#alvez

It paid well, and more than that, it gave you a sense of power you'd never had before. You'd come from a rough place, like most people who end up doing what you do. Most of them wanted out. You never did. You loved the attention, the control, the way the room seemed to bend a little when you walked into it.

But more than any of that, more than the tips, more than the power, you loved coming home to Luke and setting all of it down at the door.

Surprisingly, your schedules lined up more than either of you expected.

Luke worked late most nights at the BAU, chasing monsters most people didn't let themselves believe in, and he'd come home to find a pot still warm on the stove and a note propped against it: see you soon, xx. He kept every single one. Every note, folded soft at the edges, tucked into the drawer of his nightstand like something sacred. He'd made you read them all out loud to him once, your voice going thinner and thinner the further his fingers fucked in and out of you and—

… Well lets just say the thought makes you blush.

Luke would take Roxy on a long walk after, the two of them working out whatever the day had left clinging to him. Then he'd come home, tire her out properly, tuck her into her bed by the window, reheat your dinner for two, and light the candles.

A routine. A ritual. A date night that happened more often than most couples managed in a year.

And then you'd come through the door.

Every single time, Luke's heart did something stupid and unguarded in his chest. Because you'd walk in still glittering faintly from work, hair loose, that look still hanging around your eyes, the one that said you knew exactly what you did to people for a living, and he couldn't help himself. He was across the room before the door even clicked shut, one hand finding your waist, the other your jaw, kissing you like he hadn't seen you in weeks instead of hours.

You melted every time. The performance of the night sliding off your shoulders like a coat, until there was nothing left of the woman from the club and only the woman who was his.

He'd pull back first. Always. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours and murmur that dinner was getting cold.

It was a game the two of you had perfected without ever agreeing to the rules. You both knew what came after dinner. It always did. That certainty didn't dull the anticipation, if anything it sharpened it, a low hum under your skin, a slow-building kind of foreplay neither of you was in any hurry to rush.

"How was work?" you asked, twirling pasta around your fork like you weren't watching him over the rim of your glass.

"Lots of paperwork. Fallout from last week." Luke shrugged, unbothered, though his eyes hadn't left you since you sat down. "I'm sure your day was more exciting than mine."

You hummed, noncommittal, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be unbearable. "What do you want to know, Alvez?"

"Everything."

The word came out rougher than he probably meant it to.

"Well," you said, dragging it out, watching the way his jaw tightened, "I brought in a new routine tonight. Good tips. And I picked up two private dances — paid well for those too."

Luke set his fork down. Slow. Deliberate. The way he did when he was building a profile, when he wanted every piece of information before he moved.

He tilted his head, and there it was — that low, dangerous patience of his, the one that undid you faster than anything explicit ever could.

"You're gonna have to give me more than that, princess."

"Like what?" You feigned innocence, blinking at him over your glass, even as your pulse picked up its pace under his stare.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossing, gaze dragging over you slow enough to feel like a touch.

"Like everything," he said again, quieter this time. "Every last detail. We've got all night."

The candles flickered between you. Neither of you moved to clear the plates.

You took a slow sip of wine, drawing it out, because you knew exactly what it did to him when you made him wait.

"Fine," you said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "The two privates were regulars. Older guy, comes in every other week, always books the champagne room, always tips like he's trying to buy back his twenties." You shrugged. "Easy money. He just likes to talk, mostly. Likes the attention more than anything."

"And the other one?"

"Bachelor party. His friends practically shoved him into the seat." A small smile tugged at your mouth, remembering it. "He couldn't even look at me at first. Kept apologizing every time I got close, like he thought he was being rude."

Luke huffed something that wasn't quite a laugh, arms still crossed, eyes still fixed on you like you were the only person in the room. Which, to him, you always were.

"So what'd you do?"

"Made him look at me." You said it simply, like it was obvious. Because it was. "Took his hands, put them where I wanted them, not that far, Alvez, don't give me that face, and by the end of it he tipped better than his friends did combined."

"Of course he did," Luke murmured, and there was something proud buried in it, something possessive too, the two feelings tangled together the way they always were with him. He didn't mind other men wanting you. He minded, he loved, that you always came home and wanted only him.

"And the routine?" he asked. "The new one."

You tilted your head, feigning like you had to think about it. "New song, new choreography. More pole work than usual." You traced the rim of your glass with one finger, watching how his eyes tracked the movement like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen. "Got a standing ovation, if you can believe it."

"I can believe it."

"You say that like you've seen it."

"I haven't." His voice had dropped, low and even, the same tone he used when he was circling something he wanted very badly and didn't intend to rush. "Show me."

Your stomach did something complicated and warm.

"Luke—"

"Show me the routine." He said it plainly, like a request and a command folded into one, leaning back further into his chair, giving you the whole stretch of the room, the space, the invitation. "I want to see what had a room full of strangers on their feet."

Heat crawled up your neck — which was ridiculous, honestly, considering what you did for a living, considering the things you'd just described to him without blinking. But this was different. This was Luke's living room, Luke's low golden lamp light, Luke's eyes, patient and dark and entirely undivided.

Your eyes flicked toward the corner of the living room, to the pole Luke had installed the very first week you moved in, before the furniture was even fully arranged, before half the boxes were unpacked. He'd never made a thing of it, just handed you the drill one afternoon like it was the most natural gift in the world, because he knew what it meant to you, knew you needed the practice as much as the paycheck.

You'd tried to teach him once. He'd been better than expected, honestly, all that strength translated well enough, but his balance was hopeless, and it had ended, memorably, with him flat on his face on the hardwood while you laughed so hard you'd had to sit down.

You stood. Slowly.

If he wanted a show, he could have the anticipation too, the same thing you gave every stranger who thought they were watching you, when really you were the one in control of the room. Except this time there was no performance in it at all. This time it was just you, and the particular way your pulse spiked under a gaze that actually knew you.

The air between you felt charged, electric, heavy with all the things neither of you had said over dinner, the hunger that had been building since you walked through the door, since he kissed you like he was trying to consume you whole. You could feel his eyes on you, tracking every movement as you crossed to the pole, and your skin prickled with awareness, with the delicious knowledge that you had his complete, undivided attention.

Your hand found the cool metal first, fingers wrapping around it, testing the temperature, the stability. You didn't look at him, not yet. You let the anticipation stretch, let him watch you decide, let him feel the seconds tick by like hours. You could hear his breathing from across the room, slightly faster than before, slightly ragged, and the sound went straight to your core, making you wet before you'd even begun.

He wants you, your mind whispered, and the thought sent a shiver down your spine. Not the performer. Not the fantasy. You.

You finally lifted your gaze to meet his, and the contact was like a physical touch, his eyes dark and blown wide, his jaw tight with restraint, his hands gripping the arms of his chair like he was forcing himself to stay seated. You held his stare as you began to move, your hips swaying in a slow, hypnotic circle, your free hand drifting down your own body, over your throat, between your breasts, across your stomach, touching yourself the way you wished he was touching you.

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't speak. Didn't move. Just watched.

You turned your back to him, a deliberate tease, and began to peel off your top. Slow. Torturous. Your arms crossing, lifting, the fabric catching on your skin and then sliding free, leaving you in just your bra. You let the garment fall to the floor with a soft whisper of sound, and then you glanced over your shoulder at him, catching his eye.

The look on his face made your breath hitch. He was wrecked already, pupils blown, lips parted, that muscle in his jaw jumping with the effort of his restraint. You'd seen men look at you a thousand times, but never like this. Never with this much hunger tempered by this much reverence. Never like you were simultaneously the meal and the altar at which they worshipped.

Mine, that look said. Mine, mine, mine.

You faced him again, your hands moving to your bra clasp, and you held his gaze as you unhooked it. Let it slide down your arms. Let it fall.

The candlelight flickered across your skin, painting you in gold and shadow, and you saw his hands tighten on the chair arms, his knuckles going white. You didn't cover yourself, you never did, but this was different. This wasn't for strangers. This was for him. You let him look, let his gaze drag over your breasts, your nipples already hard and aching, your ribs, the curve of your waist.

"Beautiful," he breathed, and the word was barely audible, reverent, like a prayer.

You smiled, slow and knowing, and your hands moved to your pants. You hooked your thumbs in the waistband, rolling your hips as you pushed them down, taking your underwear with them, stripping yourself bare for him piece by piece. You stepped out of the pooled fabric and kicked it aside, and then you were naked, completely naked, in the middle of your living room, with Luke Alvez looking at you like you were the only thing in the world.

The power of it hit you like a wave. At the club, you were untouchable, a fantasy behind glass, a goddess on a stage. Here, you were his. Completely. Utterly. Willingly.

You reached for the pole and finally, finally, wrapped your hand around it, testing your grip. The metal was cool against your palm, a stark contrast to the heat building between your thighs. You looked at Luke one more time, held his gaze for a long, breathless moment, and then you pushed off.

The spin was slow, controlled, your body extending in a long line as you rotated around the pole. You let your head fall back, your hair brushing your lower back, your breasts lifted, your hips cocked. You could feel his eyes on you, tracking the movement of your thighs, the flex of your abdominal muscles, the way your body moved with practiced grace. You weren't just dancing, you were offering yourself. Every spin, every extension, every slow, sinuous roll of your hips was a question and an answer, a promise and a plea.

Look at me. See me. Want me.

You climbed the pole with effortless strength, your thighs gripping the metal, your arms pulling you upward. At the top, you paused, holding yourself suspended, your body parallel to the floor, every muscle drawn tight and trembling with the effort. You looked down at him from above, saw him staring up at you with his mouth slightly open, his chest heaving, his hand now resting on his thigh like he was contemplating touching himself through his jeans.

The thought sent a fresh rush of arousal through you, made your grip on the pole tighten, made you want to put on the best show of your life.

You inverted in one clean motion, your legs splitting in a V, your back arched, your hair falling toward the floor. You held the pose, held it longer than necessary, letting him look, letting him imagine, letting the tension build until it was almost unbearable. When you finally descended, you did it slowly, inch by inch, your body sliding down the pole with controlled resistance, your skin flushed and glowing in the lamplight.

You transitioned into a fireman spin, fast, sharp, the kind that usually got the room cheering, but the only sound was your own breathing and the low creak of the pole. You dropped into a scorpion hold, your spine bowed impossibly, your foot hooked back near your head, your most intimate places exposed and open and his for the taking. You held his gaze even upside down, watched his eyes darken, watched his tongue dart out to wet his lips, watched the restraint slowly cracking.

By the time you slid back down to the floor, breath coming quick, skin flushed from exertion and arousal, you were trembling. Not from fatigue, from need. From the overwhelming, consuming desire to be touched. To be claimed. To be his.

You stood there for a moment, leaning against the pole, your chest heaving, your body glistening with a light sheen of sweat. You didn't cover yourself. You let him look, let him take in the hardened peaks of your nipples, the flush spreading down your chest, the way your thighs pressed together seeking friction.

"Luke," you whispered, and your voice was barely recognizable, thick with want, raw with need.

He was out of the chair before you could draw another breath, crossing the room in three long strides, his hands finally leaving stillness behind to find your waist.

"So perfect, princess," he murmured against your ear, and there wasn't an inch of space left between you. "So fucking perfect."

You melted into him.

"Tell me," he murmurs, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and damp against your skin. His hands slide down from your waist to grip your hips, pulling you back against him until you can feel exactly what the performance did to him, hard and thick and insistent against the small of your back. "When you danced for them... did you sit on their laps?"

Your breath catches. The question hangs in the air between you, heavy with implication, and you know he already knows the answer. He just wants to hear you say it. Wants to make you admit it while his hands are on you, while his body is claiming you, while the glitter from the club is still dusting your skin.

"I—" Your voice breaks as he grinds against you, slow and deliberate. "Luke—"

"Tell me, princess." His teeth find your earlobe, nipping just hard enough to make you gasp. "Did you let them feel you? Let them imagine what it would be like to have you?"

You nod, your cheek brushing against his jaw, your eyes fluttering shut. "Yes," you whisper, the admission tearing from your throat like a confession. "Yes, I sat on their laps."

"And could you feel them?" His voice drops lower, rougher, his hands sliding around to splay across your stomach, pulling you impossibly closer. "Could you feel their cocks getting hard beneath you? Brushing against your pussy through that little outfit you wear?"

"Yes." The word comes out strangled, broken, your hips rolling back against him involuntarily, seeking friction, seeking more. "Yes, I could feel them."

"They wanted you so badly, didn't they?" His hand drifts lower, his palm pressing over the heat between your thighs, cupping you through your clothes. "Wanted to rip that pretty little thing off you. Wanted to shove their cocks into your tight little cunt right there in that champagne room."

You moan, your head falling back against his shoulder, your body going liquid under his touch. "Luke—"

"They could never fill you like I do, though." He punctuates the words with a roll of his hips, his erection pressing hard and demanding against your ass, a promise of what's to come. "Could they, princess? No one could stretch this pretty pussy the way I do. No one could make you feel this full, this owned, this completely taken apart."

"No one," you agree, your voice barely a whisper, your hands reaching back to grip his thighs, holding on like he might disappear if you let go. "No one could. Only you, Luke."

"Good girl." His praise washes over you like warm honey, sweet and thick and intoxicating. "Knowing who you belong to even when you're shaking your ass for strangers. Knowing exactly where you belong at the end of the night."

"Just you," you breathe, turning your head to find his mouth, kissing him desperately, messily. "Only ever you."

"Fuck," he groans against your lips, his hands moving to tangle in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat. "You turn me on so much, baby. Knowing everyone wants you but only I get to have you. They worship you like a god—untouchable and divine. But I worship you like a woman who deserves the world at her feet. I'm the one who makes you feel good. I'm the one who gets to breed this pretty pussy. Isn't that right?"

You nod frantically, your eyes glazed, your body trembling with need. "Yes, yes, Luke, please—"

"Use your words," he commands, his hand sliding from your hair down to your jaw, his thumb pressing against your lower lip. "Tell me what you want."

"Luke," you whimper, your hands finding his belt, your fingers fumbling with the buckle. "Please. Need you. Need to taste you."

He lets out a low laugh, dark and satisfied, as you finally free the leather, as your fingers find his button, his zipper. "Get on your knees for me, baby."

You sink to the floor without hesitation, the hardwood cool against your knees, your hands already pulling at his jeans, his boxers, desperate to get to him. When he springs free, thick and hard and so hot you can feel the heat radiating from him, you don't waste a second. You press your face against his length, nuzzling, breathing him in, your lips finding the base and pressing open-mouthed kisses up his shaft.

"Only for you," you babble, your voice high and desperate, your hands gripping his thighs. "Only ever do this for you, Luke. Only want to be on my knees for you—"

"Yeah?" He looks down at you with dark, blown-pupil eyes, his hand finding your hair, his fingers threading through the strands and gripping tight. "Bet everyone wishes they could have you like this, huh, princess? On your knees, so submissive and desperate. But you're only like this for me. Only this good for me."

You hum your agreement against his skin, your tongue flicking out to taste the bead of pre-cum at his tip, and he groans, low and guttural, his hips bucking forward involuntarily. You open for him, taking him into your mouth, and he doesn't give you time to adjust. His hand tightens in your hair, and he's thrusting, fucking your face with brutal, desperate strokes that make your eyes water and your throat constrict around him.

"That's it," he grunts, his voice unrecognizable, his hips snapping faster. "Take it, princess. Take my cock like the good girl you are. So fucking pretty with your lips stretched around me. So fucking perfect."

You gag around him, your hands coming up to grip his hips, your nails digging in, and he pulls your hair harder, guiding you, controlling you, using your mouth for his pleasure. The sounds fill the room, wet and sloppy and filthy, your moans vibrating around him, his grunts echoing off the walls.

"Shit, baby, I'm gonna—" He pulls out suddenly, his cock leaving your mouth with a wet sound that makes you whine at the loss. Your lips are swollen, your chin glistening, your eyes watering and desperate. "Not yet. Not like this. Want to be inside you first."

He hauls you up before you can catch your breath, his hands rough on your waist, spinning you around and walking you backward until your hips hit the edge of the dining table. He bends you over it, your cheek pressed against the cool wood, your hands scrambling for purchase, your heart hammering against your ribs.

"How much did you make today?" he asks, his voice deceptively casual as he kicks your feet apart, as his hands grip your ass and spread you open. His cock slides through your folds, teasing, tormenting, coating himself in your arousal, and you cry out at the sensation, at the anticipation, at the way he makes you wait.

"Fifteen hundred," you gasp, your fingers curling against the table's edge. "Fifteen hundred dollars."

"Fifteen hundred," he repeats, and then his hand comes down, sharp and sudden and perfect, against your ass. The crack echoes through the room, and you yelp, your body jerking forward, your pussy clenching around nothing. "Count."

"One," you breathe out, your voice trembling.

He spanks you again, harder this time, the other cheek, matching the burn, building the heat. "Two," you moan, your hips pushing back into his hand, begging for more even as the sting radiates through your skin.

He doesn't make you wait. The third comes fast, then the fourth, his hand finding a rhythm that has you chanting numbers between broken sobs and desperate pleas. By ten, your ass is on fire, your skin sensitive and hot, and you're dripping, literally dripping, onto the table beneath you, your arousal making a mess of the wood.

"Eleven," you cry out, your voice cracking.

"You're doing so good," he praises, his hand smoothing over the heated flesh, soothing before he strikes again. "So good for me, princess. Taking your punishment like the perfect little slut you are."

"Twelve," you gasp, your legs trembling, your whole body arching into his touch.

"Thirteen." He lands it right where your thigh meets your ass, and you scream his name, your fingers clawing at the table.

"Fourteen," you're sobbing now, tears leaking from your eyes, your body overwhelmed, overstimulated, desperate.

"Last one," he promises, his voice rough with his own restraint, his own need. "Make it count, baby."

"Fifteen!" The word tears from your throat as his hand comes down one final time, and then he's not waiting anymore, he's not teasing, he's sliding his cock through your slick folds, positioning himself, his tip pressing against your entrance.

"Fifteen hundred dollars," he growls, his hands gripping your hips with bruising intensity, his voice gravel-rough and filthy. 

The wood of the table bites into your hipbones as Luke cages you from behind, one large hand pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you pinned, the other gripping your waist with bruising intensity. You can feel every inch of his heat radiating against your back, his cock, thick and impossibly hard, sliding through your folds in a tease that makes your toes curl against the floor.

"Fifteen hundred dollars," he repeats, voice gravel-rough against your ear, the vibration sending shivers down your spine. "You made fifteen hundred dollars shaking your pretty ass for them. Letting them look at what's mine."

You whimper, trying to push back onto him, but his grip tightens, holding you still.

"Greedy," he chastises, dark and amused. "You want it that bad, princess? Want me to fill up that tight little cunt?"

"Please, Luke—"

"Please what?" He drags the head of his cock up to circle your clit, and you cry out, hips bucking involuntarily. "Use your words. Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want you to fuck me," you gasp, cheek pressed flat against the cool wood, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the edge of the table. "Please, Luke, I need you inside me—"

The words dissolve into a scream as he finally, finally pushes in.

It's not gentle. It's not slow. It's one brutal thrust that buries him to the hilt, splitting you open in the most delicious, filthy way possible. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, eyes rolling back as your body struggles to adjust to the sudden stretch. He's so fucking big, bigger than you remembered, or maybe that's just the angle, the way he's bending you over this table like you're nothing but a toy for his pleasure.

"Shit," Luke groans, his forehead dropping to rest between your shoulder blades. His chest heaves against your back, his hands sliding down to grip your hips with a desperation that makes you feel powerful even pinned beneath him. "So fucking tight. So wet. You been thinking about this all night, haven't you? Thinking about my cock while you were dancing for them?"

You nod frantically, unable to form words as he pulls back, slow, torturous, the drag of his length against your walls making you see stars, only to slam back in with a force that rocks the table.

"Answer me," he demands, punctuating each word with another brutal thrust. "Were—you—thinking—about—me?"

"Yes!" you cry out, your voice breaking as he hits that spot deep inside, the one that makes your legs tremble and your vision blur. "Yes, Luke, always you, only you—"

"Good girl," he praises, and the words wash over you like warmth, like validation, like everything you've ever needed. "That's my good girl. Know who you belong to, don't you?"

"Belong to you," you babble, your hips meeting his thrusts with desperate, sloppy movements. "Only you, Luke, please, please—"

He fucks you like he hates you and loves you in equal measure. Each thrust is punishment and worship, his hips snapping against your ass with wet, filthy sounds that fill the room. The table scrapes against the floor with the force of it, and you don't care if the neighbors hear, don't care if the whole world hears, because Luke is inside you and around you and his voice is in your ear saying the dirtiest things you've ever heard.

"Look at you," he grunts, his hand sliding from your shoulder down to wrap around your throat, not choking, just holding, just reminding you who's in control. "Taking my cock so pretty. Look at this pussy, princess. Look how she's gripping me. You can feel it, can't you? Feel how she's trying to milk me?"

You can't look, you're face-down, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes from the sheer overwhelming sensation of it all, but you can feel it. God, you can feel everything. The way your body stretches around him, the way your arousal slicks his length and drips down your thighs, the way your walls flutter and clench with every drag of his cock against that sensitive spot inside you.

"Luke," you whine, your voice high and broken. "I'm gonna—I'm close—"

"Not yet," he growls, his free hand reaching around to find your clit, rubbing it in tight, merciless circles. "Not until I say. You hold it, princess. You hold that pretty orgasm for me."

You sob, your body trembling beneath him as he continues to pound into you, his fingers working your clit with expert precision. You're so close, teetering on the edge, your whole body wound tight as a spring, and he's keeping you there, right there, with every skillful touch.

"Please," you beg, your voice barely recognizable, raw and desperate. "Please, Luke, I can't—I need to—"

"Need to what?" He slows his thrusts, grinding deep instead of thrusting, his pelvis pressed tight against your ass so he can feel every twitch of your body. "Need to cum? Need to cum on my cock like a good little slut?"

"Yes," you cry, the word tearing from your throat. "Yes, please, please let me cum—"

He leans down, his chest flush against your back, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers, "Cum for me, princess. Cum all over my cock. Show me how much you love being fucked like this."

Your orgasm crashes through you like a wave, starting deep in your belly and radiating outward until your toes curl and your back arches and you're screaming his name like a prayer. Your pussy clamps down on him, pulsing and fluttering, and Luke groans, low and guttural, as he feels you milking him, your body doing exactly what he said it would.

"That's it," he encourages, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm as he chases his own release. "That's my girl. Keep cumming. Keep squeezing me. Fuck—"

He pulls out suddenly, and you whimper at the loss, your pussy clenching around nothing. But before you can protest, he's flipping you over, strong hands on your hips, lifting you onto the table like you weigh nothing. Your back hits the wood, your legs falling open instinctively, and Luke is there, looming over you, his cock in his hand as he strokes himself furiously.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice rough, his eyes dark and wild. "Look at me while I mark you."

You hold his gaze, your chest heaving, your body still trembling from the aftershocks of your orgasm. He's beautiful like this, ruined, desperate, his hair falling into his eyes and his muscles tense and his cock glistening with your arousal. You reach for him, your fingers brushing his wrist, and he lets you guide him, lets you pull him back to your entrance.

"Inside," you whisper, your voice wrecked. "Want you inside when you cum. Want to feel it."

Luke groans, something between a whimper and a growl, and pushes back in. He's gentler this time, sliding through your sensitive, fluttering walls until he's buried to the root, and then he's collapsing over you, his face buried in your neck as he finds his rhythm again.

"Gonna fill you up," he pants against your skin, his hips snapping with desperate, stuttering thrusts. "Gonna breed this pretty pussy, princess. Gonna make sure you feel me for days. Every time you move, every time you sit down, you're gonna remember who you belong to, everytime you grind down on someone else you’ll still be able to feel my cum inside you."

"Yes," you moan, your nails digging into his back, dragging down his spine. "Yes, Luke, please, fill me up—"

He comes with a shout of your name, and you feel it. Hot, thick ropes of cum painting your insides, filling you so deep you swear you can feel it in your belly. He keeps thrusting through it, working himself in and out of your sensitive, overstimulated cunt, pushing his release deeper, making sure none of it escapes.

"Stay," he breathes, his weight settling over you, his chest heaving against yours. "Stay just like that. Don't let it out."

You wrap your legs around his waist, locking him in place, and he chuckles, low and satisfied, against your neck. His hands find yours, fingers intertwining, pinning your arms above your head as he peppers kisses along your jaw, your throat, the hollow of your collarbone.

"Fifteen hundred dollars," he murmurs, almost to himself, his hips giving a lazy, rolling thrust that makes you gasp. "Worth every penny if it means I get to take you apart like this."

You laugh, breathless, giddy, your body humming with satisfaction. "You'd pay fifteen hundred dollars to fuck me?"

"I'd pay fifteen thousand," he growls, nipping at your jaw. "I'd pay every cent I have to hear you scream my name like that."

He pulls out slowly, reluctantly, and you whimper at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But he's not done. He never is. He drops to his knees, his hands pushing your thighs wider, and before you can ask what he's doing, his mouth is on you.

"Luke—" you gasp, your hands flying to his hair.

"Shh," he murmurs against your sensitive flesh, his tongue lapping at your folds, cleaning up the mess he made. "Just taking care of my girl."

His tongue finds your clit, swollen, sensitive, still throbbing from your orgasm, and you cry out, your hips bucking involuntarily. He holds you down, his hands like iron bands on your thighs, and he eats you like a starving man. Licking and sucking and worshipping, his tongue dipping inside to taste the mixture of your arousal and his release, his moans vibrating against your most sensitive flesh.

"Too much," you whimper, your head thrashing side to side. "Luke, it's too much—I can't—"

"You can," he insists, looking up at you with dark, blown-pupil eyes, his chin glistening. "One more for me, princess. Give me one more. Want to feel you cum on my tongue."

His mouth closes over you again, his tongue flicking your clit in rapid, relentless strokes, and you feel it building again—impossibly, inevitably. Your body is oversensitive, every nerve ending raw and exposed, and he's playing you like an instrument. You can feel his cum inside you, feel it dripping out as he works you with his mouth, and the filthiness of it, the intimacy, pushes you over the edge.

You cum with a sob, your back arching off the table, your hands pulling at his hair hard enough to hurt. He moans into you, his tongue working you through it, drawing out every spasm, every wave, until you're limp and trembling beneath him.

When he finally stands, his mouth is swollen and red, his eyes dark with satisfaction. He leans over you, his hands bracketing your head, and kisses you, deep and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, letting you taste what he did to you.

"Mine," he whispers against your lips, his voice reverent and possessive and full of something that sounds a lot like love. "My perfect princess. My good girl."

You smile up at him, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw, your body boneless and sated. "Yours," you agree. "Always yours."

He lifts you then, effortlessly, like you weigh nothing, and carries you to the bedroom, your legs wrapped around his waist, his cock already stirring against your thigh again. You laugh against his neck, feeling him harden, feeling the promise of round two in every step he takes.

"Again?" you tease, nipping at his earlobe.

Luke growls, tossing you onto the bed and crawling over you with predatory intent. "Again," he confirms, his hands already mapping your body, already memorizing every curve. "And again. And again. Until you forget anyone else ever existed. Until the only name you know is mine."

You spread your legs for him, welcoming him home, and as he sinks into you, slow and deep and perfect.

There's only Luke. There will only ever be Luke.

And as he starts to move, hips rolling, hands worshipping, voice whispering filthy promises in your ear, you know that fifteen hundred dollars was nothing compared to this.

The mattress dips beneath his weight as he settles between your thighs, his cock, already hard again, impossibly hard, resting heavy against your stomach. He looks down at you with those dark eyes, scanning your face like he's memorizing every expression, every flutter of your lashes, every hitch in your breath.

"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice rough with awe and lust, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip. "Completely fucked out and still ready for more. You really are insatiable, aren't you, princess?"

You nod, your voice lost somewhere in your throat, your hands reaching up to trace the hard lines of his chest, his shoulders, the strong column of his throat. You want to touch all of him, want to map every inch of his skin with your fingertips, want to commit the feeling of him to memory so deeply that you'll never forget it, not even in your dreams.

"Words," he reminds you, gentle but firm, his hips rolling so that his cock drags against your sensitive skin. "Use your words, baby. Tell me what you want."

"I want you," you whisper, your voice cracking. "Want you to fill me up again, Luke. Please."

He groans, low and broken, and captures your mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and desperate hunger. His hands slide under your back, lifting you slightly, angling you just right, his pace is slow this time, torturously slow, letting you feel every inch, every vein, every pulse of his heartbeat as he sinks into your depths.

"So tight," he breathes against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours, his eyes squeezed shut in concentration. "Even after taking me once, you're still so fucking tight around me. Like you were made for this. Made for my cock."

You whimper, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he bottoms out, his pelvis flush against yours, his balls resting heavy against your ass. He stays there, buried to the hilt, not moving, just breathing you in, and you can feel him throbbing inside you, feel the heat of him radiating through your belly.

"Feel that?" he asks, his voice strained, his hips giving the smallest, experimental roll that makes you gasp. "Feel how full you are? How perfectly you fit around me?"

"Yes," you moan, your head falling back against the pillows, your neck exposed and vulnerable. "Yes, Luke, I feel it—so full, so good—"

He starts to move, slow, deep thrusts that hit places you didn't know existed, his pelvis grinding against your clit with every downward stroke. It's different from before, less frantic, more deliberate, like he has all the time in the world to ruin you. His hands roam your body, cupping your breasts, pinching your nipples, sliding down to grip your ass and pull you harder onto him.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his thrusts gaining speed, gaining depth. "So fucking beautiful like this. Taking me so well, your pretty little cunt just swallows me whole."

You're lost in the sensation, your eyes rolled back, your mouth open in a permanent moan. Your body has gone pliant, receptive, your hips rising to meet his thrusts with eager desperation. You're soaked—slick with your own arousal and previous release as well as Lukes own release, making every movement filthy and wet and obscene.

"Luke," you gasp, your hands finding his hair, pulling him down for another kiss. "Please—please don't stop—don't ever stop—"

"Never," he promises, his voice breaking as he snaps his hips harder, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room. "Could never stop. Could spend the rest of my life inside you and it still wouldn't be enough."

He shifts his angle, lifting your leg over his shoulder, opening you up wider, and you scream as he hits that spot, that perfect, devastating spot that makes your vision blur and your toes curl. He keeps hitting it, relentless, merciless, his cock dragging over it with every thrust, every withdrawal, every brutal snap of his hips.

"Right there?" he asks, though he already knows, can feel your body clenching around him, can hear the broken, desperate sounds falling from your lips. "That feel good, princess? You like it when I fuck you deep like this?"

"Yes!" you cry out, your back arching off the bed, your hands scrambling for purchase on the sheets. "Yes, yes, please—Luke—"

"You're gonna cum for me again," he commands, his voice dark and sure, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing it in tight, demanding circles. "Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl. Gonna squeeze me so tight I can't think straight. Come on, princess—give it to me—"

Your next orgasm is diffrent than the rest, slower, deeper, starting in your core and radiating outward like liquid heat. Your body tenses, your breath catching in your throat, and Luke feels it, feels you getting close, and he fucks you harder, chasing your release with his own, his thrusts becoming erratic and desperate.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice ragged, his fingers working your clit with brutal precision. "That's my girl. Cum for me. Cum all over me. Let me feel it—"

You break with a sob, your body convulsing, your pussy clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses that milk him desperately. Luke groans, long and low and broken, and then he's cumming too, filling you again, hot and thick and endless, his hips jerking as he empties himself deep inside you.

He collapses on top of you, heavy and warm and perfect, his face buried in your neck, his breath coming in harsh gasps against your skin. You wrap your arms around him, your legs still locked around his waist, keeping him inside you, keeping him close, never wanting to let go.

"Shit," he mumbles, his lips brushing your collarbone, his hands stroking your sides with reverent gentleness. "Shit, baby. You okay?"

You shake your head, your fingers threading through his hair, holding him to you. "No," you whisper, your voice hoarse. "No, you didn't hurt me. That was—Luke, that was—"

"Yeah," he agrees, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes soft and blown out, his expression tender. "Yeah, it was."

He kisses you then, soft and slow and sweet, a complete contrast to the way he'd just fucked you. His tongue explores your mouth lazily, his hands cupping your face like you're something precious, something fragile. You melt into it, into him, your body humming with satisfaction, your heart beating a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

You feel him soften inside you, feel the warmth of his release dripping out as he pulls out slowly, carefully, making sure you're okay. He turns you over, gentle now, tender, and pulls you into his arms, cradling you against his chest like you're the most precious thing in the world.

"Rest," he murmurs against your hair, his hand stroking your back in slow, soothing circles. "Rest now, princess. I've got you."

You close your eyes, body sore and sated and absolutely perfect, and let the sound of his heartbeat lull you into sleep, knowing that when you wake up, he'll be there.

He'll always be there.

And he'll always be ready to remind you exactly who you belong to.

★・・・・・・★