Sopeeyyyaa

Once upon a time, you really thought you were some kind of upstanding citizen. You really thought you were a good friend to Piper, who invited you on her stupidly rich family’s vacation at a resort-spa in Thailand, all expenses paid. You really thought you’d be there to support her while she finessed her way through convincing her family that she’ll be moving here after college, and have a few massages and sunset cocktails on the side.

But that was not in the cards for you, and now you’re faced with the glaring fact of your loose morals. The fact is sitting across from you at a round table on the promenade, poking at a plate of crab eggs benedict. The fact is wearing a yellow polo and looking like he hates his life right now, or maybe he just has a hangover. 

You didn’t know Piper’s dad was going to be hot as shit. Piper didn’t know you’d find her dad hot as shit. Piper doesn’t know you’re a horrible, no good, very bad person, who is currently plotting ways to get her dad’s pants off in the quickest way possible.

Meanwhile, Timothy’s wife is sitting beside him in a bright purple kaftan, not exactly looking the best, herself. Something tells you she doesn’t even want to be on this plane of existence, or maybe it’s all the Lorazepam in her system. Victoria sniffs and smiles tightly at Piper.

“So, how’s the research coming, Piper?” Victoria draws out the word research like it’s an affront to her. You’re sure that it actually is, in some way.

“Good,” Piper says noncommittally around a bite of food. “The interview is on Friday, so I have some time to prepare.” Ah yes, the interview. The interview that actually is a meeting about her residency at the temple. 

“Oh, so you set it up?” Timothy’s voice nearly shoots you out of your seat. You shift uncomfortably, the backs of your thighs sticking to the wicker chair beneath them. 

“‘Course I did, dad,” Piper scoffs, “it’s not like I’m taking a shot in the dark here.”

You’re staring down at your plate of food like it’s the most riveting thing you’ve ever seen, because you don’t want to be giving that look to Timothy’s blue eyes instead. You’re afraid that if you lift your gaze, you will.

Your name comes oozing out of Saxon’s mouth coated in grime. “So what do you do?” 

Piper’s older brother has just about gotten on your last nerve; he knows he’s hot, and it makes him the least charming person in the room. But he won’t stop trying to get in your pants long enough for you to get into his dad’s pants, and it’s throwing you off your groove in a bad way.

“Sorry?” You bat your eyelashes like you don’t know exactly what he’s getting at. You’ve known Saxon for a grand total of two days and everything that he says seems to have the same underlying meaning.

Saxon flashes you a falsely bright smile with nothing behind the eyes. “You know. What gets you going? What makes you all… weak in the knees?” 

Lochlan chokes on his eggs. Victoria guffaws, and you try hard not to cringe at the bark of laughter. Piper hisses in disapproval at her older brother, who looks very self satisfied. 

Timothy says nothing. He stares at you apprehensively, waiting for your reply.

You still can’t hold in the smirk that crosses your face when you look Saxon in the eye and say, “Older men.”

“Oh my god,” Piper snaps, giving you a glare she had up until now been reserving for her misbehaving family members. “Seriously?” 

You shrug off her disdain just at the same time as Saxon grins at you, looking even more pleased. With a pointed look, he says, “I’m older than you.” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. As if you didn’t know that. You swear that he’s purposefully obtuse. 

You swirl your mimosa in your glass, and peer at him over the rim of your sunglasses coquettishly. “No, sweetheart. Older than you.” 

You could hear a pin drop with the hush that falls over the table. As you take a long, cold drink of your mimosa, you finally hear Victoria snicker, and you think that you know which side of the family Saxon favors. 

You flick your eyes over to Timothy and find him sitting back in his seat, regarding you with his full attention. Your heartrate kicks up, your skin burning with the heat of his stare. You’re glad that your sunglasses are dark enough to hide which way your gaze shifts. You turn your face a bit more towards the horizon, like you’re just admiring the view of the ocean, but you continue watching him with the animal instinct of a predator. 

Timothy has gone crimson around the ears, despite his cool demeanor. His forefinger nervously taps at the tablecloth, and then he looks down at his phone, which starts ringing, albeit quietly. 

“Dad,” Piper chastises, as she has been for the last two days. Timothy huffs a sigh through his nose, but he snatches up his phone and flicks his gaze from his phone, to you, and back. 

“I… I have to…” Timothy sort of jerks his phone upwards, as if no one at the table quite knows what he means, and then he bolts without a word. Chair scraping, silverware clanking, heels scuffing the floor, his retreat is as subtle as a hippopotamus dancing the Nutcracker.

“He’s very jetlagged,” Victoria tells you, her way of trying to excuse her husband’s decorum. Her fluttering hand hits the table beside your mimosa, like you and she are old friends and she’s just reminding you of how silly her cute little family is. It’s a demeaning gesture, a dismissive one. 

You hum. “So what’s Saxon’s excuse?”

“He was dropped on his head as a child,” Piper grumbles.

Saxon makes an ugly noise and throws his arms out in defiance. He doesn’t say anything snide back, though, and so the conversation ends there.

You, meanwhile, are still mulling over Timothy’s retreat, staring out at the horizon and only seeing his backside as he walks away.

Your day is spent hopping from massage to yoga to facial to poolside. There doesn’t seem to be a lack of things to do at the White Lotus, and you can almost forgive the hoity-toity atmosphere when you feel calmer than you have all year. 

The evening in Thailand comes with the chittering of birds and monkeys in the trees, the rustle of the leaves in the wind and the cool ocean air kissing your overheated skin. Body oils scented with jasmine and lavender on your skin mingle with the natural earthy smell in the ionized air. You could stay here forever, you think, with your feet dangling in the meditation fountain and your hand wrapped around a champagne flute.

You should really stop drinking. But maybe after you get home from this little vacation.

Because you are on vacation, as opposed to Piper’s reason for being here. Meeting her was the best thing to happen to you in college; without her support and her rigid approach to her studies, you probably would have dropped out ages ago. You aren’t even in the same program, you just happened to share a class or two early in your respective college careers, and you’ve been best friends ever since. 

Which is why you feel like the world’s worst person when you hear Timothy’s breathy “fuuuuuck me” over your shoulder, and your skin breaks out in the worst case of goosebumps you’ve had in a while. 

“Better be careful,” you say richly, your voice thick with champagne, “or I may take you up on that.” 

You absolutely should stop drinking.

Timothy’s face pops around a fence blocking the walkway from the courtyard. In the dim light through the windows of the main guest house, you can make out his brown hair, the shape of his jaw. His eyes twinkle at you like stars. 

Timothy walks around the fence. “Sorry you had to hear that.”

“Oh, I love some expletives to complement the view. Nothing more serene.” You flash him a flirty smile and kick your feet, splashing water in an arc. “Is this a fountain or a pond?”

“I think it’s a fountain, what with all the pissing monkeys,” Timothy concludes as he trods down the steps and approaches you. He points at the water features, statues of monkeys crouched on balls spitting water into the pool. You think they’re supposed to be balloons, but you could be wrong.

You watch him come forward with interest. Is he planning to sit beside you? Or just stand awkwardly to the side with his hands in his pockets like a proper, dignified father figure? You really wish he’d go for the former.

To your dismay, he goes for an in-between of pulling one of the porch chairs toward you and sitting behind you. A bit to the left so that you don’t have to crane your neck to see him, but still. That distance is too formal. Too respectful.

You wish he wasn’t so respectful. 

“Fountain, then,” you concede, and lean back on your hands so that the soft cotton of your bikini cover falls down your shoulder.

Contrary to the way you’ve been acting around Timothy since you met him, you aren’t much for seducing, or really for sleeping around in general. But something about him is making you act up, making you want to throw away all caution. 

Maybe it’s the way he spreads his legs apart when he sits like a fucking slut and leans back in his chair like he owns the goddamn resort. He acts like he’s taking in the view, but you can feel his eyes on your back like you can feel the cool water against your skin. The air is hot and sticky, and you feel stifled even with what little you have on.

“You’re stressed,” you point out after a moment. You don’t say anything else. In the silence that follows, you start counting the boats on the horizon. 

“That your clinical diagnosis?” Timothy asks after a moment. 

“Just an observation,” you hum, lifting your champagne flute to your lips. “You’re clutching that phone like it personally insulted you. Trouble back home?”

“You have no idea.” He lets out a breath like it’s something he’s been holding in for hours. Considering you’ve heard him deny that anything is amiss to his family about a million times so far, you’re sure that it feels nice to admit it to someone. He gives a half-frantic laugh. “Y’know, I don’t think I’ve been this stressed in… probably my entire life.” 

You try to reject the words before they come out of your mouth, but the alcohol wins out. “I know a way to fix that.”

“I’ve got about twenty people telling me to get a massage, and I’m not doing it.” He sounds petulant, like a child. Over your shoulder, his arms are crossed, his eyes focused on his feet, pouting. It makes you giggle a little. 

“That’s not my preferred form of stress relief.” A pause. “Would you like a demonstration?”

You have an insatiable need to see what happens when you push his buttons. The thought of what he might do, how far you might need to push before he snaps, makes you squirm a bit. You cross your legs, the cool water dripping along your skin and causing ripples in the fountain below.

Timothy fixes you with a piercing blue stare, and you suddenly know where Saxon got his from. This one is more refined, more practiced. It’s not being played to an advantage, it’s simply calculating. Saxon tries to mirror his daddy, but he’ll never quite have the same amount of easy power Timothy holds with just a look.

The breeze picks up just a bit. The leaves rustle in the trees. There’s a heartbeat pounding between your legs, and you have to force yourself to keep looking into his eyes, and not down, not at his crotch, never at his crotch. 

Timothy leans forward and you still, your breath practically hitching in your throat. You squeeze your thighs tight together to stave off the ache, and it only succeeds in making it worse, like acknowledging there’s an ache at all is enough to ramp it up. 

He raises his hand, and with the slightest brush of his fingers, pulls the shoulder of your swimsuit cover back up over your collarbone. You blink. The gesture is so simple, so ineffectual, it takes you aback. Then, he plucks the champagne flute from your hand, and before you can protest, tosses the rest of it back in one gulp.

“You’ve had enough to drink tonight,” he mutters under his breath, sweet and sultry, and chucks you under the chin as he gets up, like a kid. 

Your face is burning. Your body is on fire. You feel like an idiot, and what’s more, you feel like throwing a tantrum, which would only reaffirm what he just did to you. 

You don’t say anything as you watch him walk away from you, again, because you know that you’d only embarrass yourself further, and possibly throw a fit while you’re at it. You don’t know what more you could do tonight, aside from stomp your feet and yell at him to let you suck his dick, which is less seductive and more desperate.

And you’re not desperate. You don’t think. 

So, you let him leave. And once he disappears into the master bedroom, you leap up from your seat, splashing water, and snatch your champagne flute from the patio table. You stalk back to your room, ready to rub one out in the shower and pass out for the next fifteen hours.

You creep back into the room you share with Piper, trying not to make too much noise, but your drunken movements are not as subtle as you want to think they are. As you pad toward the bathroom, you hear Piper call your name softly from across the room.

You turn to find her looking at you over her shoulder, curled up in bed. She blinks at you, looking as soft as a kitten under the covers. “Don’t fuck my dad.”

“I’m not gonna fuck your dad,” you huff angrily, smacking the bathroom light. It seems enough to satisfy her. But, as you close the bathroom door, you catch your eye in the mirror, and the unspoken last word of that sentence dances tantalizingly on your tongue.

Yet.

Today is day three at the White Lotus, which means you have roughly five days left to fuck Timothy Ratliff. Which, you would have thought, is going to be a difficult undertaking. Except that he won’t stop looking at you. 

All morning, at breakfast, his eyes focused on you from across the table. Your leg shook under the table, trying to keep from staring back at him. All the while, you could feel him trying to undress you with his eyes. It felt almost salacious, with Victoria sitting next to him, with Piper sitting next to you. 

You won’t be getting into heaven anytime soon, you gather.

Then, there’s some hullabaloo about the family needing to give up all of their electronics for “spiritual serenity” or whatever the fuck, and you honestly could throw yourself into the ocean. Now you’re feeling just about as stressed as Timothy looks, and it was his fucking idea in the first place. 

You spend the afternoon laying on the pool deck, sipping at vodka tonics and staring at the cerulean sky above you, wishing you were dead. Your mind won’t stop playing Timothy, Timothy, Timothy on a loop, just to torment you with what you don’t have. Timothy, on his back for you. Timothy, and his piercing fucking blue eyes staring up at you from between your legs. Timothy and his hips pressed up against yours, your back to his chest in the shower, warm water spilling over your–

Against your will, your entire body is turned on again. You shift in your seat, feeling wet between your legs, and it pisses you off even more. What are you supposed to do now, if you can’t fuck your best friend’s dad and you don’t have your phone? 

“I’m suffering more than Jesus,” you bleat pathetically after a moment, jamming the heels of your palms into your eye sockets, like it’ll fix everything. You see stars behind your darkened eyelids.

“Amen to that,” says the girl in the chair beside you. You’ve seen her around; she’s beautiful, with big eyes and a smile that lights up the room. She has a boyfriend twice her age who always seems to be avoiding her. 

You turn to look at her. She turns her head to smile at you, and you feel a little more relaxed just at the sight of it. 

Shifting onto your side, you prop your head on your hand. “If you were gonna fuck your best friend’s dad, how would you go about it?” 

The girl stares at you like Bambi, completely stunned by the question. “Um… I don’t know that I would?” 

“Of course,” you grumble, flopping back down onto the pool lounger. The consensus is clear. “I’m a horrible person.”

“Hey, I’m not judging,” the girl says, her smooth British accent twinkling in the air. “But, I mean, if that’s your best friend, maybe it’s not the best idea to let a man cause a rift?”

“Sure,” you answer. Makes sense. “But he’s so hot. Like, I could die. But then I’d die never having fucked him, and it makes me sad to think… If I think too long, I’ll cry about it.”

The girl scoffs, and you turn your head to find her suppressing her laughter. She catches your eye, and tries to rein it in. “Are you always so dramatic?”

“All my life.” You settle back in your seat. The sun warms your legs, and you heave a sigh. “I mean, I propositioned him last night, and he was all dismissive about it. Like, he’s one of these good guys that’re all, ‘oh, but my wife…’ y’know, except that his wife is constantly fucking zonked out of her gourd on benzos, so I doubt she’d even notice if she walked in on him balls deep in some other piece of ass. And today he keeps giving me the eyes, you know, the ones that’re like, ‘I’m thinking about fucking you in my head right now.’ And my best friend, right, she’s all, ‘don’t you dare fuck my dad,’ but like, she’s going to become a buddhist monk at the temple on the hill for a year, so what will it matter to her that I fucked her dad when she’s pursuing spiritual enlightenment? I mean, it’s not like I’m trying to get spiritually enlightened, I just want to sit on his dick. And what if that is the key to my spiritual enlightenment, huh? What about my soul’s journey?”

The girl is nodding slowly, looking slightly horrified. “Your soul’s journey… is sitting on your best friend’s dad’s dick?”

“Maybe it is, I don’t know. Who’s to say? But would you begrudge me that if you were my best friend?”

She blows a raspberry of a laugh. “Sounds like a real pisser.”

“Yes, it is, thank you,” you agree, and snatch your vodka tonic from the patio table. You take a long, cooling drink, and sniff ruefully. “But how do I get him to see that, is the question.”

The girl hums, looking like she’s really mulling that one over. “I mean, if he’s giving you the eyes, maybe he’s already made up his mind?”

“Maybe.” You swirl the ice in your glass, ruminating. “Maybe I could shove my tits in his face or something.”

“You do have nice tits,” the girl says, pointedly looking at them. “That might work.”

“It has to work. He’s a guy.” You slurp the dregs of your drink and smile over at her. “This has been great. I’m so glad I talked with you about it, um…”

“Chelsea.”

“Chelsea!” You stand, a little wobbly on your feet. “So good to meet you. If I see you again I’ll let you know how it went.”

As you walk away from her, you hear her floaty voice saying, “Can’t wait.”

You look for him at the bar. You look for him on the promenade, in the lounge, in the gardens, at every possible pool. He’s nowhere, and you feel more and more frustrated by the second. 

You run into Piper at one point, who tells you she’s turning in for the night. You make up some excuse about wanting to go for a night swim, but really, you just don’t want to have to crawl into bed in the same room as her and have hideously vivid wet dreams about her dad. 

You end up back in the courtyard beside the “pissing monkey” fountain, lamenting life. You really shouldn’t be, and that’s what makes it suck that much worse. You’re in a gorgeous country, surrounded by beauty, and luxury, and fucking wellness, and all you can think about is that you don’t have him. You walked around so much that you don’t even feel the buzz from the alcohol anymore, so you just have your misery to contend with on this, frankly gorgeous, night.

After a few minutes of listening to the splashing of the fountain and staring at the stars, you hear a rustling. And that turns into clanking, which turns into cursing. You frown and get up to peer through the darkness, looking for the source of the noise. Then, the gate to the courtyard swings open, and Timothy charges in. 

And he really charges, stomping like he’s on a mission from God, or something. He stops short of the fountain and stares at you, out of breath. His hair is disheveled. He looks positively livid. 

“Timothy,” you say, a little shocked at the state of him. You look him over. “Rough night?”

He says nothing, at first. Then he comes towards you, and you startle, staggering backwards before he grabs you and plants a kiss on you. Your hands find his arms, fingers digging into his biceps, and the wind has been stolen from your lungs by the time he lets go. 

“Sorry, I–” he chokes out, looking a little dazed. His eyes are a bit glazed over, but they rake over your face with a base amount of embarrassment. “I needed to do that before I changed my mind.” 

Your hands move on their own, sweeping his hair away from his forehead in a gesture far more familiar than you ever have been with him. The creases in his brow relax, just a bit. You tilt your head and hum. Well, so much for subtlety. “Would you like to take me up on that demonstration now?”

He nods once, curtly. “It’s Tim.”

You frown. “Tim?”

“You called me Timothy,” he clarifies. His hand finds the side of your face, caressing your cheek like he’s not even paying attention to what he’s doing. You fight the urge to close your eyes and lean into the touch. “My friends call me Tim.” 

You smile conspiratorially. “We’re not gonna be friends.”

“Oh, no?” There’s a little smile curling at his lips, like you amuse him. His accent comes out a little thicker when he says, “Tell me, what are we gonna be?”

You shake your head, your smile growing even as you reach up onto your toes to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head, captures you in a deeper kiss like he’s not willing to play games. No, you guess that he’s not– he’s gripping your waist like he means business, hauling you against him, his thigh pressed between your legs to give you something sturdy to lean against. 

You’re two seconds from feeling like your head’s on backwards when he sucks a sharp breath and pulls away. 

“Wait–” he whispers. “Your room?”

You pause. “Piper’s in our room. Yours?”

“Victoria.”

“Shit,” you curse, looking frantically around the courtyard. Your back is to a dark alcove, surrounded by fencing and a hedge that shields it from prying eyes. Good enough. “Fuck it.”

You yank him by the collar, turning him so that he stumbles and collapses onto the patio lounger behind you. He grabs you by the hips and you come down hard onto his lap, eliciting a groan and a hiss from him as you straddle his waist. 

“We’re gonna have to be quiet,” you whisper against his mouth as your hands work over his belt. “Think you can manage it?” 

Timothy– Tim– pulls back and gives you a condescending look as you palm him, and he watches you bemusedly as your eyes go wide. “Can you?” 

Shit. All your dirty thoughts over the past few days didn’t prepare you for the sheer size of him, the fact of which is now pressing against the front of his trousers. Your mouth fills with saliva, and you swallow before you grit out, “Guess we’ll just have to see, huh?” 

His eyes linger on your lips for a second, and then he kisses you. Greedy hands squeeze your ass, making you gasp into his mouth, and his tongue licks in to taste you. Slowly, his hand slides up your back to the tie of your swimsuit top and tugs once to unravel it.

Your top slips from your chest and settles around your waist, allowing your oversensitive breasts to feel the slight breeze in the air. You moan into Tim’s mouth, your hands finding their place in his hair to pull, your hips rocking forwards as he squeezes your breast. 

His thumb strokes over your nipple, and you shiver, trying hard not to squirm too much against him. But his hand pulls you flush against him, your hips slotted perfectly over his, and the contact is too precious not to. Your hips bear down, your teeth graze his lower lip, and Tim groans softly against you. 

“Tim, fuck,” you gasp into his mouth. The kiss turns passionate, leaving you aching and starving for the feeling of his hands on your body. 

“Thought you said we weren’t gonna be friends,” Tim murmurs, quirking an eyebrow at you while his thumb continues to circle your nipple. 

Your head spins incessantly. “I’ll be whatever you want me to be, if you keep touching me like that.”

Tim chuckles, but doesn’t hazard a reply. Instead, he dips his head, and his lips become entranced by your collarbone, or so it seems. Heat blooms and spreads up your back, tickling the nape of your neck and making your head fall back with a sigh. 

The throbbing in your core is maddening, coupled with the melting warmth of Tim’s lips making their way across your skin. You have to steel yourself not to whimper aloud, not to make too much noise. It’s harder than you thought it would be. 

And then Tim’s hand makes its way between your legs to cup your cunt, and you nearly choke. 

You whine, your fists tightening on his shirt. You’re impressed that you don’t manage to tear it with how hard you yank at him, and Tim shushes you with a severe look that steals all the noise from your throat. 

His fingertips brush the waistband of your swimsuit, and you don’t know what to do with yourself. You grab fistfuls of his hair, shaking with all of your pent up anticipation. You’ve wanted this for days, and now you have him under you, with his hand right where you need it.

The feeling of his fingertip tracing over your clit is torturously blissful, and you die just a little bit. Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out– you think you forget to breathe, altogether. Tim’s cool gaze is fixed on your face, watching you as he pumps two fingers into you, curls them with devastating precision. 

“Darlin’,” Tim coos softly, just loud enough for you to hear it, when you rock your hips forward onto his palm. “That’s it, sweet girl.” 

Your heart pounds in your chest as you feel him, ever so slowly, withdraw his hand. You watch dazedly as he lifts his two fingers and smells you on them, the evidence of your arousal glistening in the moonlight. His eyes flutter shut as he sucks his fingers into his mouth.

It’s written all over your face– he’s shocked you. And you thought you were the one being a pervert, but it seems you’ve met your match. As he pulls his fingers from his lips and meets your eye, you swat his hand away and crash your lips against his, licking into his mouth like you want to try to taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands find their way back to his undone belt, and you finally reach in to grasp the length of him. Wonderfully thick and rigid in your palm, you stroke him, eliciting a groan that melts into your mouth.

It’s your turn to shush him as you pull his cock free, allowing your fingers to have their way with feeling him. Quick in his own movements, Tim twists the ties of your swimsuit bottoms between his fingers and pulls, tugging the fabric loose. 

You take his cue for what it is. You toss your swimsuit bottoms over your shoulder to where, you’re sure, it falls into the fountain. 

You push Tim back to recline on the patio lounger, lift your hips, and there, fifteen feet away from his family’s hotel rooms, you lower yourself onto his cock.

It feels good. It feels like you should have been doing this for fucking ever, but it’s hard not to think that when he’s stretching you out in the most wonderful way imaginable. 

Tim groans far louder than he should, and you clap your hand over his mouth quickly. The ensuing slap sound echoes in the hollow of the courtyard, but you aren’t sure if it could be heard inside over the noise of the fountain. You turn your head, peering through the darkness at the curtained windows of the guest house, trying to see if there’s any movement. 

Tim stays as still as you are, his staccato breath ghosting over your knuckles. Once you’re satisfied that you’re still in the clear, you pull your hand away from his mouth and bend over him. His grunt is softer this time. 

Your lips graze his ear. “Quiet.” His huff of a laugh is all the answer you need.

You swirl your hips, pick yourself up and lower down. You start off slow, if anything to keep him from making too much more noise. Your name falls from his lips, so softly that you can barely hear it over the noise of the fountain.

Tim’s hands grasp your waist, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. Your pace quickens, the patio chair creaking with the force of your hips grinding down into his. Tim begins to guide you as he meets you with his own thrusts, hitting that perfect, elusive spot inside you each time.

He sits up, his chest connecting with yours as his nose brushes the shell of your ear. He pulls you down hard onto him, making you gasp. You throw your arms around his shoulders instinctively as his teeth find the soft joint of your shoulder.

“C’mon,” he growls into your ear. “You can do better than that.” 

Your hair stands on end at his goading, his voice laced with condescension. You drop your head and bite down on his shoulder as you rock your hips into his. Lifting one hand, you slide it between your bodies to touch your clit.

“That’s right, good girl,” he hisses, his voice so impassioned that you feel like a coil ready to snap. “Make yourself come, I want to feel it.”

Tim jerks his hips up ungodly hard into yours, and you almost cry out. Almost. Instead, you bear down onto him, with your teeth and with your core, and you shatter. Your cunt pulses around him as he tugs you further onto him, and your free hand snatches at the back of his shirt to keep you steady.

The feeling of your orgasm only seems to spur him on. While you’re still in it, with waves of the aftershocks rolling through you, Tim somehow manages to maneuver you onto your back. The cushion gives under you, but you don’t have time to process the comfort before you have to clap your hand over your mouth.

Because Tim is now chasing his own high. And you should have known that Mr. Stressed-As-Fuck was going to be relentless. 

He hitches your leg up and his hips surge forward into you, and you scramble to grab the side of the lounger. You think you hear it scrape against the cement, but you can barely comprehend anything when he’s stealing the thoughts from your mind, until you can think of nothing but him. 

Eyes rolling back, one hand flung upward to keep your head from hitting the backrest, you think you hear him snarling something under his breath. His hips stutter, and he comes with short, quick gasps.

Your body hums, your limbs tingling. Tim’s arms steady him on either side of you, and he falls slack, his head resting against your bare stomach.

Your breath steadies, and you finally gather the courage to say, “Piper can’t know about this.” 

“No one can know about this,” Tim commands, pushing himself up. You see him in your periphery, but you can’t bring yourself to move. You think he’s completely ruined your state of equilibrium. You assume that he’s putting himself to rights. He looks at you sternly, like you’ve somehow disappointed him. As if you aren’t spread-eagled on a pool chair, with the evidence of what you just did leaking out of you.

“No, I know that,” you snap, rolling your eyes. But you look imploringly at him. “I’m just saying. Piper can not know about this. It’ll kill her.”

“Yeah,” Tim nods after a moment. “Okay.”

You stare at the sky for a few moments. “So. Want to talk about it?” 

Tim laughs. Not just a huff, but a full blown bark of laughter. “My life is already as fucked as it can get right now. I don’t think we should.”

You hum, pushing yourself up onto your elbows. “Fair enough. I’m good at keeping secrets.”

“Secrets,” Tim parrots. He looks you over, his eyes lingering for a moment between your legs. “Want a… a drink, or something?” 

You smirk. Maybe you’re getting ahead of yourself, but you feel like if you go with him anywhere now, you’re bound to repeat this encounter. Probably several times. 

“Actually,” you say, “I’m giving up drinking.” 

“Oh,” Tim replies, his eyebrows shooting up. He looks impressed– maybe even proud. “Well. Good for you.” 

“Give it two weeks,” you grumble. You swing your leg over the chair and sit parallel to him, untying your swimsuit top so that it’s not fastened around your waist anymore. You clutch the fabric in your hand, and look over your shoulder at him with a smile. “Have a good night, Tim.” 

“Right.” As though he was just waiting for his cue to leave, he stands up and gives you a patronizing look. “Drink water.”

“Sure thing.” 

You watch him leave. And even though you aren’t as frustrated as you had been last night, you wistfully still hope that, somehow, you’ll have him again.

Just, preferably in a bed next time.

You wake in the morning to something that feels like a cold fish slapping you in the face.

Yelping, you jolt up in bed. Tits out, completely naked save for the sheet on your bed, you catch the thing that had stuck to your face as it peels itself away and falls into your outstretched hands.

“Lochy found your bikini bottoms in the fountain,” Piper hisses. “What the fuck did you do last night?” 

“I told you,” you grumble, wadding up the wet swimsuit bottoms and tossing them through the bathroom door, “I went night swimming.”

“Bottom-nude?” Piper looks entirely unconvinced. “Your top was in the shower this morning. What, did you just go around pantsless for my entire family to see?” 

“No,” you object. Not the entire family, anyway. “I was just… I dunno. A little out of it.”

Piper wrinkles her nose at you. “You have got to stop drinking. You smell like a barroom floor.” 

As she stomps into the bathroom, you flop back into bed and cover your eyes. Then, something occurs to you that you hadn’t thought about the night before.

“Hey, Piper?” you call, a little shrill as your anxiety spikes. “Do you think room service carries Plan B?”

Ever since Baelor Targaryen had wed the young, sweet, insatiably cunning thing with silver hair—blood of his own blood—he surmised he’d need to keep an eye on the time of month if he knew what was good for him.

He didn’t want a son. He scarcely had any desire to ascend the Iron Throne himself, and yet he was bombarded, always, with admonitions, queries, downright pleas to procreate. To produce an heir.

Because of this reality, it wasn’t lost on the man in the slightest why he had been promptly paired off with you

Another inch gliding inside of wet and slippery perfection, and his whole body seemed to shake. Your cunt sucked at him delectably, temptingly, and it was getting harder and harder to keep the need at bay.

“Seven hells,” he cursed, just as his balls kissed the globes of your ass, and he was completely sheathed.

You’d offered him head after that trial at the Tourney of Ashford, if one could believe it. You’d welcomed him home that night with a hug and a kiss, marveling the multitude of bumps and bruises and lacerations he’d sustained in the fight, and then, just as fast, fallen to your knees. It had only taken four or five bobs of your mouth and a couple more kitten licks up his shaft before Baelor had lifted you and thrown you on the bed

And here he was, again, exactly where he’d promised himself he’d never be the week you were ovulating.

“Baelor,” you whined, canting your hips upward to make the slide of his cock that much more maddening and deep. You threaded your fingers through the short gray hairs at the nape of his neck, and when he hadn’t answered you in words, you said, even louder, “Uncle.”

“Hush, my dear,” Baelor implored. Another clench of your velvety heat, and his hips were stuttering again. “Y-You know I am not ‘Uncle’ when I sink this far ins—”

One more fluttering pulse. One more helpless grunt from him. Particulars about when his niece should and shouldn’t say ‘uncle’ were shortly lost to the ether.

You were much too young to be a mother. He was too old to be raising any child alongside you—it was wrong.

The bed creaked and groaned some more beneath you both, while your legs wrapped tight around the backs of his, and his cock plunged repeatedly in and out, in and out. He could feel your essence drooling from the place he had you plugged, and he hated how dearly he loved the feeling of it smearing his skin. Matting the wiry hairs at the base of his abdomen and making him feel, more than any measly Trial of Seven or other bloodshed event he had yet lived to see, like he belonged. Like he were born to serve a purpose.

He couldn’t be so selfish as to do it, though.

Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong.

The words hummed through his skull like a broken refrain, and when, at length, your back arched from the bed and your whimpers grew higher and higher in pitch, Baelor took comfort in the fact that you were close—that very soon, all of this would be over with.

“I— I—” you fumbled around for words, eyes rolling back as the wet smack of skin suddenly increased.

“Shh, shhh, that’s a good girl. I know it,” Baelor assuaged you gently. Pressing the tip of his cock to that sweet and special spot he knew would send you careening over the edge and into bliss in no time at all.

His thrusts were quick but as tender as ever; in just these few short months of marriage, the old man had come to learn your body like the back of his hand. He could tell by the way your nose scrunched presently that it wouldn’t be long before you reached your peak, and then his tight, hot, needy, greedy little minx of a wife would be satisfied. At least until the break of day.

“It’s alright, darling. You can let go. Go on then. Come.”

He plunged in to the hilt once again, and you shrieked.

“Baelor.”

“Come for me.”

Nails the shape of crescents clawed deep within his skin, and he could feel you. Squeezing him. Swelling.

“Baelor.”

“Darling, please—”

“I— I— I thought— I thought I’d lost you tonight.”

The words came out in a slurred, frenzied rush. Rather than hitting your high, like he’d hoped, you were releasing something else entirely: a feeling. Fear.

Or terror, as it happened to be.

Eyes widening out of panic, as opposed to the aftershocks of orgasm, startled Baelor abruptly.

Before he could even think: “What do you mean?”

“The Trial of Seven—I could not bear to watch it. I was certain you would be maimed, or—or, oh, I can’t say it!”

“That I might die?”

His movements slowed but didn’t stall entirely. He was still holding you, or cradling you, as it were, and your body was splayed with such abandon. You spread yourself to him but remained glued to his body like a second skin. Baelor only ever knew you to behave this way when he took you to bed. Every other hour of the day, you were as fiercely independent as one could be.

“You never told me—” he started delicately.

“I’d be left with nothing,” you went on, in almost a sob. “If you…passed, I’d have nothing to remember you by.”

As if on cue, he felt his cock twitch. Stiff as a fucking rock and planted halfway inside your heat, he felt a pull like he never had before. Baelor swallowed the thought as fast as it came and resumed his ministrations then, this time reaching down to thumb circles on your clit.

“You’d have memories aplenty, wife, would you not?” He tried schooling his features into something like unaffected complaisance, but the effort was largely in vain. His length was still throbbing with sick ideas.

“And what sort of company should memories be to me?” you huffed. Your own expression seemed bent on petulance for the time being, but your resolve was evidently waning. With the friction of those little shapes, your inner muscles tightened and clenched.

Fighting off orgasm anyway, you managed, quietly, “No, I— I wished I had had a part of you in my belly.”

That made Baelor halt in place.

Cock stretching you very nearly to your body’s limits—he was an abnormally large man, and you had only just learned to accommodate a girth of that size on your wedding night—he froze, as did the pace of his hand.

He spoke your name in a low and warning tone.

You rolled your eyes, as you were often wont to do.

“Don’t speak to me as though I’m naïve, uncle. I understand the purpose of this union as well as you!”

“To strengthen the repute of our House—”

“To preserve our bloodline!” you snapped. Digging your heels into his calves while a soft and strangled breath crawled its way out of your lungs. “Which we…cannot accomplish so long as you withdraw and spill your seed over my stomach or down my throat each night.”

Baelor was taken back by the frankness of your speech; indeed, he’d never heard his niece so uninhibited when it came to the subject of childbearing. You looked as austere as ever.

“If I ever lose you in combat someday…” you went on.

Then you swallowed and blinked harder, and Baelor could hear his heart splintering at the sight of it alone.

“If I could have just something to keep of us—”

While you spoke, Baelor sank in. Resumed.

He stroked your cheek, shaking his head.

“You won’t lose me. I swear by the old gods and new.”

That seemed about as good of a promise as any one man could make. Though no day was guaranteed for the prince of the realm, and there very well might be a time when his life hung in the balance, he could give that assurance: come what may, you wouldn’t lose him

At the same time, your body drew him closer to yours.

Now the warmth between your legs had risen to a near-conflagration, and that sweet, wet, precious tunnel of muscle and quivering flesh pulled at his cock taut as anything. He’d never felt such need, or heat, in his life, and the light that flared in your eyes reminded him just who you were, and where he came from, too.

It’d be a shame to leave this world without a namesake

Pity to rot away into the cold and hardened dirt without having left his mark in some way, with you.

Now to fuse a piece of himself inside your womb and see family grow from it: children with your silver hair and fiery gaze, all sunny and strong and steadfast, too.

The thought consumed him to the point of paralysis—at least in his mind, he was rooted in awe of that idea.

It happened before he meant it to.

Crashing his hips to your own in a kind of desperate, frenetic movement and then letting out a full-throated groan, he emptied himself completely inside you. He felt rope after rope spit from his hot, aching tip with every pulse of his cock, and he didn’t regret a drop.

What he could, and did, lament was how fast it came. Had you gotten the chance to hit climax yet yourself?

The answer to that followed from your cry in almost the same second—lips parting, legs trembling, body convulsing, momentarily, before your eyes flitted up.

You seemed almost incredulous of what you’d just felt flooding your insides as your orgasm washed over you. A little frightened, perhaps, to think your husband had only done this by accident and didn’t want the same things as you. The only way Baelor could think to put a stop to those thoughts, and savor the present moment, was to kiss you. So he did, tenderly.

When your body relaxed, so did his own.

His tongue traced every contour and crevice of your mouth, and in no time, the man had procured solace once more with the simple undulation. You kissed him back with all the force of a woman starved, lips needy.

Only now, it seemed, the wanting wasn’t just physical.

Primal seemed more fitting a word as limbs tangled even tighter together, mouths clashed, and hands reached everywhere, anyplace they possibly could. Baelor remained buried inside you, stuffing you full.

And when the two of you had had to part, eventually, after several dozen eternities that still couldn’t have lasted quite long enough, he beamed down at you.

With a newfound feeling and an unmistakable heat beginning to trickle down your thighs, you smiled back.

Valarr: Service Top

Valarr is the sweetest and he just wants to make his partner feel good. And he does... so well it inspires the envy of all his female viewers. He probably even uploads a tutorial at one point after all the requests. But Valarr's favourite videos to film are the ones where he just gets to slot between his partner's thighs and go to town, licking slowly and firmly up her slit and sucking on her clit until she's a mess. He loves to push his fingers in slowly until she cries out for more, only then getting up to fuck her. One of the more vanilla guys as he's still less experienced, but his filming partner seems more than pleased and he makes sure she's cum at least twice before does.

Maekar: Brat Tamer

Oh Maekar... the gruff old man and the younger, taunting brat in his bed. He puts her in her place without hesitation, pushing her head into the mattress as she wiggles her ass at him, desperate for relief. He's mean, fucking her hard and fast and then pulling away as she's about to cum, making her apologise for acting out, before finally shoving his cock back in. He goes live a lot and tells the viewers that she's only allowed to cum once they give her permission - and then pretending he doesn't see their messages as she pleads for release.

(Brat Tamer Maekar brings his older, handsome friend with mismatched eyes in one day to treat his little brat to a threesome too...)

Baelor: Romantic Couple

Baelor's channel is for the viewers who want to see a ridiculously hot and in-love couple fuck. Their videos always end up making their way onto third-party sites because they're that good. They do it all - slow, passionate sex; hard and fast quickies; soapy bath sex. And it's never sloppy - there's always some aspect of firmness and intention with every thrust of his hips or movement of limbs. Baelor's firm voice guides his partner's actions as he takes most of the control, but occasionally lets her lead (but only for a short while, then he's flipping her over with a grunt). Plus, Baelor has stamina, and their sessions go on for ages until both are literally unable to move from exhaustion. He always cums inside and zooms in on the creampie, his voice captured as he tells her to keep it all inside. Baelor loves eye contact too and the viewers are always commenting on the way he stares his partner down before practically pouncing on her.

Dunk: Size Kink

Duncan, Duncan, Duncan. Such a big man with such a big cock, and yet the sweetest temperament. Probably got convinced to upload a sex tape one time and then realised the market for a man of his size absolutely demolishing his sweet partner. He has three cameras set up: one for a general shot, one to zoom in on his partner's face as he stretches them out, and one handheld device. Dunk loves to film the moment he pushes inside and capture the way his partner's body tries to take him in, but struggles to accept him. Loves missionary and mating press positions to really highlight how much larger he is, his body covering his partner's entirely, only hands scratching down his back visible to the lens. Also films the belly bulge that appears when he fucks deep into her womb. AND he's such a groaner oh my god. Like the most filfthy, needy groans as he feels his cock being squeezed.

Lyonel: Brat Tamer/Switch

Lyonel can be fun or he can be serious and the viewers never quite know what they'll get with each video. When he's in brat tamer mode, he's got his partner on their knees, taking his cock into their mouth until they gag and cry, looking up at him so sweetly. He's taunting her and telling the camera how bad she had been all day, so now he needed to sort out her attitude. He'd spank her and make her count until her ass was so red he almost felt bad. But as a switch? Oh Lyonel is so much more fun! He's happy to lie back in his silky sheets and let his partner ride him for her own pleasure, gripping her hips to help her grind down on him once she starts to tire. He'd smirk up at her, gripping her breasts as he let his enjoyment of his position show to the viewers.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

He can run you a warm bath and/massage your body. He'll do your night time routine for you, put on your creams, oil your body, etc. Anything. He'll make sure the sheets are clean and leave a glass of water on your nightstand for you. He will even prepare your bathrobe, slippers, or anything you usually wear around the house/in the morning, so it's ready for you when you wake up. He'll change you into some fresh pajamas and join you in bed, wrapping his arms around you until you fall asleep.

B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)

Obviously, his thighs are his favorite body part and his pridest accomplishment strength wise. These strong legs can take him anywhere and do many things but his favorite, is having you perched on top of one, while you grind and masturbate yourself against it until you cum and make a mess.

Randy is a boobs guy. He loves how perfectly your tits fit in his big hands and how they bounce when he fucks you. He's obsessed with them he can never look away when he's right in front of them. Always sucking, pinching or grabbing them. If you get them pierced, it's gonna get 10x worse.

C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)

Randy looks like a freak that loves playing with his cum. Cumming all over your tits and spreading his seed all around to make them shine. He loves watching you play with his cum and tease him with your cum-filled mouth—opening it wide and letting it spill from your mouth and drip down your chin all the way down your body. "You want my cum, huh, sweet thing?" "That's right, cover yourself with my cum, you're looking real pretty like that." He has fun hearing you beg for it and loves making you wait and tease you. Edge himself on purpose sometimes and loves filling you up with multiple loads of cum, that's his way of claiming you. It's tricky because your creampies (cum filled pussy) can turn him on even more.

D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

Randy secretly loves being rimmed. (Get his ass licked) He didn't admit it right away, but when you decided one time to play a little while you were making love to his cock, licking a little further down, your tongue got really closed to his hole. He couldn't lie after that. He also loves wearing your tights and panties from time to time. Just for funsies.

E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)

Randy has a lot of experience in the bedroom. Especially with multiple women in his younger years. (Maybe also men but that's another story) He learned how to control his nut and not cum. Now, he can edge himself and cum as he wants easily. Meaning, he is an expert at pulling out in time before cumming inside of you. He is also an expert at making any women squirt, even the ones that said they never did so before. Randy never failed and always delivered in that department.

F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)

He loves sitting in the bed while you're on top, straddling him. The perfect position for intimacy, because you two are close to each other while your arms are wrapped around his neck, he can look at you and see all your little facial expressions and the pleasure on your face, he can whisper in your ear and most importantly your tits are right there for him to watch and put in his mouth as he wants. Any position with you on top is his favorite and any positions where he can see and touch your breasts he loves. Not a fan of backshots, but loves doing them in front of a mirror, again because of your tits he can look at.

G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)

Randy can be a goofy guy, he likes making jokes and all but not really in the bedroom. He's more of the serious and teasing type during sex, than being goofy and cracking jokes. This takes place before and after the do.

H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)

Randy likes to keep himself well groomed. He likes to keep a little bit of hair down there, but he trims it regularly. One time for Valentine's Day, he trimmed his hair in the shape of a heart.

I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

I think he's romantic, or at least he can be. No matter how or when he fucks you, it's always intimate. Loves holding you close, kissing your shoulders and asking you to look at him the whole time—especially when you cum. He's big on eye contact, he wants you to look at him. "Sweetheart, look at me, I wanna see those pretty eyes."

J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)

Randy rarely masturbates when he's home. He doesn't have to because you're there to satisfy all his needs. When he's on the road though, that's a different story. Send him a picture of your tits and he'll be looking at it non stop. "Send me your tits, I need something to make me smile" "I miss your tits, sweet thing" "Where is my daily tits picture?!" He loves texting you a picture of the mess he made afterwards. "Look at the mess you made me do, princess... Next time, I want my cum all over your tits instead."

K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)

Foot fetish. For whatever reason he gives me the vibe of someone who likes feet. I think he loves when you wear heels and doesn't want you to take them off when he fucks you. When he takes them off though, he loves to kiss your feet and put them on his shoulders so he can turn his head and kiss your ankles. I also imagine he loves when you rub them on his chest amd probably loves when you jerk him off with them. He bought you an anklet too because it looks so pretty.

Food play. He loves incorporating food into sex. Chocolate dripped strawberries. Chocolate syrup. Maybe even Nutella. Whipped cream. Etc. Either just for eating and being romantic/sexy or to literally cover or drip it on each other's bodies.

Pet play. I imagine him loving to call you "kitten" "my little pup/puppy" and he isn't called "The Viper" for nothing...

Size kink. He loves shorter girls and he loves stuffing your tight little pussy with his huge cock. The sight of him moving in and out of your tight hole, that almost look like it can make him fit has him going wild.

Thigh riding. No need to explain, right?

L = Location (favorite places to do the do)

Privacy is important for him. So he has to fuck you in a place where he doesn't risk being interrupted. Your home, the car when there's no distractions/no one to see y'all. He's not the kind to take you in a public bathroom, a broom closet, no public sex basically. It's not that he's scared of being caught, he can live with that, he just doesn't want to be interrupted.

M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)

It's easy. Show him your boobs or show a little too much cleavage and you can have him wrapped around your finger just like that. He can control himself but when he finally gets you alone later, he won't have self control anymore. Prepare yourself for the ride of your life. He also loves when you tell him what you want him to do to you, in a whisper close to his ear or by texting him that you're horny and/or missing him.

N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)

He's open to a lot of things but wild kinky shit like BDSM, choking, gagging, spanking, etc. Is really not his favorite. Not in the bedroom and not with his princess. He gets beaten up and beat up other men in the ring, that's enough for him.

O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

He loves both giving and receiving. It's give and take with him. It has to be equal, the both of you having the same kind of pleasure and not one having more pleasure than the other.

P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)

A mix of the two. He can start really slow and sensual with gentle kisses and touches. Then, he'll gradually change the tempo, adding more pressure and purpose. He can slow things down again and then pick them up again. He loves to play around and change the pace, it all depends on his and your mood. He loves to switch things up and not always do the same thing. Keeps things exciting.

Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)

It doesn't happen often but it can happen. Usually right before he has to leave for the airport or before you two have to leave for an outing/date. Sometimes it's no penetration, him just wanting to get a taste of you or him letting you having a quick taste of his cock. "Wait... lemme get a taste of that before we leave." "Kitten, you look way too pretty for me not to want to fuck you right now. Which is exactly what will happen."

R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)

Randy loves trying different things and experimenting in the bedroom. Especially with you. He is open to pretty much everything, except extreme kinky shit like discussed earlier. He likes trying different things but doesn't like the idea of making you uncomfortable or possibly hurting you. If he does decide to try something, it will be slow and gradual.

S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

Being a wrestler and working out for many many years, the physique and cardio he has gives him a lot of stamina. If not for his back issues and other impacts wrestling had on his body, sex would probably be done more frequently and rougher. He can last as long as he wants to normally but he usually only go 1 or 2 rounds but takes his time to make it last longer. To him, he doesn't care about how many rounds or how long it last. He just want you both to have a good time.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

He loves using toys on you. He also loves watching you using them on yourself. He loves using men vibrators and men toys of all kind. Doesn't have an issue at all with toys, it adds to the pleasure and the experience, so it's only a bonus. Encourages you to buy and use them with or without him.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

He likes to tease you but he's not unfair. It has to stay fun for the both of you. He loves pushing you to your limit but he is clear about the fact he never wants to go past that limit. Edging you and neglecting your pussy until you beg him to do something and touch you.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Randy grunts a lot. He'll moan too when he's right at the finish line. He's loud in the way he talks, he'll always be talking. "So pretty like this, baby" "Been thinking about having you like this all day"

W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)

He secretly wants to make a sextape with you. Not to share onling, God, no. Only for the both of you to see. It's be better for him to jerk off to, instead of pictures. Sometimes the sex is just that good that he wishes he could keep a trace of it, to have it forever saved and watchable anytime.

X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)

The thing with Randy's dick is it's just the right length. Would fit perfectly in your mouth all the way down your throat and reach your g-spot just the same... if it wasn't for how girthy that thing is. Soft, his dick is average but once this bad boy is erect, it can barely fit in all your holes. Uncircumcised, veiny and tanned, his cock is about 6-7 inches.

Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)

He has a decent sex drive. Not too much but just enough. His sex drive peaks though after matches because of the adrenaline. I think he is also a morning sex kinda guy and also loves having sex after a workout, even relaxing under the hot water of a shower with you.

Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)

The sound of clatter and crunchy scuffle came from the kitchen as you walked in with grocery bags hanging from your hands.

“Hen?”

No answer followed, and you frowned with slight agitation, wondering if Kal was indulging in some mischief again.

Following the noise, you made your way when your gut took a sudden twirl at the sight of a tall man with ashen hair standing with his back facing your direction.

After a moment of icy terror and an agitating buzz that rang in your ears, you finally managed to work your limbs and snuck into the bedroom with your phone squeezed tightly between your sweaty knuckles.

With shaky fingers, you dialled your husband while hiding behind the king-sized bed. Incredibly frightened as you were, you never questioned why Kal was so enamoured with the creepy stranger who was pillaging your kitchen.

“Sweetheart,” Henry finally answered, his voice a tad lower and huskier than usual. “Where are you?”

“I’m hiding in the bedroom! You have to come home! Please tell me you are on your way!” You whispered with tears forming at the corners of your eyes. Glare glued to the door, you were horrified by the thought that the stranger will march into the bedroom any minute now and kill you.

Or worse...

“There is a Viking creep in our kitchen! He’s gonna hurt me, and I don’t know what to do! Call the police!”

Henry went silent for a moment.

Standing in the kitchen, he gazed down at his attire and immediately burst into voiceless laughter. 

“Henry???” you whispered urgently, “where are...”

The bedroom’s door flung open in a wild tempest, causing you to shriek in pure horror as the ashen-haired stranger stood there blocking the exit. Shoulders broad as the pathway, his chest puffed as he inhaled and then laughed at your panic. 

For a moment there, you thought you’d faint; the blood drained from your head and sunk to your belly. But as your mind finally settled, a hot surge of anger coursed your veins.

Leaning with his arms holding onto the top of the doorframe, Henry laughed hysterically when a pillow hit him in the face.

“Hey!”

“I could have fainted!!!” 

Henry brushed white strands of hair from his face dramatically and then folded his arms together, looking at you as you huddled at the corner, appearing smaller than you actually are, your fingers clutched at the edge of the bed, and your eyes were still glossy. 

There was something about seeing you engulfed in fear and helplessness that woke the brute within him. Squaring his shoulders and narrowing his eyes, the man you knew as your goofy husband suddenly changed into a menacing warrior.

“Seems I’ve got you captured, little one...” he lowered his voice and licked his bottom lip as his eyes travelled down your curves. “Hope your husband doesn’t mind if I’ll help myself for the first round.” 

A shiver ran down your spine. That voice alone was enough to coat your panties with wet desire. Keeping your gaze upon him, you crawled onto the bed and sat perched on your knees.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you pleaded and pouted your lips.