Princess

The lecture hall door swings open with a thud against the rubber stopper, and you sail through it like you're making an entrance on a reality tv show. Your hip does most of the heavy lifting because your hands are full. One clutches an iced latte the color of a sunset, while the other holds your phone, which you're actively ignoring because the group chat has been blowing up since six this morning, and you know those whores have nothing serious to talk about.

Everyone looks up. They always do. You've accepted it as a natural law by now, like gravity or the fact that the dining hall will always be out of the good yogurt by the time you get there.

When you walk into a room, people notice. You're the girl with the glossed lips, cropped tops, and skirts that toe the lines of the campus dress code so dangerously it might as well be a tightrope act. Some people call you a ditz. Others, more creatively, call you a bimbo. You, however, prefer to call yourself efficient. Because really, why waste precious mental real estate pretending to care about things you don't? Your brain is a finite resource, and you've chosen to allocate it to the things that matter: your social standing, aesthetic, and the ability to read a room and make everyone in it do what you want. Everything else is background noise.

You slide into your usual seat, third row from the back, by the window, where the light hits your face just right, and you can watch the squirrels wage their endless war against the campus landscaping. Your designer tote hits the desk with a clatter that could wake the dead, and a few heads swivel in your direction. You don't bother to look up, finding your phone more interesting. Besides, you know exactly what they're seeing: a girl who looks like she stepped out of a magazine spread, completely unbothered by the weight of academic responsibility. BIO202 may very well be the bane of your existence. A serious thorn in your otherwise perfectly manicured side. You've already taken this class twice.

Twice.

And failed both times, not because you couldn't understand the material, but because you couldn't be bothered to show up for the exams or the labs. Or, you know, any of the classes after the first week. But third time's the charm, right? That's what your academic advisor said, anyway, with that strained smile people get when they're trying to be supportive but are also deeply concerned about your life choices.

Professor Wallace shuffles in like a man who has given up on life but still has bills to pay. His tie is crooked, his hair looks like it lost a fight with a pillow, and he's muttering something about traffic and his existential crisis of running out of coffee on a Monday morning. The room falls into a hush, the kind of collective silence that says everyone has agreed, without consulting each other, that this is a don't-make-eye-contact kind of morning.

He fumbles with his briefcase, drops a stack of papers, picks them up, drops them again, and finally gives up, leaving them in a chaotic pile on his desk. For a long moment, he just stares at the mess, like he's waiting for it to organize itself out of sheer pity. When it doesn't, he sighs, adjusts his glasses, and clears his throat.

"Good morning, everyone," Wallace drones out. His voice serves as the auditory equivalent of a wet blanket. He does a headcount, eyes scanning the room with the enthusiasm of someone counting inventory at a warehouse. "Before we begin today's lesson, I have an announcement."

You sigh, loud enough for the guy next to you to glance over. You pop the lid off your fruity little drink and take a long sip, just to have something to do with your hands. Announcements are never good. They always mean extra work, stricter rules, or some new policy designed to make your already tedious life even more complicated. You brace yourself for the worst.

"As you all know," Wallace continues, and you can already feel your stomach churning, "the final project makes up a big chunk of your overall grade for this course."

Here it comes; the hammer is about to fall.

"To, uh, encourage collaborative thinking and foster a sense of ‘academic community’... as the dean puts it, I've assigned each of you a permanent partner for the remainder of the semester."

A wave of groans ripples through the room, a chorus of shared misery that sounds like a gospel choir of the damned. You roll your eyes so hard you see stars. The plan for this class (and, let's be honest, your entire academic career) was simple. Apply minimal effort, show up, look good, make a few snide comments, and leave. Now, thanks to Professor Wallace's misguided attempt at team-building, you're going to have to remember some random loser's name for the next three weeks. Tragic. Absolutely tragic.

The disordered professor adjusts his glasses, squinting at a piece of paper that looks like it's been through a war. "I'll call your names. Find your partner and get acquainted. You have the rest of the class to start planning."

You make a face, already drafting a detailed complaint in your head. You're going to be stuck with some eager beaver who wants to meet every day at the library, or worse, someone who doesn't shower and has strong opinions about the correct way to cite sources.

A nightmare scenario is unfolding in real time, and there's nothing you can do to stop it. Wallace starts rattling off names, pairing people up with the efficiency of a computer algorithm designed by someone who hates fun. You watch as your classmates shuffle around, finding their new partners with varying degrees of enthusiasm. Some look relieved. Others look like they've just been sentenced to community service.

"L/n and..." Wallace pauses, squinting at his paper. "Jackson."

What?

You turn slowly, like a possessed doll, scanning the room until your eyes land on him.

Jermajesty Jackson.

The universe has a sense of humor; you're sure of it. A sick, twisted, heartless sense of humor. There's no other explanation for why you, the queen of the social jungle, have been paired with the dweeb at the bottom of the food chain. The loser that wears the ratty graphic tees, has glasses that never stay on his face, and a backpack that looks like it’s been to hell and back. ​Your eyes meet, and he looks just as horrified as you feel. ​A scoff leaves your lips as you slouch in your seat. ​

"Him? Seriously?" you lament, already feeling the five stages of grief creeping in.

​The young man flinches, just a little. He wasn't expecting you to be so openly disgusted. His gaze drops to his notebook, fingers curling around his pen.

​Wallace wears a flat expression, “If you don’t like it, I’d be happy to fail you…a third time Ms. L/n.” ​

Touche.

Jermajesty takes his place in the now empty seat next to you. He doesn’t speak, though, knowing better than to try and engage with someone as popular (and disgruntled) as you. Instead, he starts observing. ​

You’re gorgeous, a blind man could see that much. You’re also very put together, from the top of your head to the tips of your toes. The guys here want you, and the girls want to be you. You’re also mean as fuck. But the thing about you that brings Jermajesty the most comfort is the fact that you might actually be the dumbest person he’s ever met. ​

Not that it was ever often, but when you did participate in class, it wasn’t hard to tell that glitter gloss and mini-skirts reigned supreme in your head. He isn’t all that thrilled to be partnered with you either. In fact, he finds you obnoxious and can’t really see what everyone else does. But your disinterest means you won’t get in the way later on, so he can deal with the circumstance…for now.​

When the bell finally rings, you're out of your seat before the sound fully fades, already searching the growing crowd for your friends. You find them, Mia, Dai, and Tania, waiting a few feet from the door. A cluster of perfectly styled hair, designer clothes, manicured nails. They’re probably talking about this weekend’s party, or about how Serena’s leave-out really was left out. ​

"Hey!" you call, approaching rapidly, and they turn, faces lighting up. ​

"Y/n! Oh my god, I need to tell you—" Dai starts, but you cut her off.

​ "You won’t believe what just happened," you say, waving your hand to cut her story short. "So, I got paired with someone for a project in bio, right?"

​They all lean in, listening intently. They too know the pain of random academic partnership.

“Bitch…who’d you get?" Mia asks. ​

You say his name like it's a disease, one that will most certainly kill you within forty-eight hours. ​

There’s a beat of silence, then Mia blinks. "Wait…Jermajesty? The one with the extra fine brother?" ​

"Yeah," you say, actively deflating. "That’s the one." ​

They all turn, like synchronized swimmers, to see Jermajesty exiting the room. He hasn't noticed yet, waiting for the hall to clear, completely unaware that he's become the center of attention. ​

"Oh my god," Dai whispers, half‑laughing. "Girl he looks a mess!" ​

"Bitch! Look at the pokemon cards in his bag," Mia chimes in, giggling while pointing. A small crowd begins to form as they poke a little more.

Tania, the loudest of the group, tilts her head and says, loud enough to carry, "What a fuckin’ dork!" ​

The crowd starts to laugh, and you do too. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? That’s the script. You’re the queen, and this is your court. If the school were a monarchy, your face would be on the dollar. Then you go to crack your own joke, but when you look back, Jermajesty’s frozen.

His shoulders are tense, and his hands are trembling. For a second, he just sits there, like he's trying to decide if he actually heard what he thinks he heard. Then he looks up. His eyes meet yours for a split second, and all you see is hurt. Pure embarrassment and humiliation fill his face as he pretends Tania’s words don’t sting.

He breaks away from your gaze and looks around quickly, searching for an out. ​Something in your chest twists violently. It’s a feeling you’d normally write off. But it’s suspiciously close to empathy. ​How annoying.

You don't do…guilt.

You say what you want, when you want, and if people can't handle it, that's their problem. But this…this is just sad. It might have something to do with how he looked at you, like he expected you to be on his side, when you weren't. Whatever it is chips away at your resolve.

You suck in a dramatic breath through your nose. What you’re about to do might qualify as social suicide, but the barely-used, dust-covered better part of you (which lives somewhere near your conscience and your love of limited edition lip gloss) can’t let him sit there looking like a kicked puppy. Especially since his only crime is existing. ​

"Hush," you snap at your friends, and before they can ask what’s up, you're walking back toward the classroom, heels clicking loudly against the tile. ​Jermajesty is trying to steady himself and is about halfway through reciting the elements of the periodic table when you stop in front of him. He startles, like he wasn't expecting you to come anywhere near him. ​

"Hey," you say, voice casual, like you didn't just let your friends humiliate him thirty seconds ago. ​

"Please leave me alone," he all but begs, voice meek.

​You flinch at the way he speaks. How the hell do you even fix this? Never have you attempted to console someone before. Without much more thought, you whip out your phone, unlock it, and thrust it at him. "Give me your number."

He blinks. "What?"

​"Your number," you repeat, rolling your eyes like he's being difficult on purpose. "So I can text you about our project. Duh." ​

He stares at you for a second, then at your phone, then back at you. "Oh. Um. Okay." ​

The crowd that rallied to watch you tear the boy apart begins to disband once they realize that you aren’t being hostile. The boy in front of you visibly relaxes as the onlookers keep moving. He hesitates for a moment, then takes your phone with careful fingers, like he's afraid he'll break it, and types in his contact info. When he hands it back, you glance at the screen. ​

Jermajesty J. ​

Cute.

You snatch the phone back and tuck it into your purse, then lean in a little closer, dropping your voice so only he can hear. ​"Attention’s off you now. You're welcome," you murmur, tilting your head slightly before finishing. "Oh, and do. not. text me." ​

His eyes widen just a bit, realizing you only handed over your life source to save his skin. "I… okay?"

​"Good." You give him one last look, half‑annoyed, half‑something else you don't want to name, then turn and walk back to your friends. ​They're all watching you with confusion written across their faces clear as day. ​

"What was that?" Dai asks as you rejoin the group. ​

"Damage control," you quip, shrugging your shoulders. "He looked like he was going to die of embarrassment. If he fails, I fail. I can’t risk my grade over a joke."

​The girls hum in agreement, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. ​ You, on the other hand, can't stop thinking about something. The way he looked at you, like he expected better. It’s easy to tell yourself you don’t care, but you suppose it would’ve been easier to leave him alone in the first place.

​The rest of the day drags on like molasses. ​You skip your other classes, deciding that this morning was enough excitement for one day. You tell yourself you'll make Jermajesty do all the boring stuff and you'll just look pretty, sign your name, and call it a day. That was the plan anyway.

When you get back to the house, you drop your bag by the door and flop onto the couch. Notifications fly across your screen one by one. Classmates, friends, group chats. Then, finally:

​Hey, it's Jermajesty. From bio. Did you want to come over? ​

You roll your eyes, but type back anyway. ​

U didn’t need to tell me that. Alr saved ur number. Thought I told u not to txt me??

​Three little dots appear, disappear, appear again.

​Ok. Let’s hope third time’s a charm then.

You raise a perfectly arched brow at the words glaring back at you. Though audacious, that little shit does make a valid point. If you fail this class again, you’ll be suspended for a year. Still, there’s no way in hell you’d be caught dead walking into Jermajesty’s house. A sigh escapes through your nose as you formulate a response. ​

Wtv. Not coming over there. U can come to mine at 7. Use the back door. ​ [ y/n shared location for 1 hour]

You toss your phone onto the cushion beside you and stretch, trying to ignore the low hum of annoyance in your chest. This is going to be a disaster. You can already tell. ​

At 6:58, there's a quiet knock at the back entrance, just as instructed. ​You glance at it before standing slowly, then pad over in your socks, opening the door just wide enough to peek out. Jermajesty stands there, backpack clutched like it contains state secrets, looking ready for a cameo on ‘Nerd Makeover: Extreme Edition.’

He’s wearing a long-sleeved anime shirt, basketball shorts that scream ‘laundry day,’ and sneakers that are beat to shit. His hair is wild, he’s sweating bullets, and his glasses are so crooked you’d think they were part of a social experiment. The poor boy is petrified. ​

"Hey," Jermajesty squeaks.

​"Hey," you echo with the enthusiasm of a cat being asked to take a bath, stepping back to let him in. "Shoes off. And don’t touch anything."

​He blinks, then quickly bends to untie his laces, lining his shoes up neatly by the mat like he's afraid they'll offend you if they aren't perfectly straight. ​

"Living room," you sigh, gesturing up the hall. "We can work at the coffee table." ​

He nods while trailing behind you like a lost puppy. ​You plop back onto the couch, and he sits near you, carefully setting his backpack on the floor and unzipping it to reveal an organized mess of folders, notebooks, and pens. It may look chaotic, but he has a whole system.

​"Alright," you huff. "Let's get this over with. What do we have to do again?" ​

Jermajesty pulls out a notebook, flipping to a page that is, predictably, color-coded with the kind of enthusiasm only a future valedictorian would possess. "The endocrine system," he says, pushing his glasses up like a nervous scientist. "We have to identify the main parts, explain their functions, and how they work together to keep our hormones in check. Basically, why you don’t burst into tears during store sales." ​

You make a face. "I do burst into tears when there’s a sale. Anyway, that sounds like a lot of words." ​

"It's… not that bad," he says, tentatively. "I can draft most of it, if you want. You can, like, review it?" ​

You raise an eyebrow. "You're offering to do all the work?" ​

He shrugs, cheeks flushing a little. "I don't mind. I kind of… like this part." ​

"Of course you do," you murmur, but the usual bite is missing, like a sugar-free energy drink. You lean back, watching him open his laptop and start typing. You’d be more annoyed if he wasn’t so endearing in his nerdy panic. ​For a while, the only sound is the soft clack of keys and the occasional rustle of paper. You try to focus on the screen in front of you, but your attention keeps drifting. ​To him. ​

He's… different like this. Still quiet and careful, but there's something about the way he concentrates that catches your eye. His brows furrow slightly, lips pressing together as his fingers move quickly over the keyboard. Halfway through a sentence, Jermajesty pauses, reaches up, and takes off his glasses. He squeezes his eyes together in an effort to get rid of the fatigue in his eyes. ​

You blink. ​

Sweet Jesus. When he’s this relaxed, and without those frames, he could give most of the guys on campus a run for their money. His eyes are a warm brown, framed by lashes that are unfairly long for someone so awkward. The faint smudge of tiredness under them makes him look less like a nervous lab partner and more like someone you’d bat your lashes at.

Jermjesty’s focus breaks when he feels holes burning into the side of his head.​ "What is it?" he asks, glancing up. ​

You snap your attention back to the brightly colored pages, painfully aware that you've been caught.

"Nothin’," you say quickly. "Jus’ thinking." ​

"Oh…does that hurt?" ​ He jests, a small smirk resting on his lips

It takes you a moment to figure out what he’s saying, which makes him chuckle.

"Hey!" you screech in mock offense, forming a smile of your own.

The young man only shakes his head, throwing his hands up in surrender before you have a chance to get started. It’s a small moment, one that shouldn’t mean too much, but it does. The barrier between the two of you has been broken. In your living room, on the couch, you’re both equals. It feels kinda nice.

You try to regain focus. You really do. But he leans forward, and you get a whiff of his body wash. A masculine vanilla that floods your senses beautifully. Then, he pushes his sleeves up a little, and a glimpse of the veins on his forearms leaves you damn near salivating. What really does it is the way he bites his lip while reading. Up close, this man was something else entirely.  ​

​You shake your head, annoyed at yourself. Just hours ago, you were asking God why he had forsaken you. And now, here you are, drooling over the loser from BIO202. You watch him for another minute, then tap your nails against the table, making a soft, rhythmic sound. ​Screw it, who’s gonna check you anyway?

"Jermajesty," you drag out, voice laced with pure mischief. "Do you have a girlfriend?" ​

He stills, fingers hovering over the keyboard, eyes flitting up to meet yours, then away again. "Uh," he starts, voice cracking slightly. "No. No, I don't." ​

You tilt your head, pretending to be deeply interested in your nails. "Really? No girlfriend at all?"

​"No," he says again, quieter this time. "I um, I haven't really had time for–  well, I mean–" ​ He trails off, cheeks turning pink. ​

You smile, slow and deliberate. "Have you ever been alone with a girl before?" ​

His mouth opens, then closes. He looks like he's trying to figure out if this is a trick question. ​ "Like… right now?" he asks with a tremble in his voice. ​

"Like, ever," you clarify, leaning forward a little. "Just you and a girl. No parents, no projects. Just alone with a member of the opposite sex."

​ He swallows, fingers tightening around the edges of his laptop. "No," he admits. “ I haven't." ​

You hum, like this is fascinating information, and decide to tease him just a bit more. "Never?" ​

"Nope." he confirms under his breath, hoping that the chair will open up and swallow him whole soon. ​

You let that sit for a moment, enjoying how flustered he is. Then, with a small, playful shrug, you ask, "Okay, but… have you ever even kissed a girl? Like, on purpose?" ​

A deep crimson washes over his entire face. ​ He looks down at his hands, then back up at the door. Wondering if his next answer will land him on the school’s tea page. Finally, he shakes his head, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. ​

"No," he whispers. ​

You don't laugh or make fun of him. You just watch, something warm and mischievous unfurling in your chest. ​

"Do you want to?" you ask, voice low, teasing. ​

He blinks. "What?" ​

You clarify, leaning in a little closer, "Kiss a girl, I mean." ​

His throat moves as he swallows. He looks like he's trying to form words and failing, like his brain has short‑circuited the same way yours did earlier. ​ "I… I mean…" he stammers, voice cracking again. "I– yeah? I think so.”

"You think so?" you echo, grinning mischievously. "That’s not a very confident answer, Jermajesty. You can say no, I promise I won’t tell the girls." ​

He takes a shaky breath, fingers curling into his sleeves. "Yes," he says, firmer this time, though his cheeks are still burning. "Yes, I want to." ​

You let the silence stretch between you, thick and heavy. You can see the way his pulse jumps in his throat, the way his hands tremble slightly in his lap. ​

"Okay," you say, happy with the outcome from your seemingly random line of questioning.

He blinks, unsure if this is some sort of joke. "Okay?" ​

"Yeah. If you really want to, I’ll help you out." You shift a little, closing the gap between your bodies.

Jermajesty’s knee brushes yours, and he lets out a chortled kind of whimper when your hand lands on his thigh. The boy turns to face you, eyes wide, breath faltering when you stop just inches away. ​

"Is this… is this okay?" you ask, tilting your head. "I can stop if you want." ​

He shakes his head so fast, you think it’ll come off his shoulders.

"No," he says. "No, I want this." ​

You smile, more than satisfied, and reach out to gently take his glasses from his face. You need to see how good he looks up close. The poor guy is about as nervous as a pregnant nun. You set the frames on the coffee table, and bring your hand up to caress his arm.

“Relax,” you coo, trying your best not to send Jermajesty into cardiac arrest. “We’re just kissin’, baby.” The boy’s heart stutters at the newly acquired pet name.

Remember when I told you Jermajesty didn’t understand it before, the way all of the other guys on campus practically trip over themselves just to get you to say ‘Hello’?

Well now, when face to face with Aphrodite herself, he realizes he is still just a man. You’ve barely touched him, and he can already feel a tent forming under the thin fabric of the shorts.

God help him.

Your lips hover close enough that his breath catches. You feel the warmth of him, and hear his heartbeat in the space between you. Jermajesty looks at your mouth like it’s an altar. He doesn’t know where to put his hands, whether to reach for you or stay still and risk melting.

So you decide for him. You move first.

Your lips meet his in a kiss that’s slow at first, gentle in a way that contradicts your reputation. Jermajesty’s eyes flutter shut. His shoulders rise like he’s bracing for pain, but the pain doesn’t come. Only warmth, a bright electric feeling that makes his entire posture shift.

His hands finally find something to do. One settles on your thigh, careful. The other hovers, uncertain, then drops lower when he realizes you’re not going to pull away.

You pull back just slightly, just enough to watch his face. He’s flushed, lips parted, breathing like he’s been running. His expression is pure shock. Like he can’t believe this is happening. Like he’s waiting for someone to yell cut and tell him this is all a prank.

“It’s—” he starts, voice breaking.

“What?” you ask, slightly concerned. “Too much?”

He nods, then immediately shakes his head, like his body can’t keep up with his brain.

“It’s not,” he whispers. “It’s just… I didn’t think…”

He stops. His eyes flick to your lips again. He’s overwhelmed.

You smooth your palm over his arm again, a calming gesture that makes him shiver. “Then think less,” you say softly. “Just feel.”

He exhales, a shaky laugh caught in his throat. “Okay,” he hums.

The way he says it makes your heart do something weird. You kiss him again. This time it’s a little firmer. Still gentle, but your confidence pulls him out of his panic and into the moment. His hands grip lightly at your sides.

You taste sugar and something clean, maybe his lip balm? He tastes like sincerity.

When you pull apart, his forehead is almost touching yours. His breathing is labored, and his eyes are glossy, like he might cry.  You hate that you can’t tell if it’s from nerves or emotion, or both. Probably both. You should feel guilty, maybe even weird. Instead, you feel… good.

Jermajesty doesn’t speak. He just stares at you like he’s memorizing your face. You watch him watch you. The word ‘more’ floats somewhere in your mind like a suspicious thought.

You swallow. “Can I tell you something?”

Yes.”He says quickly, hanging on every word you give him “

You smile. “You’re actually good at this.”

He pauses. “at kissing?”

“At… not being weird about it,” you clarify. “You’re doing better than you think.”

His cheeks burn again. “I—” he stammers. Then he laughs. A small sound, embarrassed, like he’s not used to being the person in control. “Maybe,” he says finally, voice soft, “I just didn’t want to disappoint you.”

Your smile falters. That word hits you harder than it should because it implies a level of investment you didn’t realize he had. You’re used to being the disappointing one, who doesn’t show up, or can’t be bothered to try. The one who leaves early, sends messages late, and acts like effort is something other people are supposed to deal with.

But he’s sitting here looking like your approval is oxygen itself. You shouldn’t like that. You shouldn’t want it. And yet your chest tightens with a feeling that’s closer to warmth than you’re comfortable with.

You tilt your head. “I’m not disappointed,” you say quietly. “If anything, I’m… surprised.”

He blinks. “Surprised?”

“That you’re interested,” you admit, and your voice comes out honest in a way that makes you feel exposed. “You seem like a guy who would always be nervous. Like you’d never… do anything.”

He swallows. His eyes flick down to your lips again like he’s searching for the right words and finding none. “I do,” he says. “I just… don’t usually get the chance.”

You stare at him, and for a second the room disappears. It’s just you and him and the weird gravity of your own choices colliding with his.

Then your phone lights up on the coffee table. A notification buzzes. The sound pulls both of you back to reality. You glance down at the screen, annoyed yet again.

They’re all from the group chat.

Dai-Dai: Y/n where are u?? He still there??   Miawia: Did you cry? Nia: Girl don't tell me he got u up there playin’ d&d 😭

Suddenly, these people you call friends seem so shitty.

You pick up your phone with one hand, still close to Jermajesty. He watches you, wondering if you’ll throw him under the bus again. You don’t type out an answer. You just lay the phone face down and slide it off to the side. You then turn to look back up at him.

“Okay,” you say, voice smoother now. “Back to work.”

He flinches slightly, startled by how fast you pivot. “Oh. Right.”

You smile sweetly. “Do you have more notes?”

His eyes widen. “Uh, yeah. I do.”

He scrambles a little to look competent again, to return to his role. He picks up his glasses from the table and puts them back on like armor. The lenses snap his nervousness back into place. He opens his laptop, and the typing resumes.

You sit there, watching him do the work he offered to do, watching him build a world out of diagrams and definitions. It’s almost funny. He’s the same person. But now you’ve kissed him and crossed some invisible line that you didn’t even know existed. And your brain (traitor) keeps trying to imagine what it would feel like to cross it again.

You lean in toward his screen. “What did you write?” you ask, pretending you care about the words to keep your reputation intact.

He swallows, then points to the part where he’s drafted the explanation of the thyroid gland and its role in metabolism. You read over his notes. They’re detailed. Thoughtful. Like he actually understood this material, like he genuinely liked the part of biology that explains how bodies coordinate, regulate, and survive. You shouldn’t be impressed, this is second nature for a guy like him, but you are.

The worst part is that your admiration for him feels personal. Like you’re not just appreciating his work, but appreciating him.

You clear your throat and tap the edge of the table. “This is good,” you say, despising how sincere it sounds.

Jermajesty’s eyes lift to yours, startled. “Thanks.”

You glance down again, pretending you’re not affected. “So, you do most of it, and I just… review?”

He hesitates. “If you want.”

You blink. “If I want?”

He flushes. “I mean, it’s just… I want you to—” He stops, like he’s about to say something too honest.

You don’t let him spiral. You smile, quick and easy. “You can keep typing,” you say. “I’ll handle the parts that are supposed to sound like I’m engaged.”

He laughs softly, relief flooding through him like a warm wave.

You spend the next hour pretending you’re normal. You talk about the project and school. Most importantly, though, you chat about hormones, glands, and how they coordinate like a team.

You nod mindlessly as he explains how the thyroid controls metabolism, heart rate, and all that jazz.

But every time he leans forward, every time his fingers brush the edge of your sleeve, you feel the echo of the kiss like a heat trail. At some point you realize you’re smiling. Not the performative smile you use in hallways. A real one that shows up on your face without permission.

Jermajesty is nothing if not observant. He notices the shift in behavior almost immediately. “Are you… okay?” he asks.

You shrug, pretending that you aren’t planning a wedding in your head right now.

“Yes.”

He studies you with a raised brow. It’s obvious that he doesn’t believe you.

You sigh in defeat and decide to be honest for once, “I’m not used to people being nice to me without wanting something.”

His expression softens. “I don’t really want anything,” he says, voice careful. “I just…would like it if you didn't embarrass me again."

Your heart does that thing again.

You open your mouth to respond with a joke. You’re good at jokes. But the truth stays in your throat, stubborn and heavy.

“I didn’t embarrass you,” you defend instead, tone is gentler than you mean for it to be.

He blinks. “You did. Earlier.”

You stare at him.

“I apologized with my actions.”

He looks down, lips folding inward. “That’s not—” he starts, then stops. “That was… nice, I guess.”

Nice?

You don’t like that word, it isn’t synonymous with who you are.

So, you distract yourself by pointing at the screen. “Finish the thyroid part,” you demand. “If you don’t, my grade becomes your full responsibility and I will not hesitate to ruin your life if I fail.”

He laughs, actually laughs, and types faster.

When the thyroid section finally looks done. Clean definitions, a neat diagram of the feedback loop with the hypothalamus, and a little note about how thyroid hormones affect everything from skin to growth to fertility. You lean back and stretch.

“Okay,” you huff. “What’s next?”

He scrolls down. “The pituitary,” he mumbles, and his voice shifts a little, like even saying the word makes him nervous again.

You glance at the screen and snort. He’s titled it “The Master Gland.”

You read aloud as he types “‘The pituitary gland is often called the master gland because it controls many other glands in the body and regulates growth, metabolism, blood pressure, and reproduction.’”

You laugh this time. “Master gland, huh? That’s a lot of responsibility for something so small.”

“It’s basically the boss,” he says, warming to the topic now that his focus is off your mouth. “It tells the thyroid what to do, tells the adrenals to make cortisol, and it controls the gonads with FSH and LH.”

“FSH and LH?” you echo, genuinely confused about the acronyms he keeps throwing at you.

“Follicle‑stimulating hormone and luteinizing hormone,” he says, then immediately flushes like he realizes where that’s going. “They um… regulate the reproductive system. In both men and women.”

You let think on that for a second, and let yourself imagine all those invisible signals firing through his body right now.

As you shift closer, your knee presses against his under the table. “So,” you say, voice teetering on sultry, “the pituitary is the one that basically… turns everything on?”

He clears his throat. “Uh. Yeah. It’s not the only thing, but yeah. It starts the cascade. It tells the other glands to release the hormones that affect… arousal."

You let your fingers drift up his arm, slow, deliberate. “So if someone’s sittin’ here, trying to focus on notes, but their pituitary is busy telling their body to wake up…” You tilt your head, watching his face. “That’s not really their fault, is it?”

His eyes flick from your hand to your mouth and back again. “No,” he says, barely audible. “Not really.”

You lean in until your lips are a whisper from his ear. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I think yours is doing its job very well right now.”

He shivers. Actually shivers. You feel it under your palm, the way his skin tightens, the way his pulse jumps where your thumb rests against his wrist. You pull back just enough to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, mouth open slightly. He looks like he’s trying very hard to remember how to be a responsible partner and failing spectacularly.

“Jermajesty,” you say, syrupy and slow. “You can stop pretending you’re thinking about T.S.H.”

He makes a garbled noise that might be a laugh. “I—”

“Let that gland do its job,” you tell him, and there’s a smile in your voice now, wicked and warm all at once.

He stares at you like you just rewrote his entire operating system. Then, slowly, he closes the laptop. The screen goes dark. The room feels smaller, hotter, like the only light left is the one between you.

“Okay,” he says, and this time his voice doesn’t break. It steadies. “I can do that.”

You reach for him, and he meets you halfway.

This kiss isn’t tentative. It’s not panic or performance. It’s the logical conclusion of every hormone his pituitary has been quietly commanding all night. The surge of signaling molecules that make his dick jump. The rise in testosterone sharpens his focus on you, and his nervous system lights up like a circuit finally completed. You feel it in the way his hands move, less afraid, like his body finally got permission to do what his brain has been too nervous to acknowledge. A hand, large and firm, travels up your side, and finds purchase on your chest.

The kiss intensifies, turning from something elementary to something downright sinful. A clash of teeth and tongue as both of you wrestle for dominance. Ultimately, Jermajesty loses that fight when your fingers rake through the hair on the back of his head, tugging softly, earning a gasp. You push your weight into him, climbing into his lap until you’re straddling him completely. His hands rest on your waist, squeezing tight as a way to keep himself grounded.

When you finally pull back, you’re both breathing hard again, but it’s different this time. There’s no shock. Just the two of you, sitting in the afterglow of a decision neither of you is pretending to regret.

“See?” you whisper. “Didn’t that feel good, pretty boy.”

He moans at the way you say that, soft and breathless, and presses himself against you.

“Yes, fuck–” Jermajesty already looks ruined, “Please, can we keep going? I don’t know what m’doing but I wan–”

You giggle and peck his soft lips, saving him from embarrassing himself. “We can do whatever you want, baby.”

He nods and clears his throat, unsure of what his next steps should be. You sit back on his lap, and hook your fingers under the hem of your shirt. The man in front of you waits anxiously, wondering what awaits him under that hoodie. When you pull it over your head, you can physically see the gears turning in his head. He's face to face with the prettiest (only) set of tits he's ever seen. "No bra?" He asks, hypnotized.

"My house, baby boy."

He nods, but you can tell he isn't really listening. His focus is on the perky buds teasing him right now. Jermajesty looks to you, pleading with his eyes. If there's anything you love more than attention, it would be attention from a man who looks like this.

"Go ahead, suck on 'em, baby. I know you wanna."

Jermajesty doesn't need the light to get any greener. He takes your right nipple in his mouth first, swirling his tongue around it, and groans. You wish you could be ashamed at how fast your body responds to him, but the heat pooling between your legs doesn't leave room for shame. You arch into his mouth, fingers threading back into his hair to keep him right there, and he groans against your skin like he's starving for it.

"Shit," you breathe, rolling your hips down against him. The hard line of him through his basketball shorts makes you dizzy. "You learn fast, pretty boy."

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen and wet, eyes blown wide with disbelief and arousal. "I just-" He swallows hard, thumbs rubbing restless circles against your ribs. "I want to make you feel good. Tell me what to do."

The begging in his voice, the raw eagerness of a man who has no idea what he's doing but wants to do it anyway, sends a fresh spike of heat through you. You lean down, nose brushing his, and murmur, "Take my shorts off."

Jermajesty's hands shake as he reaches for the drawstring of your sleep shorts. He fumbles twice, curses under his breath, and you cover his hands with yours to steady him. "Slow down," you whisper, guiding him. "We got time."

He nods, jaw tight with concentration, and manages to work the knot free. The fabric loosens with a soft shift that feels loud in the quiet apartment. You lift your hips to help him, and he peels the shorts down your legs with a reverence that makes your chest tight.

"Oh," he breathes when he sees you, bare and waiting in nothing but the dim light from the window. "You're-" He stops, throat working. "God, you're beautiful."

You smile, soft and genuine, and tug at the hem of his shirt. "Your turn."

He rips it off with very little grace, nearly getting stuck in the collar, and you laugh. A bright, happy sound that surprises you both. Then he's bare-chested in front of you, all lean muscle and nervous breath, and the laughter fades into something hungrier.

You run your palms up his chest, thumbs brushing his nipples, and he shudders. "Sensitive," you observe, pleased. "Good to know."

"Everything's sensitive right now," he admits, voice rough. "I feel like I'm gonna crawl out of my skin."

"Then let's get you out of these clothes before that happens."

You curl your fingers into the waistband of both his basketball shorts and briefs, and tug. He lifts his hips obediently, letting you peel them down his legs. His dick springs free, and you freeze.

Holy shit.

He's huge. Thick and heavy, curving up against his stomach with a vein you want to trace with your tongue. Nothing about his lean frame, his pretty-boy face, his nervous fumbling hands, prepared you for this. You'd assumed something modest, maybe average. This, however, is obscene.

Jermajesty goes rigid, embarrassment flooding his features. "Is it-is it okay?"

You laugh, disbelieving and so turned on it hurts. "Baby, it's more than okay." You wrap your hand around him, fingers not quite meeting, and his head drops back against the couch with a thud. "Jesus. You're gonna ruin me."

"Please," he whines, hips bucking into your grip. "Please, I need-"

"What do you need?" You stroke him slowly, watching his face crumble. "Tell me."

"I need your mouth. Please. I'll be good, I swear-"

The begging shatters something in you. You sink to your knees between his thighs, and he croons at the sight of you there, looking up at him with his cock in your hand. You lick a stripe up the underside, tasting salt and heat, and he gasps like you've burned him.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

You take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, and his hands fly to your hair, gripping tight. You set a rhythm, slow and deep, taking as much of him as you can, and he's a mess above you, babbling broken pleas, hips stuttering like he's fighting not to thrust.

"So good, so good, please don't stop-"

You pull off with a wet pop, and he cries out, actual tears pricking his eyes. "No, no, please, I was so close-"

"Shh." You pump him with your hand, thumb swiping over the slick head. "You don't cum until I say. Understand?"

He nods frantically, chest heaving. "Yes. Yes, whatever you want. Please."

You edge him like that three more times, bringing him to the brink with your mouth, your hand, watching him unravel and then cutting him off at the last second. By the end, he's sobbing, cock dark and swollen, thighs trembling, completely at your mercy. He can't form words anymore, just broken sounds and pleading looks.

"Please, mommy," he finally chokes out, voice wrecked beyond recognition. "Please, I can't-I need to be inside you. Please let me-"

Mommy? Oh, you like the sound of that.

You stroke him steadily, keeping him right on the edge, “I know what you need, baby boy. Do you have a condom?”

Jermajesty answers with a quickness that stuns you.

“Mhm. Backpack. Third zipper.”

You leave him for a moment and grab the condom from the bag. You tear it open with your teeth, and roll it down his length with a deliberate slowness. He's shaking so hard his teeth chatter. You rise up, position yourself above him, and sink down in one slow, steady movement.

The sound he makes isn't human. His head falls back, throat exposed and vulnerable, and you lean in to bite at the tendon there as you adjust to the stretch of him filling you completely.

"Still with me, baby?"

"Yeah," he chokes out. "Yeah, I'm-fuck, you're so-" He cuts himself off with another groan.

You start to move, rolling your hips slow and deep, and something in him snaps. It seems our pretty boy has had enough.

His hands grip your waist hard enough to bruise, and he starts thrusting up into you with a desperation that borders on feral. The weird, nervous boy is gone. What's left in his place is pure instinct, hips pistoning upward, chasing his own pleasure with single-minded hunger. The couch creaks beneath you as he buries his face in your neck, groaning long and low. The vibration travels straight to your core.

"Fuck, fuck, you feel-" He cuts himself off, teeth grazing your shoulder. "So good! So. Fucking. Good. I can't-"

When you go to pinch his nipple, rolling it between your manicured fingers, Jermajesty loses his rhythm completely, just rutting into you now, animalistic and mindless. You hold on, grinding down to meet him, and the friction builds fast. White-hot pleasure settles deep in your belly.

He's babbling nonsense against your skin. All you can make out is your name and broken cries of pleasure. He reaches between you to find your clit, his fingers are clumsy and desperate,  but they’re exactly what you need.

"Jermajesty," you rasp, and he whines at the sound of his name. "Right there, just like that-"

He doesn't let up. If anything, he doubles down. His brows furrow in concentration even through the haze, watching your face, trying to memorize every expression. When you cum, it's sudden and violent, your whole body seizing around him, nails digging crescents into his shoulders.

He follows seconds later with a ragged cry that sounds like surrender, burying his face in your neck and emptying himself into the rubber. You feel every twitch, every spasm, and you hold him through it, stroking his hair, murmuring soft nothings against his temple until he goes limp beneath you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. His chest heaves against yours, heartbeat thundering, and you can feel the sweat cooling on his skin.

"So," he says eventually, voice muffled and wrecked. "That was…something"

You laugh, warm and satisfied. "Good something or bad something?"

He pulls back to look at you, and the smile on his face is so genuine it makes your chest ache. "Good. Definitely good."

You kiss him, soft and unhurried, and settle back against him with a contented hum. "Can you stay then? I can cook in the morning."

Silence stretches between you, comfortable and heavy. Then he shifts, and you feel him tense.

"Actually," he says, and something in his tone makes you lift your head. He won't meet your eyes. "There's something I need to tell you."

You raise an eyebrow, still floating. "If it's that you were secretly a virgin, I noticed."

"No, it's-" He swallows hard. "We were never supposed to do the endocrine system. It was actually the cardiovascular."

You blink, confused. "What?"

"The presentation," he drags out, "Professor Wallace assigned us the cardiovascular system." He finally looks at you, wincing. "I just really wanted an excuse to touch you."

You stare at him. Then you start laughing, helpless and loud, forehead dropping against his. “And what if I had rejected you? Hm?” You muse, genuinely curious about his master plan. Jermajesty cracks a smile,

“You would’ve repeated bio a third time, that’s what.”

You hum with a smirk and shake your head against his chest.

"No, I wouldn't have. I read the assignment too, bozo."

Only, you didn’t know that technically wasn’t what he was embarrassed about…

"Can I… go lower?" you ask, pressing soft, lingering kisses down Michael’s solid stomach, reaching his waistline, eyeing the heavy, unmistakable bulge in his trousers that he tries to shield with a long, elegant hand.

Michael nervously clears his throat, a soft, high-pitched breath escaping his lips. "You mean… down my pants?" he asks, his dark eyes wide and glossy with a sudden rush of heat.

You nod, gently toying with the waistband of his sweatpants, making him hitch his breath. "I don’t have to if you don’t want to, baby. I want you to be comfortable," you add, tracing a finger over his hip.

Michael pauses for a second, his fingers tangling nervously in the fabric of the sofa cushion. "I don’t feel uncomfortable, honey. I just… what if you don’t like it?"

You smile sweetly, pressing another tender kiss just below his belly button. "I promise I like all of you. Let me make you feel good."

Michael blushes a deep, beautiful shade beneath his warm brown skin, a timid smile finally breaking through. He helps you pull down his pants along with his boxers, and a thick, heavy, incredibly veiny cock springs free.

You can’t help the way your mouth gapes open. You had absolutely no idea your sweet, gentle boyfriend was hung like this.

It’s not like you expected him to be small — you’d briefly caught glimpses of him hard through his stage costumes and rehearsals over the months. But this? You almost couldn’t find the words.

"I’m sorry— maybe I should put my pants back on, do you want me to cover up?" Michael stammers nervously, instantly shrinking back. He looked practically humiliated by your silent reaction, assuming you were shocked in a bad way.

You quickly stop his hand as he reaches down to pull his boxers back up. It all suddenly began to make sense.

"Michael… are you embarrassed about how big you are?" you ask gently, your gaze softening.

Your boyfriend’s cheeks flush even darker, his lashes fluttering as he looks away. "Yes… isn’t it awful? I was so worried it would frighten you… or that i’d hurt you," he murmurs softly, reaching down with a trembling hand to play with a stray curl of your hair.

You felt your heart throb completely for him, a warm ache pooling deep between your thighs.

It was never about you. It was never that he didn’t want to go there with you; he was just terrified of being too much.

"Baby, it’s not a bad thing at all," you smile, your eyes flickering between his handsome face and his massive length. “Can I touch it?"

Feeling deeply reassured by the warmth in your voice, Michael nods slowly, giving you the green light to wrap your hand around his thick shaft.

When you do, he instantly lets out a breathy, high-pitched moan, his entire slender frame shivering violently at the contact. You were barely even stroking him and he was already falling apart. "Oh— Jesus, Angel…" he stutters, his fingers digging into the cushions.

The way you could barely wrap your hand all the way around his girth made your core pulse desperately — you could only imagine how deliciously, perfectly stretched you’d feel taking him inside.

"Do you want me to move my hand, Mikey?" you ask, though you could already read the answer clearly in his dilated, starry eyes.

Michael’s breath catches in his throat. "Yes— please, don't stop, angel."

You begin stroking him from base to tip, slow at first to let him adjust, then setting a steady, deliberate rhythm that has him instinctively bucking his hips upward for more friction. Thick pre-sead beads at his tip, heavy veins pulsing right against your palm.

"Hoo— is it supposed to feel…" he pauses to let out a long, breathless whine, "t-this good?"

You begin to twist your wrist slightly at the peak, brushing your thumb right over his sensitive, leaky slit. "You’re just extra sensitive because it’s your first time, honey. You’re doing so well," you praise softly.

Your gentle words have him whimpering louder, every stroke of his length making him grip the couch tighter as his back arches.

Wanting to drive him completely over the edge, you lean in closer, wetting his thick head with your tongue before taking him into your mouth.

"Ahhh— momma!" he mewls, his hips jolting forward as a familiar, overwhelming wave builds rapidly in his chest.

"I think I’m g-going to — mnn — cum," Michael gasps, his hands flying to grab your shoulders as he tries to pull back. "Wait— I don’t want to — haaahh — get it on you, honey, let me—"

You chuckle against him, holding him gently in place as you swirl your tongue around his flushed, leaking tip. "I want it. Please, let me have you."

The plea broke whatever control he had left. He shattered instantly against your lips.

"O-ohhh god — baby," Michael moans breathily, his eyes rolling back as thick, hot spurts erupt into your mouth.

The utterly filthy, devoted sight of you taking him so completely ignited something raw and primal deep within him. All his shyness, all his stage-induced perfectionism melted away into pure, unbridled desire.

You were naive, though, to believe that late into this Saturday evening, on July 4th weekend, prompting your later-than-usual finish, that a certain black Chevrolet Caprice wouldn’t be hiding in the shadows to find a reckless law-breaker such as yourself. The thankful thought to slow down never hit you as you cruised along, completely forgetful to the fact that Police often roamed around later than usual on a busier, popular weekend such as this one.

But, not to worry—you were soon reminded!

Red and blue blasting lights consumed your vision in your rear-view mirror, as well as a patronisingly infamous siren screaming at you into the quiet night, as you whizzed past a hidden vehicle behind a cluster of trees.

“Fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck—“ You panicked instantly, pressing on the brake to slow down to a comfortable 68MPH, before the familiar Police car caught up to your speed, tailing behind you closely.

The sirens never let up, neither did the lights, and that only meant one thing—Pull over.

“Oh, fuck, shit, shit, shhhhiiit!”

Panicked adrenaline pumped through you instantly—hands shaking as you indicated right, pulling over messily to an old dirt lay-by area, the gravel crunching under your tires as you slowed to a stop. The sleek ‘81 Chevrolet joined you—parking a few metres behind you, for safety precautions, the sirens finally halting.

“Don’t panic, don’t panic—breathe, breathe, breathe.” You affirmed to yourself, closing your eyes briefly to focus on your breathing, hands trembling in your lap as you prayed for a humble, generous Officer that would show you mercy.

In your right wing-mirror, you gazed anxiously, awaiting the Officer to exit their car, and ruin your night with a $75 ticket. But, as the luckiest lady you were, a tall, slim, young male emerged from the car—adjusting his belt, adorned with a .38 Special service revolver hanging along his upper-thigh, and a flash-light, that was being pulled from its sleeve, and flicked on as he approached your car.

Bingo!

You knew exactly how to get out of this one.

With swift, nimble fingers, you popped open the top three buttons of your pink blouse, ‘Ricky’s Diner’ embroidered on your left breast now folded over to slightly conceal your place of work—before grabbing a handful of your breasts, and pushing then further together in your bra.

A Policeman is a man at the end of the day—and what man can resist a poor lady with her tits out in the middle of the night!

You jumped slightly as the hard plastic of his flashlight banged against your window. Your head flew in the direction of the noise, and swallowed thickly as you reached for the lever, winding down the mucky glass slowly.

“Licence and registration, please.”

Your heart stopped as you met the dark eyes of the Policeman in front of you—this was about to get real good. He was ethereal—quite possibly the most beautiful man you’d ever laid eyes on, staring broodily down at you. For a second, his gaze flickered as it met your own, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smug smirk, as his eyes shamelessly dropped to your exposed cleavage, before trailing back up to your eyes.

Flirting was going to be real easy when he looked like that.

He was dressed in a dark, fitted navy long-sleeve shirt that hugged the curve of his biceps deliciously, paired with deep black trousers, and black boots on his large feet. Alongside the matching navy blue peaked cap upon his trained set of dark curls on his head, a twinkling silver badge, with ‘LAPD’ etched into its shape, rest upon his clothed left breast, and on the other side a nameplate above the right pocket that read ‘M.JACKSON’—He looked edible.

“Evening, Officer Jackson.” You started, eyes never leaving his own as you dug through your glovebox, “What’s the reasoning for this?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, lil’ lady.” The man breathed out a short laugh, “Licence, now, please.”

“Yes, Sir.” You answered, drawled and sensual, lip coming between your teeth as you handed both documents to him.

“Ma’am, are you aware of how fast you were goin’ back there?” He spoke smoothly, voice laced with a thick accent that you had clenching your thighs together involuntarily.

“No, Officer, I’m sorry …was I going a little too fast?” You feigned innocence, eyelashes fluttering as you cocked your head to the side.

“Just a lil’ bit, ma’am.” Officer Jackson spoke, fighting a smirk at your faux-innocence, “82 in a 70.”

You gasped fakely, “No! Was I really? Oh, well, Officer, I am deeply sorry. Just tryna get home after a long shift, y’know how it is, Sir, hm?”

“I sure do, ma’am, but I stay under the limit.” He shot back smartly, “Just headin’ home after work, were ya?”

“Yes, Sir.” You nodded, gaze still locked on his, “Can’t wait to get home, take off all my tight, sweaty clothes and get in a warm shower.”

You didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched at your words—tongue darting out to wet his lips as his eyes trailing to your conveniently pressed up breasts again, before finally landing on the documents in his grasp. He shon the light of his beaming flashlight directly at the plastic card of your personal information in his hands—vision raking over the numbers and letters.

“Ma’am, are you aware your licence is expired?”

Fuck.

“I—um—“

“Hm? What’s the excuse now, ma’am?” He taunted, the smug smirk finally reaching his lips as he peered down at you.

“I …uh, I wasn’t aware, Officer, I’m sorry. Work’s been hectic, I haven’t had chance to check it.” You spoke, honestly this time.

He hummed suspiciously, eyes once again flickering over your face, chest, and dropping to your short skirt that danced along your upper thighs, exposing the skin to his wondering eyes under the spotlight of his light.

“Where’d you say you worked again?” Officer Jackson pressed, cocking an eyebrow as he stared at your provocative outfit.

“I didn’t, Sir.”

“Is that a refusal to answer Police questioning?”

Shit—what?

“No—no! I work at Ricky’s, down on 4th.” You answered honestly, “Worked there for 5 years now.”

“Ah, I know it. Opposite the KFC, right?”

You giggled genuinely, “Yes, that’s the one. Been real hard gettin’ customers with such a big chain across the street.”

He hummed again, more of a satisfied noise this time, allowing a small smile to grow on his face, “Well, you’re outta luck, girl, ‘cause I love KFC.”

“Well, if you stopped by some time I could show you some real cooking.” And the charm was back on—game time!

With an elbow on the window, your hand pressed under your chin, and a sweet, toothy smile—you put the magnitude of your flirting to its maximum.

“I see what you’re doin’, ma’am.” He started, the smirk, however, never leaving his face, “Y’know it’s a felony offence to attempt to seduce your way out of a citation?”

“ …Uh—“

“Ma’am, can you step out of the vehicle for me, please?”

Well, shit. The idea that just because he was hot, that he’d succumb to your devious flirting was a stupid one. That citation, and even an arrest with a court date scheduled, had your name written all over it now.

You complied—switching off the engine, and popping the door open to swing your legs out. Hitting the gravel road, your legs shook in panic as your undecided fate lay in the hands of the painfully attractive man before you, who was now eyeing you up and down slowly—taking in your slightly trembling frame, clad in your matching pink blouse and skirt, and black kitten heels over your pedicured toes.

“Little slutty for a diner, hm?”

You gasped softly—the nonchalance and causality of his crude words hit you suddenly, your mouth falling ajar.

“Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to like tha—“

“Ma’am, there’s no need to get aggressive.” He interrupted, the smile permanent on his face, as a hand came out in front of him, “If you don’t calm down, I’ll have to detain you.”

“What the fuck? Detain me? For what?”

“Two felonies—speeding and expired license.” Officer Jackson recalled, “And possibly aggravation towards a Police Officer.”

“You just called me a slut, Sir, I—“

“Ma’am, I told you to calm down already.” Oh, this guy was playing a real sick game right now, “This is your last warning.”

You scoffed, words failing you as you eyed the man in-front of you. You weren’t sure whether he was a seriously corrupt Police Officer who strived off making money and arrests to innocent, vulnerable women, or an aroused, perverted fiend just like yourself. And with the way he was licking his lips, wetting the skin, as he gazed dreamily at your exposed chest—you were sure it was the latter.

And you were more than into it.

“I’m so sorry, Sir,” You pouted, welling up faux-tears in your eyes as the flirtatious charm sprang back into life, “I’m just so nervous—feel my heart, it’s beatin’ right outta my chest.”

Without giving him any time to process your next move, your hand clasped around his extended hand, and pressed it directly against your bare chest—deliberately smushing his dark brown palm into the plush of your breasts.

“See? You just make me so nervous, Officer.”

“Turn around.”

The gruffness of his usual soft tone made you widen your eyes suddenly—lip coming back between your lips, as you willingly turned around. Your heart hammered loudly in your chest—whether it was genuine nerves or the thrill of being so close to such an attractive man, you weren’t sure—probably both.

“Just a mandatory pat-down.” He spoke lowly, his chest mere inches from your back as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low grumble behind your head, “Do I have your consent, ma’am?”

“Yes, Officer.” You breathed, voice shaken as you braced yourself for his hands against your body, trembling in ecstatic anticipation.

“Good girl.”

He didn’t miss the way you gasped—breath catching in your throat as he chuckled darkly. Your eyes fluttered shut as his hands met your tensed shoulders, rubbing the skin quickly—his hands were warm and large, covering substantial surface area of your arms as he made his way down. His hands smoothed down your back slower this time, sliding to follow the curve of your waist, and around your middle—fingers curling over the plush of your stomach. By the time he crouched down, hands patting over your exposed legs, prickling with goosebumps, you had been biting your lip so hard you tasted blood—it had been a long time since you’d been touched, by anyone, let alone being pat down by a divine man such as the one behind you.

“Oh!”

The word left you before you could stop yourself as his two large palms cascaded over the round of your behind—each cupping a cheek of your ass, kneading gently. He could easily play it off as attempting to feel for any weaponry, but the way he was toying with the plushness of the skin was hard not to interpret as sexual.

“Need me to stop, lil’ lady?” He whispered, breath hot against the back of your ear as he rose to his feet once more, hands now sliding across your lower back, and back to your waist.

“N—No, it’s okay. Keep going.”

God, you sounded pathetic—your voice broken and wobbling, chest heaving as his thumb trailed across the side of your breasts, your jaw instantly clenching at the sensation.

Soon enough, his hands cupped the swell of your clothed breasts—palms gliding over your now pebbled nipples, fully erect from the sensual touching. Involuntarily, your back arched into the touch, a quiet, almost inaudible mewl left your gnawed lips—You froze. As did he.

In the silence of the dark freeway, it was hard to miss the way you just moaned at a Police Officer groping your breasts for a mandatory search. Even the quietest of whimpers hit his perked up ears, his hands stilling around the mounds.

“Well, well.” He murmured, voice husky, “What are we gonna do with you, girl?”

Another noise left you as his thumb, deliberately, trailed against your left nipple—the pebbled nub rolling over the pad tantalisingly slow.

“Officer, I—“

“Shhh, it’s okay.” He whispered, chest pressing against your back, hands still tracing over your clothed breasts, “I think a strip-search is in order, I’m not satisfied you’re not concealing any weapons.”

You swallowed thickly, turning around slowly, his hands leaving your chest, your blown-out pupils meeting his own. Your hands, now shaking from anticipatory excitement, reached for your shirt—painfully slowly popping open each button, the blouse coming increasingly more loose as you finally reached the last button. Even as you slid the shirt from your body, your lacy, black bra on full display, your gazed never slipped from his face—even when his vision locked on your exposed breasts. His lip, just like yours had been, was caught tightly between his teeth, as if he was fighting every urge to not break any code or agreement he’d signed once he started the job—but, he was already too far gone. Especially when you unzipped your skirt at the back, and let it fall to the floor in a swift drop—now, half-naked in your matching undergarments and high-heels.

“Well,” He croaked, throat going extremely dry as his eyes raked over your bare frame, “I didn’t say leave those on.”

“You want me to go all the way, Officer?” You breathed, licking your lips.

“Hmm.” Officer Jackson hummed, nodding briskly.

Your hands crawled behind you, fiddling with the clasp, before popping it open—letting it fall off your arms. You fought a grin as Officer Jackson’s breath hitched in his throat—teeth grinding together as he eyed your swell breasts, nipples hardened from equal parts the cold, crisp air, and the arousal that flowed through your veins like electricity—pooling in the panties you were now sliding down your legs.

You didn’t even care that you were stark naked in front of the stranger before you—pussy and tits in his complete vision as he eye-fucked you, hunger dazzling in his eyes even in the dark.

“This better, Sir?”

“Much.” He mumbled, nodding slowly, “But, a physical exam is still required.”

“And how does that work, Officer?” You questioned, feigning stupidity—you knew exactly what that meant, and every fibre of your being was praying to God that he’d take those large hands of his and fuck you senseless with them.

He stepped closer, the intoxicating scent of his cologne, deep and musky, danced around in your nostrils—the smell dizzying and sending you breathless as he towered over you. Up close, you really got to look at him—he had dangerously gorgeous brown eyes, almost black from how blown-out how pupils were in desire, stunning brown skin, baby-hairs smoothed to his forehead, just before his neatly-kept dark curls, as well as a small, blooming moustache atop his upper, plump lip.

His hand dipped, smoothing under the back of your left knee, and raised your leg—resting your levitated leg on the sliver of your exposed tire. This position was vulnerable and open—your legs now deliciously spread, your arousal painting your thighs as you awaited his next move.

“This is mandatory, y’see?” He drawled, a hand crawling up your inner thigh slowly, “Can’t miss a single spot.”

“I understand, Sir.” You breathed, “You can search anywhere you want.”

He hummed once again, the noise rumbling in the back of his throat, as his finger came in direct contact with the wetness soaking your thighs. He swallowed thickly, pressing himself closer to your body that radiated a scorching heat—rolling a familiar bulge into your other thigh. You gasped at the feeling of his stiffened dick beneath his slacks, a bodily reaction purely from your nakedness—your own body reacting similarly, more slick drooling from your bare sex.

“Consented, right, sweetheart?”

You blushed harshly, your cheeks glowing a deep red as his middle finger grazed along your folds, “Yes, Sir.” You forced out through gritted teeth, fighting every urge not to beg for his fingers.

That calculated logic went straight out the window the second his finger pushed past your soaked lips, and slipped inside your wet heat—the impressive length of his slender digits reaching so deep that submissive whines fell past your plump lips.

“Jesus.” He groaned lowly, his facade faltering as you clenched around his finger, your slick arousal coating his digits, dripping down his knuckles.

A second finger joined the first, and instantly began a gruelling pace—curling against your front wall to abuse the sweet spot inside you that your hand flying to his wrist, acting as an anchor, as he worked you open with his fingers.

“Officer!”

“Shh, just take it.” Officer Jackson whispered, rolling his hips forward, his erection rubbing against the bare of your thigh as he repeatedly nudged your G-spot, “‘M just doin’ my job, right?”

You nodded, eyes rolling to the back of your head as pleasure consumed you, your brain going numb, “You’re such a good Police Officer, Sir.”

“Yeah?” He breathed, hips stuttering at the praise, fighting a groan that threatened to slip from his lips, “Y’doin’ so good, sweetheart.”

You moaned, louder and shamelessly, head lolling back, eyes fluttered shut as his thumb grazed upwards—now rolling your throbbing clit along the pad, doubling the pleasure. Your fingers tightened around his wrist, the other scratching the paint from your bonnet as the lewd sound of your squelching cunt filled the silent air—alongside your carefree whines and whimpers.

“Oh—Oh, God, I—Oh, fuck, Officer, I’m gonna—“

“Yeah? You gonna give it to me? Gonna make me proud?” Officer Jackson growled, leaning forward to brush his lips against the shell of your ear, his breath warm against the skin, goosebumps blooming once again over your skin at the sensation.

You cried out, louder than you expected, turning your head to capture his lips in a fierce, frantic kiss as you released—moaning loudly into his mouth as your hand flew to his face, cupping his warm cheek, as your tongue danced into his mouth. He groaned into your mouth—teeth grazing your bottom lip as he french-kissed you swiftly, not wanting to waste a single second apart from you as your pussy spasmed around his fingers—creamy release drooling down his hand, his pace slowing as you came down from your high.

“Not deep enough.” He panted against your lips, hands, still coated in your slick, fiddled with his belt, unbuckling it quickly, “Don’t know if you’re still a threat.”

You whined, lapping into his mouth desperately as he forced his blacks slacks and impossibly tight boxers down to his mid-thighs, his hard, thick dick springing free from its restraints. He trailed kisses from your mouth, to your hot cheek, to the crook of your neck—nipping and sucking at the skin, marking it in deep, dark purple lovebites. Meanwhile, his right hand fisted his stiff cock—pumping himself, allowing pretty, flustered noises to escape into your flesh, as he prepped himself.

“Turn back around, baby.” Officer Jackson commanded, a large hand splaying across your lower back, signaling you to move.

You did so quickly and frantically—your heeled foot meeting the gravel once more as your bare chest hit the cool of your metal bonnet, hissing as the crisp, coldness rolled against your sensitive nipples. The iciness didn’t last long as Officer Jackson pressed himself against you—warm chest flush against your chest, as his twitching dick, drooling with pre-cum, slid between your glistening folds.

“Needa’ see if you’re gonna hurt me, baby. You wouldn’t do that, right? I’m such a good cop after all, hm?”

“Never, never—mmh!—please, please!” You heaved, nails dragging along the bonnet, scratch marks indented into paint as the head of his dick caught at your entrance.

A string of profanities left your lips as he slid inside—the size of him knocking the air out of your lungs as he pushed himself as deep as he could go in one fell swoop. Your name, one he’d memorised from your licence, fell from his mouth, a sensual, lewd, low growl as your tight pussy constricted around him, accommodating the stretch.

“God, y’so fuckin’ tight.” Officer Jackson breathed, heart hammering against your shoulder blade, as he pressed a soft, gentle kiss to the side of your head, “You gonna be a good girl and comply, hm?”

“Yes! Yes, Sir—do what you want with me.”

Needy and desperate—that exactly how you sounded, and exactly what you were. Dying for him to move, to feel the drag of his throbbing dick against your spongy walls, abusing the sensitive spot inside you that had you seeing stars without even needing to look up at the night sky.

And that’s exactly what it did.

With every thrust, his hips snapping against yours ruthlessly, you screamed—the dark blue paint of your Toyota physically coming up under your nails as he pounded into you relentlessly. His name, ‘Sir’ and ‘Officer’ repeatedly spilled from your mouth—begging him for more, deeper, harder, faster, as he took you on the hood of your car. He was unforgiving—just as a Police Officer should be, despite his irresponsible, corrupt ways, by ploughing into you with such fever you couldn’t help but cry out into the night.

“Fuck, girl, y’pussy’s squeezin’ me so hard. What’cha tryna hide from me?” He teased, his tongue darting out to trace your earlobe, “You got a concealed weapon I don’t know about? You tryna get arrested, sweetheart?”

“No! No! Swear—mmmhh!—“ You exclaimed, breath ragged and uneven, as he drove in harder, angling his hips to repeatedly slam against your anterior vaginal wall, an area that had your second, more powerful orgasm, creeping up your spine.

“Mm, I don’t trust you.” Officer Jackson taunted, his pace never letting up as his hands climbed up your front, one hand cupping your breast, rolling your right nipple between his nimble fingers, and the other slipping between your conjoined legs to rub your sensitive clit.

The triple sensation, sending the pleasure to another level, had you blabbering nonsensical sentences—his surname, not knowing his first, along with cries of ecstasy, mingling with the shlap! shlap! shalp! of his hips against your recoiling ass.

“Oh! Fuck, fuck, Officer, ‘m gonna cum!”

Your voice broke loudly, your hips bouncing back to meet his thrusts, forcing him to the hilt, as your second orgasm hit you like a freight train—the overwhelming euphoria washing over you violently.

“Fuck!” Officer Jackson spat, hand tightening around your breast, as his hips stuttered at your pussy clamping down on him harshly, “So fuckin’ tight—should be fuckin’ illegal the way you’re squeezin’ me, baby, fuck!—“

With a low, loud grumble of a moan, the ferocious pounding sped up, if even at all possible with the speed he was fucking you, ending with a crescendoing, harsh thrust—burying himself to the brim, the tip of his flushed cock nudging your cervix, as he spilled inside you—warm, thick, spurting cum flooding your convulsing pussy, whining softly as you shook from the aftershock of your orgasm, as well as the sensation of him flooding your womb.

For a moment, no one moved—the ragged, broken heave of your breaths being caught surrounded the quietening atmosphere, his hips still pressed firmly against your ass as he softened inside you. His hand dropped from your breast, and to your hip as he finally eased himself out of your pussy, ignoring the way you whined at the loss of fullness. A whispered curse fell from his mouth as a dollop of his release dripped from your sex, and onto the gravel beneath your feet.

“Here.”

You craned your head at the sound of his gruff voice, still pressed against the bonnet, legs weak and shaking, watching as he handed your clothes to you—now coated in thick, dusty dirt. You took your blouse and skirt from him, holding it close to your exposed chest, feeling suddenly too vulnerable for your liking, as he crouched down to grab your panties.

“Leg.”

His voice was short and simple as he peered up at you from his bent knees—holding your panties open for you step into you. You tried to ignore the way your heart clenched at the sweetness of his actions, as you slipped your feet into each hole of the lacy panties, smiling softly as he slid them up your body, and around your bottom half once again. He did the same routine with your skirt, letting you slowly stand into it, and sliding it up your body, zipping it back up gently. You opted for no bra—just sliding the blouse over your chest, and doing up a few buttons—too fatigued from the feverish sex to do anymore.

Officer Jackson cleared his throat once he’d risen to his feet once again, after retrieving the flashlight he’d thrown the floor previously, tucking his softened dick back into his trousers, buckling them up again, smoothing out the material, before looking back at you.

“Now, I’m gonna let you off just this once, but get that licence renewed ASAP, miss.” He ordered, the stern, authoritative tone returning, pointing a finger at you, the same one that had been deep inside you a few minutes prior, “And slow down.”

“Yes, Sir, will do.” You smiled, the post-orgasm buzz consuming your body as you succumbed to the hazy feeling, “Thank you.”

He hummed, checking his watch, cursing, and wetting his lips, “Gotta head off, got another criminal like yourself to catch.”

You giggled, “I understand.“

You waited for him to turn on his heel and speed off in his Caprice—but, he kept his feet planted where he stood, before he lunged forward, his hands cupping your cheeks as he smashed his lips against yours once again. You gasped in surprise into his mouth, your hands darting to his forearms as you kissed him back frantically.

He pulled away with a sharp breath, “I’m Michael.” His voice a gentle whisper, “Here.” He let his hands fall from your face to dig into his back pocket, retrieving a small, rectangle piece of cardboard, before handing it to you, “I gotta go, but drive safe, girl.”

Without waiting for your response, he rushed away, turning on his heel and jogging towards his car—climbing in quickly, putting it immediately into drive, and speeding off into the dark. As the red and blue lights, one’s that originally had you panicking and sweating, now had you smiling deeply at the crude memories, sped off—you climbed back into your own car, flicking on the dim, amber roof lighting, and glancing down at the card. You laughed softly, running a hand over your warm face, clenching your thighs together as another dollop of his release slipped from your pussy, into your panties—what a night.

LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT

OFFICER MICHAEL JACKSON

BADGE NUMBER : 4389

MOBILE NUMBER : (213) 555-1***

And scribbled underneath in messy black biro—

—Call me ;)

was this too crazy …?

© dreamylace 2026 ❦ all rights reserved

By all accounts, the awards ceremony had been a massive success. He’d handled the red carpet with his signature soft spoken grace, flashing that bright smile that instantly melted the cameras. He’d spent the evening holding your hand under the table, his thumb tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. Jaafar was never one for public displays of affection, he was deeply private, fiercely protective, and preferred to keep the intimacy between you entirely behind closed doors. He didn't need to put on a show for the world to prove you were his.

Until tonight. Until Ryan.

Jaafar was currently caught in an interview with a prominent entertainment reporter, standing beneath the blinding glare of the media lights. His posture was perfectly elegant, his hands clasped casually in front of him, but his dark, liquid eyes were completely checked out of the conversation. He was looking past the reporter’s shoulder, across the VIP lounge, straight at you.

And straight at Ryan.

Ryan was one of your 'friends', a title Jaafar used in his head with a heavy dose of disdain. Ryan was the type of man who consistently overstepped, who treated the concept of personal boundaries like a loose suggestion. You, in all your sweet, trusting innocence, were entirely clueless. You genuinely believed Ryan was just an overly affectionate, hypersocial guy. You didn't see the calculation in his movements.

Jaafar did.

From across the room, Jaafar watched with an icy, detached focus as Ryan leaned in entirely too close, his shoulder nearly brushing yours as you stood by a high-top table. You were talking vividly, your eyes bright, gesturing with your hands as you recounted a story, completely unaware of how Ryan’s gaze was slowly tracking the movement of your lips. Then, Ryan reached out, his hand lingering just a fraction of an inch away from the bare skin of your waist, his fingers twitching as if he were just waiting for an invitation to touch you.

A dark, dangerous heat flared in the pit of Jaafar's stomach, but on the outside, his face remained a mask of polite composure.

'...and with the upcoming project, can fans expect something else?' the reporter asked, thrusting the microphone toward him.

Jaafar turned his head back to the reporter. He didn't lose his temper, he never did. Instead, he offered a smile. But it wasn't his real smile. It was a tight-lipped, flashing smirk that lasted exactly 0.2 seconds, never reaching his eyes, completely devoid of the warmth he usually radiated.

'We are focusing on finishing the project first, but we are definitely discussing more future projects,' jaafar said, his voice smooth, soft, and impeccably polite, yet clipped enough to signal the hard end of the conversation. He gave a small, formal nod. 'Thank you so much. excuse me.'

He didn't wait for a follow-up. He turned and began walking across the crowded VIP section. He didn't storm over, his stride was slow, deliberate and entirely graceful, but the sheer aura radiating off his broad shoulders was heavy enough to make people subtly step out of his way.

Before Ryan’s hand could actually make contact with your dress, a large, warm palm slid firmly around your waist.

The grip wasn't gentle. Jaafar’s long fingers dug deep into your hip, anchoring you against his side with an unyielding, possessive force that left absolutely no room for interpretation. You gasped softly at the suddenness of the touch, your head snapping up.

'Am I interrupting?' Jaafar cut in smoothly.

He looked directly at ryan. His face wore that same tight-lipped, fake smile. He didn't show his teeth. His lips were compressed into a thin, civil line, his dark eyes fixed on Ryan with a gaze so heavy it felt like a physical weight in the room.

Ryan straightened up, a bit flustered by the sudden shift in atmosphere, but he tried to play it cool. 'Hey, Jaafar. Man, congratulations on tonight. I was just telling Y/n you're a lucky guy.'

Jaafar’s grip on your waist tightened even further, his thumb pressing hard against your hip bone, pulling your thighs flush against his tailored trousers. It was a blatant, silent proclamation of ownership, a rare breach of his anti-pda rule that spoke volumes.

'Thank you, Ryan,' Jaafar replied, his voice incredibly soft, quiet, and civil. He didn't match Ryan's loud energy, he kept it entirely low, which somehow made it infinitely more terrifying. He let the silence hang for a beat, his unblinking stare raking over Ryan until the other man visibly swallowed. 'Um, we were actually just about to head back to the hotel. It's been a long night.'

'Oh, right, yeah, of course,' Ryan stammered, stepping back a full foot, completely intimidated by the quiet dominance rolling off the actor. 'Good seeing you guys.'

As Ryan disappeared into the crowd, you looked up at Jaafar, utterly bewildered. 'Jaafar, what was that? We didn't have to leave yet, and he was just trying to be nice...'

Jaafar didn't answer. He simply slid his hand down from your waist to wrap firmly around your wrist, guiding you toward the private exit with a quiet, unyielding momentum.

The ride back to the hotel in the luxury sedan was suffocatingly quiet.

The leather-scented interior was dim, lit only by the passing streetlights outside the tinted windows. Jaafar sat back against the seat, his long legs crossed, staring out into the night. His posture was relaxed, but the vein in his neck was prominent, and his jaw was set in a hard line.

'He was just telling me about this new restaurant that opened up downtown,' you said, trying to fill the heavy silence, your voice sounding small in the quiet car. 'He said we should all go sometime.'

'Mhm.' Jaafar didn't turn his head.

'And then he asked about your uncle's old studio, because he’s working on a new track...' You watched his profile, your heart doing a strange, nervous flutter. 'Jaafar? Are you okay? You're being really quiet.'

'Yeah.' A short, soft, clipped syllable.

'Are you tired?' You reached across the seat, placing your hand on his knee. The muscle beneath his suit pants was hard as stone, completely flexed.

'No.' He still didn't look at you, his eyes fixed on your hand.

You sighed, entirely clueless as to the depth of the storm brewing inside him. You figured he was just drained from the social battery required for an awards show.

When the car finally pulled up to the grand entrance of the luxury hotel, Jaafar stepped out, immediately reaching back inside to take your hand. He didn't rush, but his grip was firm and unbroken as he led you through the opulent lobby toward the elevators.

Once the doors slid shut, sealing the two of you inside the mirrored elevator alone, the silence became absolute.

You couldn't handle the distance anymore. You turned fully toward him, stepping into his personal space. You placed one hand flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, steady thudding of his heart beneath his dress shirt. Leaning up on your tiptoes, you pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his sharp jawline, remembering the rich blend of his cologne.

'You're so quiet,' you whispered against his skin, your lips brushing his jaw as you spoke. 'What's wrong?'

Jaafar didn't move. He didn't wrap his arms around you, nor did he push you away. He just stood there, letting you press against him, looking down at you with dark, bottomless eyes that held a simmer so hot it made your breath hitch. He let out a slow, heavy sigh just as the elevator let out a soft ding, announcing your arrival at your floor.

He took your hand again, his palm warm, and guided you down the carpeted hallway to the double doors of the suite. He slid the keycard, the lock clicked green, and he pushed the door open, letting you step inside ahead of him.

The door closed with a firm, quiet click behind you, locking out the rest of the world.

You kicked off your high heels with a sigh of relief, tossing your clutch onto the entryway table. 'Seriously, Jaafar, you have to talk to me. You've been acting so strange since the after party.' You reached behind your back, your fingers fumbling blindly with the hidden zipper of your tight dress, but the fabric was caught, and you couldn't get a proper angle. 'Ugh, can you help me with this? I can't reach it.'

Jaafar didn't immediately come over to help. Instead, he stood in the center of the dim bedroom, his eyes locked on yours as he began to unbutton his suit jacket. He slid it off his broad shoulders and draped it neatly over a chair, his gaze never breaking from yours.

You stood there, breathing a little faster, watching him undress. He began to unbutton his dark blue shirt, slowly revealing the smooth, toned expanse of his chest and abdomen.

'Jaafar, seriously,' you ranted, your voice turning into a slight, frustrated whine as you kept tugging at the stuck zipper, your rings catching on the fabric. 'You're completely ignoring me. Did I do something to upset you? Because if this is about Ryan, he’s just a friend, and you were being so cold to him—'

Jaafar took a slow step forward.

'He is not your friend,' Jaafar said, his voice dropping into a register so deep, so quiet, it resonated straight through your bones. He took another step, his bare chest catching the soft light filtering through the window. 'A friend does not look at what belongs to another man and try to calculate how to taste it.'

You froze, your hands dropping from your back as he took another step, narrowing the distance between you until you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

'You think I'm blind, baby?' Jaafar asked, his tone entirely calm, entirely devoid of chaotic rage, which made his absolute dominance so much heavier. He stopped right in front of you, towering over your now barefoot form. He raised one hand, his long fingers sliding slowly up the side of your neck, his thumb resting gently against your pulse point. He didn't squeeze, but the firm, warm pressure of his palm capping your throat made your breath completely catch. 'You think I like standing across a room, strapped to a camera, watching some low life eye-fucking what is mine? Watching you laugh at him, completely oblivious to how badly he wants to slide his hands down that dress?'

Your heart hammered violently against his palm. 'Jaafar... I didn't know...'

'I know you didn't,' he murmured, his dark eyes burning into yours, entirely consuming your vision. 'You're innocent. You're clueless. But he isn't. And I am sick of letting people think you are available.' His thumb stroked over your jawline, a soft touch laced with an iron command. 'You understand now?'

'Yes,' you whispered breathlessly, your knees turning to water under his stare.

'Turn around,' he ordered.

You obeyed instantly, your back turning to his bare chest. You felt the warmth of his body hovering just inches behind you. His large hands came up to your shoulders, his fingers tracing the edges of your dress before his knuckles brushed your bare spine. He found the zipper. With a slow, agonizingly deliberate movement, he pulled it down, the sound of the teeth parting loud in the quiet room.

The fabric loosened, slipping down your shoulders, leaving you standing in just your lace underwear.

'And now,' Jaafar breathed against the shell of your ear, his chest pressing lightly against your bare back, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 'I’m going to show you exactly who you belong to.'

He didn't rush. He didn't throw you onto the bed. Instead, he guided you over to the edge of the mattress, his hands sliding down your arms to grip your wrists. He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you between his thighs, looking up at you. His eyes were dark, almost black, swallowed by a primitive hunger.

'You're so desperate already, aren't you?' he whispered, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, pulling it down slightly.

'Please, Jaafar,' you whimpered, your hands resting on his shoulders. 'I want you.'

'Yeah well, you have to wait,' he said softly, a dark, teasing smirk playing on his lips.

He slid his hands down to your chest, his long fingers tracing the lace of your bra before hooking his fingers into the material and pulling it down, exposing your breasts to the cool air. Your nipples hardened instantly. Jaafar leaned down, his lips brushing against the sensitive peak of your left breast, blowing a warm breath over it that made you arch your back with a soft cry.

But he didn't take it into his mouth. He just hovered there, his lips grazing your skin, torturing you with the proximity.

His hand slid down your stomach, moving beneath the waistband of your lace panties. You were completely soaked, a thick, slick heat coating his fingers the moment they made contact with your center. Jaafar let out a low, dark rumble of satisfaction in his throat.

'Look at that,' he rasped, his long fingers slowly parting your wet folds, his thumb finding your hypersensitive clit. He began to stroke you, but it wasn't the fast, relieving friction you were burning for. He moved with an excruciatingly slow, agonizing pace, barely putting any pressure on the bud, just dragging his thumb over it in lazy, teasing circles.

'Jaafar, please...harder,' you begged, your hips instinctively twitching against his hand, trying to force more friction.

'No,' he commanded softly, his hand flexing to hold your hips completely still, preventing you from moving against him. 'No moving. You take exactly what I give you.'

He slid one long finger inside your tight, wet depth. You let out a loud moan, your head dropping against his shoulder as his finger stretched you. He pushed it all the way in, letting you feel the length of it, before slowly pulling it out until only the tip remained, then sliding it back in.

'Ah, god, Jaafar...'

'You like that, baby? You want more than my fingers?' he asked, his voice a gravelly whisper.

'Yes, please, I want you, please, Jaafar, I'm begging you.'

'Mm-mm...not yet.'

He pulled his finger out completely. You let out a whimper of pure devastation, your body physically aching for the fullness. Before you could protest, Jaafar stood up, stripping off his remaining clothes with smooth, unhurried movements. Your eyes widened as his thick, heavy erection was revealed, twitching with his heartbeat, fully aroused and glistening at the tip.

He climbed onto the mattress, pulling you up with him. He laid you flat on your back in the center of the bed, spreading your legs wide. You expected him to finally drive himself inside you, but Jaafar was far from finished breaking your composure.

He knelt between your thighs, his large hands anchoring your wrists above your head. He leaned down, his chest hovering over yours, and began to use his fingers and his thumb to torment your lower lips again, while his length rubbed lazily against your wet entrance, painting himself in your moisture but never breaking the barrier.

The teasing was pure agony. Your body was entirely overstimulated, the scent of his skin, the dark warmth of his eyes staring down into yours, the heavy weight of his body keeping you pinned, and the absolute denial of the one thing that would bring you relief. Tears of frustration gathered in the corners of your eyes.

'Jaafar, please, I'm gonna lose my mind, 'you sobbed, your hips bucking upward in a desperate attempt to impale yourself on him.

Jaafar easily pinned your hips down with his forearms, his expression unbothered, completely in control. 'I told you to stay still. You don't get to come, and you don't get to be filled until I say so. Every single inch of this body is mine to control tonight.'

He kept up the torturous, slow strokes, pushing you right to the absolute precipice of a shattering orgasm. You felt the familiar tension tightening in your lower stomach, your inner walls beginning to twitch and clamp around nothing, signaling that you were about to break.

The moment he felt your body tremble on the edge of release, Jaafar abruptly yanked his hands away from you entirely, stepping back onto his knees.

The sudden, violent loss of contact sent a shockwave of frustration through your nervous system. You let out a loud, ruined wail, your head thrashing against the pillows. 'No! No! why? Please, let me come, I need to come!'

'I already told you, you don't come until I tell you to,' he growled, his soft spoken demeanor completely gone, replaced by a raw, primal dominance that made your core throb. 'You hold it in. You stay right on the edge for me.'

He grabbed your ankles, dragging your body down the mattress until your ass was right at the edge of the bed. He stood on the floor, pulling your legs up and draping them over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely, leaving you utterly vulnerable under the dim lights of the penthouse.

He stared down at your swollen, soaking entrance, his jaw clenching as his own restraint began to thin. 'Who do you belong to?'

'You. I belong to you, Jaafar, just you.'

A dark, satisfied growl tore from his throat. ’Mhm, that’s right.'

He gripped your hips with an iron, bruising force, aligned his thick length with your aching core, and with one heavy, unyielding thrust, he buried himself inside you to the absolute hilt.

A high-pitched, breathless scream tore from your lungs as the sudden, immense fullness stretched your tight walls to their absolute limit. He bottomed out against your cervix on the very first push, the raw sensation so intense your vision blurred.

Jaafar didn't give you a second to adjust. He began to pound into you, his thrusts hard, deep, and completely unmerciful. He was riding out every ounce of the jealousy that had simmered in his veins all evening, his hips slamming against your flesh with a loud, rhythmic, wet slapping sound that echoed off the high ceilings of the suite.

’Nghh, Jaafar! so deep, oh my god!' you cried out, your body being pushed up the mattress with every powerful stroke, only for his hands to yank your hips back down onto his length.

'It's exactly how deep it needs to be,' he panted, his breath hot and ragged against you as he continued to hammer into you from the edge of the bed. 'I want you to feel every single inch of me. I want you to remember this tomorrow when people look at you.'

The angle was hitting your g-spot with devastating accuracy, the friction inside you creating a white hot heat that threatened to consume you. You were entirely overloaded, the heavy, musk-and-wood scent of his sweat, the sound of his deep, guttural groans, the relentless stretching inside you, and the sheer speed of his movements. You were weeping from the intensity, your body completely at his mercy.

Right in the middle of his frantic, heavy pounding, a sudden, sharp ringing broke through the heavy atmosphere of the room.

It was your phone, sitting on the nightstand just a few feet away. The screen illuminated the dim room, flashing a name that made Jaafar’s entire body freeze.

Ryan.

Jaafar looked at the screen, his chest heaving as he stared at the name. A dark, terrifying smirk slowly spread across his face, his eyes turning entirely black. He didn't pull out of you, he stayed buried deep inside your burning heat, holding himself perfectly still as your walls twitched desperately around him.

He reached over, his long arm easily grabbing the phone from the nightstand. He brought it over, holding the flashing screen in front of your tear-stained face.

'Huh...look at that,' Jaafar whispered, his voice a low, lethal purr against your ear. 'Your friend is calling. He probably wants to make sure you got home safe.'

'Jaafar, no... don't...' you whimpered, shaking your head.

'Answer it,' Jaafar ordered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. 'Pick it up, baby. Pick it up while I'm fucking you.' He slid his thumb across the screen, hitting accept and pressed the speakerphone button before placing the device on the pillow right next to your head.

Before you could even process the command, Jaafar slammed his hips forward, driving into you with a brutal, sudden force that made your eyes widen.

'H-hello?' you choked out, your voice trembling violently as you tried to grip the sheets to keep from screaming.

'Hey, Y/N!' Ryan’s voice came through the speaker, loud and clear, completely oblivious. 'Hey, sorry to call so late, I wanted to make sure everything was cool and see if you wanted to grab that lunch tomorrow like we talked about—'

Jaafar let out a low groan, deliberately shifting his angle, pulling almost all the way out before plunging back in with a heavy, wet thud that bottomed out completely.

'Ah!' you gasped, clapping your hand over your mouth, your hips bucking off the bed. The wet, squelching sounds of his length sliding in and out of your soaked core were incredibly loud in the quiet room.

'Y/N? You there?' Ryan asked, sounding confused over the line.

Jaafar didn't stop. He accelerated, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, his muscles flexing as he deliberately pounded into you with a relentless, rhythmic aggression. He was staring directly into your eyes, watching you struggle, a dominant, possessive heat burning in his gaze.

'Yeah...Sorry, I'm—I'm here,' you whimpered, your voice shaking as a wave of overstimulation threatened to break you. You bit your lower lip so hard it nearly bled, trying to suppress the moans that were clawing their way up your throat. 'Just...unpacking...'

Jaafar leaned down, his lips brushing your ear as he kept up the brutal pace, his hips slapping against yours. 'Tell him how good it feels, baby,' he whispered wickedly, his voice barely a breath, but his actions spoke loud enough. He hit your spot three times in rapid succession.

'Oh god—' you slipped, a loud, wet moan escaping your lips before you could stop it. The sound of your slick walls tightly gripping his length was unmistakable through the microphone.

'Uh, Y/N? Are you okay?,' Ryan said, his tone shifting, a hint of realization dawning on him.

'I have to go, Ryan,' you sobbed out, unable to hold back the tears as Jaafar ruthlessly drove you toward the edge. 'Goodnight—'

You slammed your finger onto the red button on the screen, cutting the call off.

The phone call cut off, the red end-call button disappearing into the black screen of the device, leaving only the sound of your frantic, heavy breathing echoing against the high ceilings.

But Jaafar wasn't done with you. The adrenaline of the call, the lingering irritation from Ryan’s boundary-crossing presence, and the sheer heat of your tight, soaking walls had his blood boiling. He pulled out of you with a heavy, wet slide that made you gasp in protest, your body instantly feeling cold and empty without him.

Before you could even roll over, his hands were on you again. He grabbed your waist, flipping you effortlessly onto your hands and knees in the center of the large bed.

Jaafar climbed over you from behind, his heavy, solid weight anchoring you down against the mattress. He didn't wait. He lined himself up with your slick entrance and drove his thick length back inside you with one ruthless, unyielding plunge that bottomed out completely, hitting your cervix with a force that made you let out a high-pitched cry.

He began to move with a frantic, desperate speed, his hips slamming against your ass with a loud, rhythmic slapping sound that filled the quiet bedroom. He leaned down over your back, his broad chest pressing yours flat into the pillows. He reached one large hand forward, his long fingers tangling firmly into the roots of your hair, pulling your head back. At the same time, his other hand slid around to wrap securely around the front of your neck, his palm warm and unyielding against your skin, forcing you to look up and over your shoulder at him.

'Look at me,' he growled, his voice thick with a dark, heavy lust as he continued to hammer into you from behind. His eyes were completely black in the shadows, staring directly into yours with a terrifying intensity. 'Look at me while I'm breaking you open. You think anyone else can touch you like this? You think anyone else gets to hear you make these sounds?'

'N-no, Jaafar... nghh! No one... just you,' you sobbed out, your body shaking violently from the forced angle, your hips bucking back against his thighs in a desperate attempt to find relief from the overwhelming fullness.

'Damn right,' he rasped, his thumb pressing firmly against your jawline to keep your head tilted toward him, his thrusts growing even deeper, stretching you to your absolute limit. 'Every single piece of you belongs to me. I want you to remember the weight of my hands on your skin the next time a man tries to step into your space, you hear me?'

He let go of your hair and your neck, the sudden freedom making your head drop into the pillows as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, heavy strokes. But before the pressure could peak, he pulled out of you again, the abrupt loss of friction making you let out a loud, ruined wail of frustration.

'Jaafar, please! Don't stop, please don't stop...' you begged, your hands clawing at the mattress sheets.

A sharp smack echoed through the room as Jaafar’s large hand came down hard on your ass, the sting blooming hot across your skin. You cried out, clenching around him.

'Get up,' he panted, his breath ragged and hot against your bare shoulder.

He didn't give you a choice. He grabbed your wrists, pulling you off the bed entirely. Your bare feet hit the plush carpet, your knees buckling slightly from the sheer overstimulation, but Jaafar held you steady. He guided you across the dark penthouse suite toward the massive, dark wood desk where a large, ornate silver mirror hung on the wall, reflecting the dim city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He pushed you forward gently until your stomach was pressed flat against the cool, polished wood of the desk. He bent you over, your hands gripping the edges of the desk for support, your ass pushed back and elevated.

Jaafar stepped up behind you, his bare chest pressing flush against your spine. In the reflection of the big mirror, you could see everything. the flush of your skin, the sweat glistening on his broad shoulders, and the thick, heavy length of his erection pressing against your wet thighs.

He looked up, his dark eyes locking onto your reflection in the glass. He reached down, parting your thighs with his knee, and with one heavy, smooth thrust, he buried himself inside you from behind, the angle tilting your pelvis perfectly to hit your g-spot with absolute, brutal precision.

You let out a loud, breathless scream, your head tossing back as the visual and the physical sensation combined into a massive wave of overload.

'Look,' Jaafar commanded, his voice a low, dirty purr against your ear as he began to pound into you, his hips driving hard against you, shaking the heavy desk beneath your hands. 'Open your eyes and look at the mirror, baby.'

You forced your eyes open, looking through a blur of tears at the reflection. You watched the way his well-defined torso flexed with every deep stroke, the way his large hands came up to grip your hips, his thumbs digging into the dimples of your lower back to anchor you as he ruthlessly used your body.

'Look who makes you feel this good,' Jaafar growled, his jaw clenching as he accelerated the pace, his thrusts becoming faster, louder, the wet, squelching sounds of your bodies joining filling the air. 'Look who makes you cum every single night. Who is it, hm? Who? Tell me, baby, who?'

'You... it's you, Jaafar,' you cried out, your voice breaking as the friction inside you reached a white-hot temperature. Your knuckles turned white where you gripped the desk, your reflection showing your mouth parted in a continuous, breathless moan. 'Only you, baby, please... oh god, it's you.'

'Say it louder,' he muttered, his head burying into the crook of your neck, his teeth nipping at your shoulder blade while his lower body maintained the brutal, relentless rhythm. 'Tell me who owns you.'

'You do... ah! Jaafar, please, I'm gonna break, I can't hold it anymore!'

The visual of him completely dominating you in the glass, his dark eyes fixed on your ruined expression, was the final straw. Your inner muscles began to contract violently around him in a tight, clamping grip, signaling the onset of a massive climax.

But Jaafar wanted you back on the bed for the finish. He pulled out of you with a wet, heavy slide, ignoring your loud whimper of protest, and dragged your shaking body back to the mattress. He laid you flat on your back, pulling your legs up over his broad shoulders, opening you up completely to his deep, unmerciful thrusts once again. Every time his hips slammed against yours, it sent a shockwave straight to your core, driving you further into that state of helpless overstimulation.

He leaned over you, his knuckles white where they gripped the headboard for leverage, his dark curls damp with sweat. He looked down at you, his eyes entirely black, dilated with a heavy, primal lust.

'Look at how stretched open you are for me,' he rasped, his voice a low, dirty growl that vibrated against your skin. 'You like being filled up like this, don't you? Look at me, baby. Tell me how it feels to have my dick taking up every single inch of you.'

'Jaafar, please... it's so good,' you whined, your head tossing from side to side on the pillows.

Jaafar looked down at your parted, wet lips, his dark eyes burning. 'Oh, how much I love you, baby…drives me insane,' he rasped, voice thick with raw emotion and lust.

He didn’t lean down right away. Instead, he kept the torturous rhythm, pulling almost entirely out until only the swollen head of his cock teased your entrance, then plunging back in with a heavy, deliberate thrust that made your back arch off the bed.

The slow withdrawal and sudden deep stretch were driving you crazy. You looked up at his face, lips parted, sharp jaw clenched, curls damp with sweat. The overwhelming need to feel closer to him broke through.

'I wanna kiss you, baby. Please, kiss me,' you begged, voice trembling.

Jaafar looked down at your parted, wet lips, a dark, incredibly wicked smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. He didn't lean down. Instead, he accelerated his pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster, his hips slapping against your thighs with a ruthless rhythm.

'No,' he whispered, his voice a gravelly, torturous tease. 'You don't get to kiss me yet.'

'Jaafar, please—'

'I love how needy you sound when I starve you,' he muttered, his thumb reaching down to ruthlessly grind against your clit while he kept pounding into you, deliberately pushing you past your limit. 'Beg for it. Tell me how bad you need my mouth on yours while I'm stretching you out.'

'Please, baby, please kiss me, I need you, I need to taste you,' you sobbed, completely broken down by the overstimulation, your inner walls clamping around his thick length in desperate, erratic waves.

Hearing your voice crack, feeling the frantic, tight squeezing of your core, finally shattered the last of his restraint.

Jaafar let out a low, guttural growl, his broad chest collapsing down against yours, his heavy weight pinning you flat into the mattress. He grabbed your jaw with his large hand, his fingers digging firmly into your cheeks to force your mouth wide open, and he slammed his lips down against yours.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was deep, possessive, and incredibly nasty.

His tongue surged into your mouth, claiming you with the same fierce, unyielding aggression as his hips. He tasted like the rich bourbon from earlier and pure, raw heat, his tongue tangling with yours in a wet, frantic rhythm that matched the brutal pace of his lower body. He was pounding into you with a wild, unbridled ferocity now, his long fingers shifting from your jaw to tangle in your hair, holding your head completely still so you had to take every single bit of the kiss.

The sensory overload was absolute. You couldn't breathe, your mouth flooded with his taste, your ears filled with the sound of his heavy, ragged breathing and the wet, loud squelching of your bodies joining.

The friction inside you reached a fever pitch, your G-spot being hit with every single desperate, deep thrust. Your body tightened, your vision going entirely white as a massive, shattering orgasm tore through your nervous system, your throat letting out a muffled, choked scream straight into his mouth.

The violent, pulsing contractions of your release completely broke Jaafar. He let out a dark, muffled roar against your lips, his tongue taking one last, deep stroke of your mouth as he drove himself into you to the absolute hilt. He locked his hips flush against yours, his body trembling violently as he came, filling your tight, twitching core with thick, burning jets of his release.

He didn't break the kiss until both of your breathings completely ran out, finally pulling his lips back with a wet, heavy sigh, leaving you entirely spent, ruined, and completely his.

The silence returned to the penthouse, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breaths.

Slowly, gently, Jaafar pulled his legs down, climbing fully onto the bed and collapsing beside you. The dominant, terrifying aura completely evaporated, leaving behind the gentle, soft-spoken man you knew—but the possessiveness remained. He reached out, his large, warm hand sliding around your waist, his fingers curling into your hip in the exact same spot he had gripped at the party.

He pulled your trembling, spent body tight against his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head, his voice returning to that quiet, sweet rumble.

'Mine,' he whispered into your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction. 'Don't ever make me remind you again.'