#angstyromance

Castlevania

Alucard x reader

Every night was just as exhausting and sleepless as the one before. The darkness reigning in the castle was blacker than the night itself, and the quiet sobs echoing through the high corridors did nothing to calm her pounding heart. She wanted to rise, to run from her chamber, to take him in her arms and promise that everything would be okay—that he hadn't lost everything, that he could count on her. But she knew there were two things Adrian despised most: her and showing weakness. So she sat there, wrapped in her bedding, feeling the chill of the night air on her back, hearing the rain tapping against the windows and his weeping, which broke her heart like nothing else.

It was she, along with Trevor and Sypha, who had awakened him in the crypts beneath Gresit. She had helped them defend the towns and even kill Dracula. And in the end, at Sypha's request, she had stayed in the castle so Adrian wouldn't drown in his grief and despair alone—so he wouldn’t lose himself to sorrow and solitude. But what good was her presence if he didn’t want to see her? They didn’t eat together, didn’t talk; he avoided her at every turn, drifting through the halls like a shadow, either confined to his room or wandering outside. They could go an entire day without exchanging a single word, despite living under the same roof.

She had long understood that her presence wasn’t welcome. She tried her best to be a support to him, to help him, but he pushed her away time and again, refusing to even listen. So she stopped speaking altogether. They endured each other’s company only when necessity demanded it, and it broke her heart.

She loved him so much it made her physically ill just to think about it. She admired his love for his mother and humanity, his friendship with the hunter and the Speaker. She admired how good he could be—though never to her.

She knew he was mistrustful, and she didn’t blame him. Still, she hoped that after all this time together, he might show her a shred of sympathy. But she was wrong. It seemed to her that, day by day, his hatred for her only grew, and she couldn’t understand the source of his relentless, loathsome disdain.

But that night, she couldn’t bear it any longer. Whether it was the sound of the rain or the fact that his sobs seemed even more anguished than usual, she couldn’t stand the sorrow tearing her soul in two.

She untangled herself from the sheets, her bare feet meeting the cold marble floor. She walked to the door, opening it with a loud creak. She glanced down the corridor, lit only by long slashes of moonlight streaming through the tall windows. She listened to the silence—for his crying had stopped.

Still, she slowly made her way toward his chamber, her mind swirling with thoughts. She didn’t know if what she was doing was right; she was almost certain he would throw her out the moment she crossed his threshold. But she couldn’t stand the unbearable inaction any longer; it gnawed at her, and was surely one of the many reasons she couldn’t sleep.

The castle was as grim and foreboding as ever. No one cleaned it, no one decorated it, no one cared for it. She was too afraid to change anything, fearing Adrian would disapprove of her initiative. Even though she believed the remnants of that fateful battle only deepened their shared melancholy, she dared not touch anything.

At night, it was the worst. All the haunting memories crowded her mind. The wind howled outside the windows, the chill seeped under her quilt, and the castle loomed in its oppressive darkness. On those saddest nights, they both cried.

She slowly opened the equally creaky door, peeking inside timidly. On the grand bed at the center of the room, she saw his silhouette, curled up and frail, bathed in the silver glow of the moonlight.

"Get out," he growled at her in that low, warning tone he always used. But she, surprising both herself and him, stepped deeper into the room, closing the wooden door behind her. She leaned against it hesitantly, not wanting to anger him further.

And silence fell. Heavy, dense, oppressive silence. Only the rain, the wind, and her short, quiet breaths could be heard.

The man sat up, still hunched over, uncertain, furious, and full of sorrow. He glared at her from under his brows with a venomous gaze, giving her yet another signal that she was unwelcome. Yet she ignored even that warning, slowly making her way toward him. He still didn’t speak, his eyes carefully tracking her every move. Stray strands of his long hair fell across his tired, tear-streaked face, but he paid them no mind.

She stopped halfway between the door and the bed, her gaze never wavering from his. She clasped her hands together, nervously picking at her skin. And the silence remained.

“I want to help you,” she said timidly, cautiously. Adrian narrowed his eyes, but he didn’t move an inch.

“I don’t need help, least of all from you. Leave.”

She looked at him with warm, compassionate eyes. Taking a deep breath, she took a few slow, deliberate steps closer before sitting on the edge of the bed, as far from him as possible. She placed her hand on the plush quilt and ran her fingers over it. Its coldness surprised her. But she closed her eyes and exhaled softly. His room smelled like the rest of the castle—damp, musty, and full of death.

She could feel his piercing gaze on her. She also felt a flicker of hope, for he hadn’t yet thrown her out.

“You’re just like Belmont,” she finally said, not even looking at him. She didn’t want to see his reaction, didn’t want to be intimidated, angered, or saddened by it. She needed to say what had weighed on her soul for so long but had never found the opportunity to voice. “So stubborn, relentless, vengeful, and angry. You’re always angry, but also full of grief. The only difference between the two of you is that he’s no longer alone, while you treat your solitude like a cross you carry with both pain and pride.”

He didn’t respond. He just watched as the moonlight danced across her face, as her hair slipped free of its messy arrangement, as her pale hand moved across the quilt, as her chest rose gently with each shallow breath, as her lips formed each cruel word. And he was mesmerized.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

That question echoed in his mind like a church bell. Did he hate her? Quite the opposite.

When he had first seen her, he hadn’t noticed her uncertainty, hesitation, or fear. His eyes had fallen on her hands—slender, pale, delicate, and refined, so unlike those of a warrior. And he thought of them often—when she placed a hand on his shoulder, telling him some anecdote, or when she lit a fire, cursing softly at the leaping flames, or when she tended to Sypha’s wounds, speaking warm, comforting words.

That’s how she was to him—delicate, refined, and warm. He liked her calm voice that soothed his frayed nerves. He liked her cool touch, which burned him like the hottest flame. He liked her laughter, echoing through the castle’s walls. He liked her wide smile, which she offered him at every opportunity, though he gave her so few. He even liked her sticky tears because they showed him they shared something in common.

And she was so unique to him, one of a kind. So he knew he couldn’t trust her—because he had come to love her so deeply. And everything he loved so deeply turned against him.

“Just leave,” he muttered more calmly this time. He lay back down in his previous position and covered himself with the quilt. He only heard her sigh in disappointment, and it broke his heart.

She began humming a melody under her breath, one he had never heard before. But he didn’t move, waiting passively.

And she didn’t stop. She closed her eyes again, running her hand over the bedding, listening to the sound of the wind.

“They often sang this song in my village,” she whispered, trying to recall even a few words of the song her grandmother used to sing to her in moments like this—moments filled with sorrow and the weight of unspoken words.

She finally rose from the bed, smiling warmly, though she knew he couldn’t see it. Once again, she felt the chill of the floor beneath her feet, and a shiver ran down her spine.

“Don’t cry anymore. It breaks my heart.”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed softly, her voice a sparkling sound that quickened his heartbeat. He sat up again, this time propping himself on straightened arms. He studied her once more, his gaze much gentler now.

“That I’m tired of loving you.”

He didn’t know what to do. Should he throw himself into her arms? Should he respond to her confession with one of his own? Should he kiss her warm, soft lips, or grasp her cool hands and kiss them instead? Should he apologize for every bitter word? He did nothing.

“This castle makes my head spin. I’m leaving.”

After a wave of euphoria, he felt the icy shock of disappointment and despair wash over him. His hands began to tremble uncontrollably, and his breathing became uneven. She couldn’t leave him. She had promised Sypha, she had promised Trevor... she had promised him.

"No"

he finally said in a firm voice. He got up from the bed, standing tall, taking a deep breath to steady himself.

"I need you here."

"Many people need me."

That silenced him because he knew she was right. How much more useful would she be in the simplest village, defending those who couldn’t defend themselves, spreading knowledge to those without access, healing those who didn’t know how? And by his side? She merely lingered in the dark, old castle, enduring his difficult character, mood swings, and constant humiliation, wasting her potential within the four walls of her room, which was no longer a chamber but almost a cell.

And yet, as selfish as it sounded, he couldn’t let her go. Not when he knew he loved her as much as she loved him.

"Give me a chance," he whispered mournfully. Slowly, he stepped toward her, enveloping her hands in his. He looked at her with an expectant gaze, but she didn’t intend to speak. Not after everything, not in a moment when she had decided to let go of that cursed love. Despite her surprise, it was the first time Adrian addressed her with such care, kindness, and calm. The first time she saw, instead of hatred, his need for her to be there. "I live only to see your face every day"

"You breathe, you eat, you sleep. But that can hardly be called living."

| all parts | masterlist |

summary: Sam signs up for an art class just to fill his credit hours. Hasn’t seen Bucky since that party months ago - walks in first day and guess who’s there, sitting like he owns the place, sleeves rolled up, tattoos out, smirk ready to ruin sam’s week? Yeah.

Over 3.3k words

The art building smelled faintly of clay and turpentine, a sharp contrast to the crisp winter air Sam had just walked through. He tugged his beanie lower over his ears, clutching the schedule printout like it might change if he blinked too hard.

Intro to Painting. Tuesday/Thursday. 9 a.m.

It wasn’t exactly on his academic bingo card, but he needed the credits, and the class had been one of the few open slots left. He figured he’d sit in the back, keep quiet, and let the semester slip by unnoticed.

He needed this credit hour, or else he could kiss the radio show goodbye. And that? That wasn’t an option.

The booth was the only place where he felt untouchable. Behind that mic, he wasn’t the kid scrambling for scholarships or the guy barely making his parents proud. He was just Sam. Or rather, the voice people tuned into when the world felt too loud.

Lose that, and he wasn’t sure who he’d be.

When a powerful billionaire meets an unstoppable military veteran, the real battle begins. 🔥

Scars of Yesterday by @aknaff12 (Angelica Kate) is the ultimate forced-proximity, high-stakes romance that will pull at your heartstrings from page one. If you love: ✨ Strong, fiercely protective heroine ✨ Billionaire hero forced to face his emotions ✨ Guarded hearts finding healing ✨ High-stakes family drama

...then this needs to be next on your TBR! 📚

ꜰ1 x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ | ʟᴇᴡɪꜱ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ ᴀᴜ | ᴄʜᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴇɴᴄᴏᴜɴᴛᴇʀ + ᴍʏꜱᴛᴇʀʏ

⚠️ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ:

ꜱᴜʙᴛʟᴇ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ

ᴇᴍᴏᴛɪᴏɴᴀʟ ɪɴᴛʀᴏꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ

ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟ ꜰᴀᴛɪɢᴜᴇ

ʜɪɴᴛꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱʏ

ꜱʟᴏᴡ-ʙᴜʀɴ ᴅʏɴᴀᴍɪᴄ

Monaco, for all its glamour, had an odd stillness to it when he returned.

Lewis stepped into his apartment, the familiar scent of oakwood polish and ocean salt lingering just beneath the surface of luxury. It had been nearly a month, twenty-eight days to be exact, since he'd last walked through his own front door. The season was in full swing. Races blurred into one another—Bahran, Saudi Arabia, Miami. The weight of time zones clashed with the thrill of podiums. Airports, circuits, press conferences, tire strategy—he lived in a world dictated by split-seconds, mechanical symphonies, and roaring applause.

But none of that filled the quiet now. The emptiness of his home echoed around him, pressing into his skin. It was beautiful, his Monaco flat. Sleek, expansive, with glass doors that opened out to a view of the marina. Yet somehow, today, it felt impersonal. Cold. Too quiet.

He had unpacked only the essentials, leaving his travel-worn suitcase slumped near the entryway. He moved slowly, methodically, as though reacquainting himself with stillness. He tried to read, to scroll aimlessly, to drown himself in music, but his mind kept circling back.

To her.

(Y/n).

That unexpected stranger who had somehow embedded herself into his thoughts like a soft refrain he couldn’t quite forget.

And so, the next morning, he found himself standing outside her apartment door, hesitating for only a breath before he knocked. His knuckles hit the wood three times, measured and patient. He waited. No answer. He tried again.

Still silence.

Just as he was about to turn away, a voice caught his attention.

“She’s not home, monsieur,” came a gentle, accented tone. An elderly woman leaned slightly out from the next-door balcony, her pale hair pinned back neatly with bobby pins and a faded scarf. “She left town last week. Business, I think. She’ll return in two days.”

Lewis offered her a grateful nod and smile. “Merci, madame. Thank you.”

She nodded in kind, then disappeared behind her curtains, leaving him alone once again with the Mediterranean breeze curling around his jacket.

Two days. He could wait two days.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

While Lewis raced across continents, (Y/n) Robinson had been writing her own quiet narrative. It was one laced not with speed, but with intention.

Her modeling career was flourishing, but never chaotic. She chose her projects carefully, more curator than participant. Her shoots took her across Europe: a sustainable fashion campaign in Amsterdam, a barefoot coastal editorial in Lisbon, a moody winter piece for a Danish brand in Copenhagen. The lens loved her, but it was never just about beauty. Her images spoke—through her eyes, her stillness, her grace. They captured something often elusive in the industry: sincerity.

She turned down more offers than she accepted. When a luxury handbag label approached her with an extravagant proposal, she politely declined after learning about their exploitative labor practices. It wasn’t about the money. It never had been.

Her boy best friend, Julian, a French-Moroccan designer rising rapidly through the fashion world, often roped her in for his brand’s campaigns. With him, there were no pretenses. Their work was collaborative, fluid, playful. She modeled. He sketched. She captured behind-the-scenes moments on her vintage film camera.

And in the spaces between, she lived.

Charity was never for show. Once a month, she’d visit a local youth center in Nice, offering workshops in photography and design. The children there never knew her as a model, only as “Miss Y/n,” the woman who brought them paint supplies and listened to their stories.

Her life wasn’t loud. But it was rich.

So when she opened her door that day—hair tousled, dressed in an oversized shirt that fell to her thighs, and blinking in mild confusion—it took her a moment to register who was standing there.

Lewis.

Real, in front of her, with that slightly sheepish grin and hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“You came back,” she said, surprised but not displeased.

“I did,” he replied, voice warm. “Was hoping you’d be home this time.”

She stepped aside without hesitation. “Come in.”

Her apartment was modest, but it breathed with personality. Light filtered softly through gauzy curtains, landing on books stacked along the windowsill and half-developed photographs pinned haphazardly to the wall above a vintage desk. The scent of lavender clung faintly in the air.

“Coffee? Tea? Biscuits?” she asked as she padded barefoot toward the kitchen.

“Coffee and biscuits sound perfect,” Lewis answered, easing onto the couch.

Minutes later, she returned with a wooden tray: two mugs, a tin of shortbread biscuits, and a bar of dark chocolate cracked into neat squares. She placed it on the coffee table and sat across from him, curling her legs beneath her.

“I’ll go change real quick,” she added. “Unless you’re into pajama interviews.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Nah, you’re good. But go ahead. I’ll still be here.”

She disappeared into her room and returned soon after in denim shorts and a loose white shirt that slipped off one shoulder. Comfortable, understated, lovely.

“So,” she asked, settling in again, “what brings you here?”

“Wanted to see you,” Lewis answered honestly. “And I figured I better do it before either of us flies off again.”

(Y/n) smiled, and it reached her eyes.

Conversation flowed easily after that, pausing and resuming like tides. They spoke of places visited, moments missed, people encountered along the way. He told her about the intensity of race weekends. She told him about an off-the-grid eco retreat she’d modeled for in Spain, where phones were locked away for seventy-two hours.

He liked hearing her speak. She chose her words carefully, not for affectation, but because she thought before she spoke. He liked that about her.

As the sun crept higher, hunger began to stir.

“Want to grab lunch somewhere?” Lewis asked, half rising.

(Y/n) shook her head with a small grin. “No need. I’ll cook.”

“You sure?”

“Sit. Enjoy the view.”

He watched her work in the kitchen—chopping, stirring, seasoning. She moved with a kind of rhythm that made it look effortless. The kitchen was her studio now, her canvas. Soon, she plated the dishes with the same care she gave to styling photoshoots: pan-seared salmon with lemon butter, sautéed greens, and a bowl of herb-infused couscous.

As he took his first bite, he closed his eyes briefly in appreciation. “Damn,” he muttered. “That’s good.”

“Only ‘good’?” she teased.

“Okay, amazing. Might need to up your salt game next time, though,” he added with a grin.

She laughed and tossed a napkin at him. “Noted.”

After lunch, he insisted on helping with the dishes. Elbow to elbow, they worked through plates and cups, their hands occasionally brushing beneath the water. Neither acknowledged it, but both noticed.

That day turned into a quiet evening, and the next followed in much the same rhythm. He came by again, bringing flowers this time—lavender and peonies, her favorites, though he never asked. She raised an eyebrow in amusement.

“Who told you?”

“Lucky guess,” he lied, knowing full well he’d caught a glimpse of dried petals in a jar on her windowsill last time.

By the third day, it felt like a pattern had been carved. A warm, strange pattern of closeness stitched between their vastly different worlds.

She folded laundry in the living room while he scrolled through his phone, lounging in the same spot on her couch as he had the past two afternoons. He looked at home there—barefoot, relaxed, a world away from the hyper-polished figure seen on television and billboards.

Then her phone rang.

Her eyes flicked toward the screen and lit up.

“Ciao!” she answered brightly.

Lewis looked up.

Italian. Her voice shifted into a melodic cadence, quick and lilting.

The man on the other end laughed, teased, congratulated. She beamed.

“Cinque giorni,” (“Five days,”) she repeated. “Non di più.” (“No more.”)

There was an ease in the way she spoke to him. Familiarity. Warmth. Maybe even history.

Lewis listened, catching fragments of the conversation—cinque giorni, non di più—but not enough to follow it fully. The rest slipped past him like music half-heard through a wall. Still, he could read everything in the tilt of her head, the warmth in her tone, the way her fingers twirled the edge of her shirt absentmindedly. He knew enough to feel it, and he didn’t know why that unsettled him.

When she hung up, she glanced at him.

“That was my friend,” she explained. “He’s taking me to Italy for a few days. Kind of a thank-you gift after our last campaign.”

“Campaign?” Lewis echoed.

She nodded. “We worked together last month. Brand launch. It did well.”

He smiled. Or at least, he tried to.

“That’s great,” he said. “You excited?”

She beamed, shrugging casually. “Of course. I love Italy. I leave tomorrow.”

He nodded again, eyes dropping briefly to his phone. “You deserve the break.”

Something in his voice made her look at him more closely, but she said nothing. She just smiled again and began folding the last of her shirts.

The next morning, she left. Early flight. Taxi waiting. Passport and film camera in her tote bag.

She didn’t text him goodbye. He didn’t expect her to.

Still, he stared at her empty building later that evening, wondering what kind of silence was left behind when someone took their light with them.

︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

Time moved quickly when it was structured by race calendars. Lewis found himself pulled back into the vortex—media appearances, simulator sessions, press obligations, and strategy meetings. He boarded his flight out of Nice with a practiced ease, the private jet engine roaring to life beneath a sky streaked with gold.

Yet through it all, something sat quietly beneath his ribs—a curious, persistent ache.

He didn’t know what he and (Y/n) were, not exactly. It wasn’t a romance. Not yet. But it wasn’t casual either. It was the beginning of something that refused to be labeled. A quiet chemistry. A budding comfort.

And now she was in Italy. With a man.

Lewis wasn’t jealous, not in the possessive way he’d once been in his younger years. He respected her independence, admired it even. But still, it stirred something. An ache that whispered: you miss her.

And as the plane soared above the clouds, he wondered if she thought of him too.

He hoped, somewhere between the vineyards and sun-drenched cafes of Italy, she did.

Even just a little.

To be continued...❤️

🕶️ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ʟᴀᴘꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ʟɪꜰᴇᴛɪᴍᴇꜱ - ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 4: ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʟᴀꜱꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ꜱᴄʀᴇᴇɴ🕶️

Castlevania

Alucard x reader {NSFW}

It was dark, silent, unsettling. She could see the outline of his tall figure lingering in the doorway of the chamber. His hair cascaded over his slender shoulders. His breathing was shallow, weary, uncertain. With a graceful hand, he leaned against the doorframe, as though guarding himself from collapse, yet his posture was confident, upright, proud. His piercing gaze traveled over her face, her legs, her bare chest. She exhaled seductively, pressing her hands into the mattress. Arching her back, she tilted her head, exposing her long, pale neck. The light reflected off her skin, making it appear ablaze. She took a deep breath, then a slow exhale, and didn’t need to look to know where his curious eyes had wandered.

He adored her perpetually cold body—the thin, veiny skin, her lifeless eyes, the bony hands with long, delicate nails. Only the steady rhythm of her heartbeat, her quiet sighs and feline purrs, the sound of blood flowing through her veins, and her calm, languid movements reminded him she was alive.

She lay on the grand bed, draped in red velvet, which he had brought at her request. She looked as if she were floating in a stream of scarlet blood, a vision he found irresistibly alluring. Her delicate movements maintained the illusion, never allowing the fabric to slip from her body for even a moment.

She reached for a goblet—a large, golden, expensive one. Raising it to the light, she examined it from every angle. The vessel glinted in the moonlight, and a brazen smile played on her lips. Adrian noticed the desire in her eyes, a hunger that frightened him more than any other emotion. Perhaps because she was usually indifferent, cold, vengeful. She relished inflicting pain, consuming completely, sparing no one.

Except him.

He felt it—no, he knew—she loved him. She gave him so much goodness, so many beautiful experiences that left him utterly lost, so many cool kisses whenever he asked, so many dispassionate embraces he could only dream of. And he worshiped her madly.

“Be mine tonight,” she purred in that feline way that made his knees buckle. As if entranced, he approached her bed and climbed onto it clumsily, never breaking his gaze from her. He could hardly catch his breath, watching how her steely eyes slid over him, how she tilted her head coquettishly as if scrutinizing him even more closely, how her fingertips traced circles on his skin, diverting his attention from the gravity of the moment.

Her eyes, though still icy, were now filled with a lust that terrified him. She tilted her head coquettishly, but a threat lingered in her gaze. Her fingertips barely brushed his skin, drawing small circles, as though trying to distract him from something far more daunting—the truth that each touch brought him closer to something irreversible, something that would change them both forever.

“I love you,” he choked out, tension mounting within him. She rested her hand on his cheek and looked into his eyes. Her gaze was empty yet resolute. Everything seemed in its place.

“I love you so much…”

“I know, Adrian,” she purred, and a shiver ran down his spine. The way she said his name made him ready to do absolutely anything for her.

She enjoyed using him, asking for miracles and watching as he struggled to fulfill her increasingly demanding whims. She felt appreciated and fulfilled, knowing she held such a powerful, naive man in her grasp. She adored men like him—easy to manipulate yet authoritative. She never hid this, demanding much but giving everything she had in return—knowledge and her meticulously tended body.

Most women didn’t look kindly upon her, considering her a kept woman, a sweet fling, a delightful moment of forgetfulness. Few, however, could afford her; she valued herself highly.

Adrian was exceptional. Beyond his peculiar background, he was the first man in her life capable of holding her attention for more than a moment. The first man who wanted to hear what she had to say, and she had much to say. She knew he adored her body, driven by the same desire as many before him, yet he was never repulsive in his lust.

He enjoyed giving her pleasure more than receiving it himself. She was not particularly expressive in any aspect of life, so her stoicism during intimacy didn’t surprise him. However, he attuned himself to the faintest sighs from her lips, learning how to improve. He observed her face, searching for the slightest grimace, understanding what not to repeat.

He loved pleasing her, whether through intimacy or showering her with gifts, both of which he provided often.

Before they met, he had heard much about her from Trevor, with whom she also shared a history. From Trevor’s stories, she seemed consumed by greed and power, incapable of feeling any other emotions. But he soon realized she was simply human—hurt, trying to use what she had been given. He could never hate her, though he initially wished to.

As much as she loved extravagant gifts—jewelry, ornate dresses, carved furniture—she equally loved expanding her knowledge. She gave herself to him for the first time on the day he gifted her stacks of books and notes that had once belonged to his parents. That was also the first time her eyes weren’t empty and steely; he saw tenderness he was desperate to claim at any cost.

Adrian was rather clumsy as a lover, which was new to her. Yet, she appreciated being his first unforgettable adventure. Moreover, though she didn’t show it overtly, his initial uncertainty melted her. She guided him slowly through every stage of their peculiar relationship, which only invigorated her more.

“Please, stay here with me forever,” he almost whimpered, placing one hand on her hip. Her cold skin was the most soothing balm to his frayed nerves, the perfect remedy for his tangled thoughts. She was everything to him.

He wasn’t the first to declare his love, yet he was the only one worthy of her attention and time. She didn’t know if she loved him, but she was certain she had never been so happy. No objections, no demands, no jealous wives, insults, or beatings. Just peace, a beautiful, understanding, and naive man, comfort, and countless books she had yet to read. Life with Adrian was her dream.

“I don’t make promises,” she reminded him sharply, removing her hand from his face. He inhaled sharply, tightening his grip on her hip as if afraid she might flee, angered by his plea. She fixed him with an impassive look and, sensing his unease, smiled faintly. “Don’t think about the future now. I’m here to help you forget.”

The man nodded quickly and visibly relaxed. He felt her cool hand on his cheek again, slowly moving down, touching his jaw, tense shoulders, torso, and stopping at the lower part of his belly. Adrian inhaled sharply, his eyes fixed on her hand. His already hard member twitched restlessly, craving her touch like nothing else. He felt a drop of cold sweat trickling down his back, but he dared not move.

They had made love so many times, yet he still felt that youthful anxiety. Perhaps it was because every time was completely different, unique, allowing him to experience many new emotions and fall in love with her even more.

Seeing his stress, wanting to tease him a little more, she once again removed her hands from his body. She placed them behind her back, thrusting her chest forward. Her breasts moved seductively, and she smiled coyly. Adrian did not know which of these things made his heart momentarily lose its rhythm.

He tentatively extended his hand and ran the tips of his fingers over her delicate skin, brushing against her nipples with just the pads of his fingers. She did not take her eyes off him, though her gaze had softened a bit, letting him know that his actions were not unwelcome.

This time he moved more confidently on the bed, towering over her delicate body. The woman instinctively leaned back against the pillows, her hair tickling her back and shoulders, causing her to shudder slightly. Only then did she feel the tingling cold on her face, coming into the chamber through the open window. But that was not what occupied her thoughts at that moment.

"You deserve love" she whispered almost inaudibly, tangling her fingers in his hair. With a decisive move, she pulled him closer, connecting their thirsty lips in an almost rehearsed kiss.

He felt a shiver run down his spine, the taste of her sweet lips on his tongue, her sharp teeth grazing his lips. Her small hand tugged at his long hair, making that kiss seem even more intimate. He felt her slender fingers near his manhood, a touch so unexpected that he gasped into her mouth.

She pulled him even closer, wanting to feel the weight of his warm body on her. Her cool breasts touched his torso, his member brushed against her core, to which he sighed with affection. He pulled away from her lips, breathing deeply, and stared into her eyes, sparkling in the moonlight, filled with emotions he had never seen there before.

"Show me that I am yours" she murmured, getting closer to his ear. She tugged on his hair again, this time more firmly, expectantly, almost painfully. He tilted his head back, and a nearly animalistic groan escaped his throat.

Her sweet, sweet words echoed in his head. She was his, his, only his... Nothing that had come before mattered, nor what was to come, for that night she whispered in his ear, that night she snuggled into his body, and that night she made love to him.

He placed his hand on her core, gently tracing small circles with his fingers. His warm, delicate hands worked wonders; she could not help but let out a quiet moan from her saliva-slicked lips. She quickly covered her face with her hand, not wanting such an incident to repeat.

For him, however, it was the most beautiful sensation. She trembled under his calm touch; he could see how hard it was for her not to squeeze her thighs around his hand, he saw how dramatically her breasts rose and fell with each deep breath she took.

He slipped one finger inside her and felt like he was in heaven. Her core was the only part of her body that was genuinely warm. He felt her desire coating his entire hand with its stickiness. His manhood throbbed impatiently, along with his legs, which were ready to give way beneath him.

He moved his hand slowly, not just to avoid hurting her but to make that moment last as long as possible. However, she grabbed his wrist, gently moved her hips, and looked expectantly into his eyes, demanding something more. He quickly obeyed her, adding a second finger and moving much faster. Once again, her head fell back against the bed, eyes closed in ecstasy. She spread her thighs further with her hands, allowing him to fully see her core, dripping with desire and euphoria. He bit his teeth together to hold back the embarrassing groan that threatened to escape him, and then he grabbed his manhood, wanting to relieve some of his tension.

"Don't touch yourself"

She admonished him, sending him a warning look, to which he immediately withdrew his hand.

"I want to feel you."

With those words in mind, he quickly sat at the foot of the bed, positioning himself near her core. He desired her like never before, for she was behaving differently than usual. Her parted lips, fingers gripping the sheets, her back arched, showed him that she needed him like never before.

He entered her quickly, decisively, in a way that was unlike him. The woman, surprised by his sudden eagerness, let out a short gasp, fixing him with a bewildered look. He responded in kind, then placed his hands on her hips and her legs on his shoulders, drawing even closer and sinking deeper into her.

"I love you so much"

He gasped, then began moving within her. He immediately set an unusual pace for them both, yet it did not seem to bother her. She was focused on his member filling her so well, as if it had been made for her, on his fingers tightening on the delicate skin of her hips, on his quick, ragged breaths that still betrayed his uncertainty.

"You're so good" she panted, digging her nails into the skin of his muscular arms. He let out a surprised whimper, not knowing if it was in response to her words or the combination of pain and pleasure washing over his body head to toe, making him unable to think of anything but her sweet core and her soft voice. With each passing moment, he quickened his movements, and in her bedroom, the only sounds were the slapping of their naked bodies against each other, her shallow breaths, and his desperate moans.

His hands glided over her hips, stomach, legs, breasts, wanting to have her entirely, just for himself, forever. She felt the desperation in his movements, but that was what she loved about him.

"I love you so much" he repeated, feeling his orgasm approaching. She threw her head back, pressing herself more into the velvet pillow.

She hid nothing anymore; broken gasps escaped her lips, interspersed with his name, which sounded like a spell on her tongue. She panted heavily, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. However, his desperate voice, filled with longing, his large hands gripping her body, and their moans echoing off the walls of the room made it impossible for her.

He was the first man she hadn’t been afraid of, the one she felt safe with, the one she didn’t want to leave.

"You are mine, right? I love you so much."

"I love you too."

Suddenly, he stopped his movements, still breathing heavily. A shiver ran through his body, and she felt warmth spreading within her. He reached his climax with her name on his lips, then collapsed uncontrollably onto her body. Panting heavily, he nestled into her breasts, unable to look her in the eye.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to" he began to apologize, and in his words, she heard genuine remorse. He did not pull out, did not raise his gaze to her, just lay there nestled against her cool, sweaty body, still unable to catch his breath.

And she was in even greater shock. She fixed her gaze on the ceiling, wondering what to do next. She had never loved any man, rarely did she tolerate any of them, and now she had declared her love to someone so young, naive, and immature. Maybe that was why he had stolen her heart; because he was so different, unlike all the other disgusting, bitter men.

"Will you stay?"

He asked when he had somewhat regained his composure, still not raising his gaze to her. He could not believe the reality of that moment; he was sure that when he looked at her, she would dissolve like a dream. He didn’t know what made that night different from all the others they had spent together, but he was grateful to himself for never giving up on winning her attention and care.

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BLURB

Carter

I’ve spent my whole life proving people wrong.

From foster homes to the football field, I clawed my way out, one yard at a time. And now? I’m on the verge of everything I’ve worked for. The draft. The NFL. The future I’ve always dreamed about.

Except all I can think about… is her.

Lyla Harding– my coach’s daughter.

Lyla

Carter Hayes is a walking headline waiting to happen.

And I’m the one who’s supposed to keep his image clean.

He’s infuriating. Arrogant. Impossible to ignore. And the more I tell myself he’s just another assignment… the harder it gets to pretend he isn’t everything I’ve ever wanted.

Choosing him could cost me everything I’ve worked for.