, gesturing to the small porcelain bowl sitting beside you on the floor. “It costs as much as a fucking airplane wing.”

Aha.

You totally believed him—definitely.

All his bullshit about fine porcelain and how rare it was to find certain pieces in the U.S. faded into background noise as you went back to sucking his cock with zero restraint. He was big enough that you gagged every time he pushed too deep, your eyes burning with tears, makeup already smudged—and he loved you like that. And the plug… every time he ground against your face, your whole body shifted, making the plug brush against your inner walls like a buzzing little bud.

“Mhmm,” you mewled around his length, eyes closed, hands braced on his hips in a flimsy attempt at control.

You knew he’d eventually remove your hands, tell you not to touch him, just take his cock like a whore, a slut—whatever filthiest word came to mind as he watched you drown in him. Suddenly, Patrick leaned over you and grabbed your ass, forcing his cock almost balls‑deep into your mouth. You gurgled and tried to breathe through your nose as his hand slid down your curves and then—

Slap.

He flat‑out slapped your ass, holding your head against him, cock buried deep. You thought you’d choke, but he did it again. And again. Until you whimpered around his pulsing length. The worst thing would be if he came right now—you’d definitely choke, because he always came like a fucking waterfall.

“What a greedy mouth,” he whispered mostly to himself. “Always knows how to treat me right.”

One second. Two—

And he finally let you go.

You fell back onto your ass, the plug slipping deeper but you didn’t care—you were gasping for air, lips swollen, face streaked with tears, sweat, running mascara, smudged lipstick, drool and pre‑cum dripping down your chin.

“You’re… a freak…” you wheezed, nearly knocking the bowl over with your hand. “I almost choked—”

“Well, it happens,” he practically bragged, stroking his cock at the base while admiring the wreck he’d made of you. “Kitty wanted to play. I’m just doing my part.”

Hell.

He really wasn’t going to give you a break.

With a devilish smirk, he picked up the bowl and… milked himself into it. Long, deliberate strokes until several thick spurts spilled inside. Then he set the bowl down and pointed at it.

“I want you to clean it with your mouth,” he rasped, shoving his pants lower. “On your knees.”

Wiping your mouth felt pointless, but you did it anyway before placing yourself on all fours—and Patrick didn’t waste a second. His hand wrapped around the back of your neck, yanking you backward into him. He crouched down behind you with shocking ease, moving so quietly it was like his whole body weighed nothing.

You tried to sway your hips, push him off, but his grip was iron-tight.

The bowl caught the dim light, and you could see your own reflection as you bent lower, sticking out your tongue… then lapping from the porcelain, eating his cum like it was your last meal. Patrick was so fucking close behind you that the scene alone awakened something violent and hungry in him—something he didn’t even know he had, although he had a lot.

With one practiced motion, he lined himself up with your wet entrance and pushed in—just the tip at first. The fat, swollen head sent a million tingles shooting straight into your core. The stretch was obscene, almost too much, but he didn’t stop—not even when you nearly knocked the bowl over with your nose as he bottomed out completely. He moaned so loudly your ears rang.

The fullness. The filth. The animalistic depravity of all of this turned your whole body into a trembling bowstring. You knew it would only take a few deep thrusts before you—

His fingers suddenly found your clit.

Instantly.

As if he were reading your mind and knew exactly how close you were.

“You’re cumming first, kitten,” he gritted out between clenched teeth.

The plug made everything more intense—for both of you. He was seconds from losing it but refused to finish before you did. His fingers quickened, not sloppy or desperate, but calculated—purposeful—determined to get what he wanted.

“Oh—my—God—” you choked out into the bowl, clutching it like it could anchor you. “I—I can’t—ahhh—fuck—Patrick—mhmm—”

Wet sounds of his cock slamming into your overstimulated cunt filled the room, punctuated by the slap of your bodies and your ragged gulps for breath as you tried not to gag on the scent of his cum filling your sinuses, making your head float like you were high.

Then the bastard rolled his hips—deep, brutal backshots that rewired your brain entirely—and he never stopped working your clit. Your whole body collapsed into pure sensation, every nerve electrified. You screamed though you barely heard it.

Patrick paused only because your pussy clenched so hard around him he nearly collapsed. You were sucking the life out of him, milking him with desperate, hungry cramps. He groaned, biting his lip so hard it almost bled, as the pleasure surged up his spine and exploded everywhere.

His warmth flooded you, overflowing instantly, dripping down your thighs in thick streams.

So now you were covered in his cum—inside and out.

…and at least you didn’t break the fucking bowl.

He grew obsessed, convinced he wasn’t good enough. It became an unhealthy little challenge he silently took on—trying to prove himself against an invisible rival that didn’t even exist. Because the truth was: there was no one else in your head but him.

Still, Patrick acted like he had something to prove. As if there were some phantom threat waiting to steal you away. And yes—he was that paranoid. Bordering on absurd.

Some might call it pathetic, but he didn’t care. Not if all his efforts helped him keep you close. And meanwhile, you had no idea any of this was happening inside his head.

Every time you met, he insisted on reservations at the best restaurants—especially Dorsia, even though you found it ridiculously overrated. He insisted anyway, determined to dine there so he could brag about it the next day. Secretly, he imagined that mystery man—the one whose name you murmured—dying of envy.

The gifts became more frequent. More expensive. Almost unhinged. You eventually had to ask him to stop—not because you didn’t like them, but because it was too much. Too intense. Bordering on intimidating.

It almost felt like he was trying to buy you—or apologize for something he hadn’t admitted to.

Patrick had changed.

And it worried you. A lot.

The man you were once attracted to was now desperately trying to become a “better” version of himself. For no reason. You hadn’t complained—well, maybe you teased him about his ego, his narcissism, or him being a bit of a jerk sometimes. But it was tolerable.

Manageable.

Until now.

Now, his affection felt suffocating. Like a noose tightening around your neck. And the more distance you tried to create, the more terrified he became—convinced you were slipping away because you had someone else.

You knew it couldn’t go on.

You had to say something.

...

During one of those overly fancy dinners, you pushed your plate aside—yet another overpriced delicacy you didn’t even want—and took Patrick’s hand.

He immediately choked on his drink.

“Patrick,” you said firmly, “what the hell is going on with you? You’re scaring me.”

He couldn’t meet your eyes—whether from guilt, shame, or something else, you weren’t sure. The silence dragged. Your stomach sank.

“Patrick?”

“Who is it?” he whispered. “Who’s the person you keep dreaming about?”

The question knocked the breath right out of you.

You stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“You said their name. Twice. In one night.” His voice cracked—offended, bruised, almost furious.

God. You couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“So let me get this straight,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re accusing me of cheating—because I said someone’s name in my sleep?”

He fidgeted with the collar of his shirt, tugging at it like it was choking him. “I just want to know who they are, and…” he hesitated, lips tightening, forehead damp with sweat. “Why you didn’t just tell me that… you have someone else.”

Now you were really pissed.

“Because I don’t have anyone else, you idiot!” you hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep your voice low enough so the nearby tables wouldn’t hear.

Patrick rolled his eyes—clearly not convinced. It made your blood boil.

You squeezed his hand tighter, until his fingers turned white. He didn’t flinch.

“How could I possibly have someone else,” you growled, “when I’m already dealing with a crybaby bullshit of a relationship like this one?”

“Crybaby?” he repeated, wounded.

He pulled his hand from yours—finally a real reaction.

“I can’t even remember my dreams,” you snapped, “and now you’re trying to guilt me over something I can’t control?”

You leaned in, your voice sharper than ever. “I swear, I’m really close to being done with this.”

He panicked.

As you started to rise, he grabbed your hand.

“All right, all right—I’m a fool. I’m an idiot—call me whatever you want,” he babbled, practically swallowing his words. “It’s just… you—”

He choked on his own breath, bringing a fist to his mouth like he was about to bite it.

“You don’t even realize what you do to me,” he said hoarsely. “And I guess I’m just… terrified of losing you. That’s all.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

Why were you even dealing with this?

Irritated but not furious, you sighed and let him stroke your wrist. When he saw that you weren’t pulling away, he brought your palm to his lips and kissed each of your fingers, one by one.

You smiled faintly, but your expression stayed tight and serious.

“Next time I say something in my sleep,” you murmured, surprisingly pleased by the way he was worshipping you now, “just bring it up in the morning, okay? Maybe I’ll actually remember the dream.”

His brow furrowed slightly, still listening.

“It could’ve been some random person who pissed me off that day,” you continued. “That’s how the brain works—it fixates. It doesn’t always mean anything.”

He nodded like a chastised psychology student, silent, completely attentive.

“…Or,” you added with a slow smirk, “you could just do a better job at night—so I’m too exhausted to say anything at all.”

Patrick blinked.

Then he leaned down, brushing his lips against your wrist where that shiny new bracelet glinted under the light. “How about that, hmm?”

You scoffed—but you chuckled too.

Because somehow, this man managed to turn everything into a fucking competition…

Even when there were no other players.

Just him—and his messed-up, beautiful mind.

Never in your life have you seen anyone cum as much as Patrick does in one go—and he’s even proud of it. In that unhinged way only he can be. You don’t care how fucked in the head your husband is, as long as he keeps making those sounds—raw, unfiltered, obscene to the point of voice-breaking.

Especially when you get on top of his face, sitting backwards so you can finger his ass and stroke his cock at the same time. You only found out recently how much he loves that kind of shit—thanks to how loud he gets when you do it all at once: your fingers slipping inside him, stretching him out, giving him the best kind of stimulation, while you grind your ass against his face, dragging over his nose just to get more friction.

Patrick moans, groans—almost whimpers—but his tongue’s still out, waiting for you to use him.

“Ahhh—fuck—babe,” he growls against your skin, face flushed, chin glistening with spit—he’s actually drooling. “I’m gonna cum—”

Again.

You pump him harder, twisting your grip just right—tight, full strokes starting at the base and flicking just under the tip, where he’s so sensitive.

“Ohhh, fuck.”

His back arches off the mattress, your hips pressing back into his face, two fingers knuckle-deep inside him. He’s absolutely over the moon, your mouth already open wide for the spurts you know are coming.

“Gimme that,” you urge, tongue dragging across his red, leaking tip. “God, your ass swallows my fingers like a bitch in heat.”

Patrick jolts.

Yeah. That’s it.

You know all his weak spots—every single one.

When you talk to him like that, when you’ve got his ass spread wide and clenching around your knuckles so tight it aches—that’s when it’s easy to make this man fall apart from the inside out. His cum is salty and sweet, thick and creamy on your tongue as you milk him dry, listening to his groans, curses, and desperate little cries because he’s so overstimulated he can’t take it—but he still wants more.

He always wants more.

His face is already a wreck, and you haven’t even ridden it properly yet.

God, if he only knew what kind of power this dirty little secret gives you.

Your loud wail cuts him off. His jaw clenches so hard it looks like he’s about to bite through his bottom lip.

“Where did you even get this?”

“You... brought it home after that trip to the video store,” you mumble through a gurgled sob, reaching out to wrap both arms around his waist.

Patrick feels something bordering on homicidal stir in his chest—but he doesn’t shake you off. He just scoffs and rolls his eyes like it physically pains him.

“I asked that dickweed behind the counter for something romantic, because you said you like romance—”

“I do! And it was romantic! It was so romantic that—”

“—That you ended up a fucking sobbing mess, and now you’re staining my suit!”

If he thought that would make you let go, he was wrong.

Your arms tighten around him, and you nuzzle against his perfectly flat stomach, leaving wet marks on his immaculately pressed designer suit.

“We should watch it together,” you whisper, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then you tilt your glassy eyes up at him.

“You’re kidding, right?” He crosses his arms, scowling down at you. “I’m returning that video tape tomorrow. I should shove it into that faggy—”

“Oh, shut up already! I don’t say shit about your porn tapes, so stop whining.”

Now he’s really furious. But instead of throwing you out or launching into another rant, he brushes your hands away, stalks over to the TV, and switches it off with the remote. Then, with practiced grace, he pulls a pristine handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs your tear-stained cheeks.

“Okay, let’s pretend we never had that conversation about—”

“Porn?”

You bat your lashes, sly and teasing, and you know you’ve hit the nerve. The nerve. The one he doesn’t let anyone find.

You can see right through him—and he likes that you’re still here.

His brows knit as he presses a thumb to your lips, catching a tiny tear. You kiss it without hesitation.

“We’ll watch it,” he mutters, almost against his will. “But don’t make me sing that stupid song at the end.”

You freeze. “How do you know about the song? Did you watch the movie already?”

He immediately averts his eyes—and before you can call him out, he grabs you by the back of the head and kisses you. Hard. Deep. Like it’s nothing.

“No,” he says flatly, pulling away. “I just stood in the hallway and listened to your stupid-ass singing.”

You beam like a star. “If you survived that, you can survive watching some cartoons with me too.”

His eye twitches.

“Classic old Disney cartoons are amazing. Don’t pretend you never watched them,” you tease, poking his side.

A blush creeps up his cheeks as a forbidden memory flashes through his mind—how he once cried over Bambi.

“I’ve never watched any of them,” he mutters, deadpan.

But the way he bolts toward the kitchen at the speed of light?

Yeah. That says everything.

And you...

You file that reaction away like a treasure. Patrick is your favorite puzzle, and every piece you uncover feels like gold. This little blush… you’ll be thinking about it for days.

Every time he goes down on you, Patrick does it with pure abandon—and filthy reverence. Depraved, obsessed reverence, in the way he slurps at your pussy, his teeth grazing your plump lower lips, tongue sweeping over your swollen clit. You moan, and he sucks harder. Your legs kick, your fingers claw at his scalp—he grabs your wrists, shoves them away, and threatens to duct-tape them down.

“Shit—it hurts!” you whine, toes curling. “Slow—slow the fuck down—mmm—”

Of course, instead of slowing down, he slaps your thigh. Then your cunt. The back of his palm is slick with your wetness—just like his chiseled face. He doesn’t care. He feels proud, so fucking superior, with your cum dripping from his chin, down his neck, pooling on his chest. His skin flushed red, nostrils flaring with heat.

“C’mon, I know you can give me another one,” he growls, voice rough and muffled against your pubic bone. “I love fucking you like this… you’re so tight after I’ve made you cum over and over.”

His mouth’s back on your clit the second he’s done praising himself. You fist the bedsheets, your skin burning from how long you’ve been edged like this.

“God—you’re so arrogant!”

Patrick smiles into your warmth, burying his tongue inside you for the who-knows-what time in the last hour.

“I have no reason not to be, darling.”

It pisses you off.

You can deal with the narcissism. But his cockiness? That’s another story. It drives you absolutely insane—every fucking time. Sure, he can drag one orgasm after another from you like it’s nothing… but that doesn’t mean he’s as special as he thinks he is.

Or maybe it does.

Oblivious to your inner war, Patrick keeps his mouth busy. Whatever you're thinking, he doesn’t care—he just keeps eating. Always hungry, even after you’ve soaked the sheets and left a dark, sticky pool beneath your ass. The only time he pauses is to say more self-absorbed shit like:

“You look like you're about to cry,”

Then: “Don’t do it until I turn the camera on.”

“No shit!”

You bark, trying to kick him—but he catches your legs easily and spreads them even wider, lifting until your knees press to your chest and your slit is presented like a silver-plated dish, tied up with a fucking ribbon.

Patrick spits on your pussy like there's not enough slick, pinching your clit and unfolding your overstimulated hole until a raw, broken sound claws out of your throat.

“Pat—no—not the fingers—no—”

He shoves his thumb into your mouth, deep enough to make you gag. And his fingers—fuck, those fingers—strong, skillful, sliding inside like he can see exactly where to touch, where to push, how to wreck you. He lets out a low groan, lips sealing around your painfully swollen clit, sucking you deep into his hot, greedy mouth while his Rolex slaps against your soaked skin.

“Yeah... choke on my finger like that,” he mutters, watching you from under his messy bangs between feverish licks.

And then—too soon—his tongue switches to tight, vicious circles, and your body betrays you. You’re gone again. You want to break free, to stop this endless torment, but it’s useless.

You’re shattering. Again.

Your walls clamp around his fingers, locking them in place, refusing to let go.

You stop counting orgasms. There’s no point.

Not when you’re married to the biggest sex predator the world’s ever seen.