He did not want to admit that she had won the battle. Roman felt like he was falling deeper into the dark void. Was he going to spend the rest of his life like that? Abandoned and scared of hurting everyone he knew? These questions kept him wide awake in the middle of the silver nights and made him drown his sorrows in cognac and cigarette smoke.

He felt like an addict, storming from one bar into another, looking for hookers to feed on and then sending his people to hide the victims’ bodies. Eventually, it all turned into a regular routine and he mastered the art of draining every drop of blood from humans necks without even staining his always perfectly ironed shirts. He decided that if he turned into a stone-cold machine with no feelings and the slightest idea of attachment he would feel better. Having focused on his parents' empire, the Godfrey Institute, he became a business tycoon: ambitions, cunning, manipulating. Unfortunately, it was calm before the storm. His mother always knew what buttons to push to make him snap and lose the strings of control over his ruthless guise.

It was the night when everything went downhill. Blood was hammering in his temples, fingers gripped onto the sterling weel as he was driving to a familiar location, a bar where he was a frequent visitor. A passing car flashed the headlights, illuminating Roman’s jet black eyes. The usual forest green hues with bluish spots were swallowed up by the unbearable hunger. He could feel the roof of his mouth starting to itch, his heart beating faster.

Factitious self-control wafted around his tall figure when he entered the club. He looked out of place dressed in his black dress shirt and matching tailored slacks, the look on his face intense like an upcoming thunder, electrifying in the thick air. 

Something felt different at that time. His nostrils flared, breathing in the mix of expensive alcohol and smoke. He looked around scanning through the crowd of dancing bodies. It felt like hundreds of needles were piercing through the tips of his fingers; he gulped heavily, listening to the sound of crimson blood flowing through the people’s veins. There was something else. Something he could not quite catch. It was seeping through his fingers making it difficult for him to get a hold of it. He turned around on his heels, ignoring a confused look some girl shot at him and froze to his spot. What if his hunger caused these fantom feelings? The sensation became stronger. Godfrey turned his head in the direction of the far left corner of the spacious room. Something about it drew him closer to a big leather sofa where there was someone whom Roman had met before.

“Michael Langdon,” he breathed out, a bit too surprised. It was funny how he had not recognized his vibe immediately. They had met only once but it was something Godfrey would never forget. The blonde Antichrist had the most unique, alluring aura that would suffocate you if you did not know how to handle it. Even for Roman, who was only half-human, it was quite a challenge.

Michael was splayed out on the sofa with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Godfrey mentally rolled his eyes at the Antichrist’s outfit, ever so extravagant: a navy blue velvet dinner jacket paired with a white shirt, his neck adorned with a big burgundy bow made of the finest silk. Long, luscious locks flowed down his shoulders, curling slightly on its end. Two blue sapphires of his eyes were narrowed, studying Roman’s figure curiously. Godfrey would never admit it, but he felt very uncomfortable under Michael’s mischievous gaze. He instinctively wanted to straighten his back to look more confident, to show Langdon who was the boss. But the pretentious smirk ghosting over Michael’s lips indicated that the Antichrist could care less about the boy’s attempt to look powerful.

“Enjoying the evening, Mr. Godfrey?” He took a sip and swiped the tip of his pointed tongue over the corner of his mouth. Michael cocked his eyebrow at Roman, clearly being aware of the upir’s hunger.

“Quite a lot,” Roman sneered and moved his gaze at the girl sitting next to Langdon with her legs that were barely covered with a short dress hooked over his lap. She was looking at Roman through the thick fan of long dark lashes framing her eyes beautifully. There was something detached in the youthful beauty of her blush and a shy smile painting her lips. For some reason Godfrey found himself embarrassed and even looked away, meeting the mocking stare of Michael’s blue eyes.

“Care for a drink?” He asked, swirling the glass in his long fingers, the metal of his rings clicking against the cut. “You look...thirsty.”

Roman gritted his teeth, the sinew on his neck pulsing.

“How sweet that it’s the matter of your concern,” he muttered, still eyeing the girl from the corner of his eyes. She smiled and hid her face in the crook of Michael’s neck, her fingers grasping the fabric of his shirt. She braced one of her slender arms around his neck and brought her face to his ear.

“What was that, kitten?” Roman clicked his tongue disapprovingly at the pet name, suddenly feeling out of place. He looked around, searching for a new victim. He spotted a girl who was sitting alone at the bar and thought that she could be a nice option. Y/N’s voice drew him out of his thoughts.

“He’s the one,” she whispered in Michael’s ear, but it was audible enough for Roman’s hearing to catch it. He snapped his eyes back at her, noticing that she was looking at him again. Whatever she had meant, it was something that did not make Michael happy. He shifted in his seat and put the glass aside on the table.

“Are you sure, Y/N?” he asked, the threads of concern lacing into the tone of his voice. He gently took her chin between his thumb and index finger, slightly turning it to the side. “You can have anybody...think twice, sweetheart.”

Roman felt as if he had become an unwilling witness of something he could wish to have never seen. It all felt too intimate. He coughed and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, wondering why he was still standing there. It seemed like the girl’s heavy gaze pinned him to the floor. Michael was frowning, tapping his fingers against the knee impatiently.

“Well, if you excuse me...” Godfrey started awkwardly and shoved his palms into the pockets of his slack, brushing his thumbs over the fabric. The girl was still whispering something into Michael’s ear. He looked so concentrated that for a second Roman thought that Langdon would not even notice if he left. God knew how long he had been standing there like a fool before Langdon finally spoke to him.

“Why don’t you join us, Roman?” He suddenly offered, and the girl giggled, playing with the blonde strand of Michael’s hair. Roman watched her twist the silky locks around her fingers and let them cascade down Langdon’s shoulders. He licked his lips nervously. “I believe I haven’t introduced you to the love of my love yet, and I’m dying to fix this little omission.”

The corners of Roman’s lips twitched in amusement.

“I’m a busy man, Mr. Langdon,” he shrugged, ignoring the fact that Michael had addressed him on the first-name basis. “Hence I’m afraid we won’t have time to discuss the latest gossips.” He noticed the way the girl’s face sulked and how she slightly pushed her bottom lip forward in a pitiful pout. For the reason unknown to him, his heart swelled and suddenly he wanted to do anything to erase the sad expression off her doll face. “But I’ll be more than glad to get introduced to a beautiful lady next to you.”

She smiled and extended her hand to him which he eagerly accepted, slightly squeezing her fingers. Her palm was soft, it felt like his large hands were wrapped in the finest, pearly silk. His whole body jolted up as soon as he touched her. A shiver ran down his spine, and he looked at her with wide eyes. By the devilish sparks in her eyes, he knew she had felt it too.

“Y/N,” She said, and her voice turned out to be much lower than he had expected. “Y/N, Y/L/N.”

He smiled back and bent forward at the waist to bring his face closer to her hand and leave a quick kiss on her delicate skin.

“Pleased to meet you, Ms. Y/L/N. I’m Roman Godfrey, a CEO of the Godfrey Institute,” he answered proudly.

It was the beginning of something bigger than him, bigger than all of them.

A quick conversation with Langdon and his little pet, that was how Roman referred to the girl in his head, had managed to distract him from his hunger only for a short time. Soon enough he found himself apologizing for having to leave so soon.

He did not waste any time when grabbing the girl he had spotted earlier by the elbow and dragging her out of the club. Luckily she was way too drunk to care. He flashed his best smile at her, and she followed him to the car, giggling every time she stumbled on her heels.

Roman did not pay any attention when she put her hands on his crotch and tried to rub him through the fabric of his slacks, his eyes focused on the road. He bit the inside of his cheek to suppress the sudden tremor in his body. He was seconds away from stopping the car and sinking his teeth into the girl’s neck. She smelled like vodka and a subtle hint of her fruity perfume. He turned his head at her and she whimpered at the animalistic gaze of his now onyx eyes.

“Oh my God,” she mumbled, and suddenly her face turned into sharp features of Michael Langdon. Roman almost instantly hit the brakes.

“You look thirsty,” Langdon mocked. Thirsty, thirsty, thirsty, thirsty echoed in Roman’s head, and as he pressed his head into the back of his seat, Michael’s face got distorted into a smirking grimace. What the fuck? Beads of sweat covered Godfrey’s forehead.

“Get out!” He yelled and shut his eyes. When he opened them again, he saw a confused face of the girl who had instantly sobered up from his cry. She was looking at him with her big eyes resembling a fish, and at that moment all he wanted her to do was to leave him alone.

“What?” She asked, adjusting the straps of her dress to let him see a full view of her cleavage. He rolled his eyes.

“You heard me,” he hissed. “Get. The fuck. Out.” He did not care if she had to walk alone in the dark.

Roman drove his way home in silence, hungry and frustrated. He slammed the door of his car shut and stormed into a big mansion. Numerous thoughts were buzzing in his head like a swarm of bees. He headed straight to the shower, hoping that it could help him clear his mind.

He was too tired and tense to care about anything but the burning ache in his bones. Roman let out an inhuman cry when the streams of hot water hit his shoulder blades. He wished they could wash every cell of his disgusting being off the face of the earth. He hugged himself and dug his fingers into his skin as if he was going to rip it off. His plump bottom lip was trembling as he let his anger unwind. He didn’t want any of this, any of this life. He hit the wall with the fist and rested his forehead against the cool tile, sobbing brokenly. Fucking hell.

When he finally crawled out of the shower and reached for the towel to wrap it around his hips, he suddenly got glued to the spot. His nostrils flared. The waves of very powerful energy waged over him bringing the feeling of deja vu. His stomach did a flip at the thought that he was not alone in his mansion and what was even worse — his intuition knew the names of the intruders. Roman did not even care to dress up before he left the bathroom and made his way into his bedroom. His heart skipped a beat when he heard two low voices behind the closed door. No, it could not be true. He wrapped his fingers around the knob and turned his wrist to the left, pushing the door open with his hip.

Frankly speaking, now when he thinks about what happened that night, Roman is thankful that he did not kill Langdon and Y/N the second he saw them sitting on his bed. He remembers the shock and confusion. He thought he was hallucinating.

Langdon took his time to explain why they were in his bedroom while Roman was standing before them with his eyes wide open and his whole body unable to move. Y/N had been having the same dream over and over again: she was saving a young man from something she could not explain. The only thing she knew was that they needed to find him. Michael had never been into charity but he was ready to indulge the wish of the love of his life. Little had he known thar eventually she’d come to him and say that the stranger should have become a part of their relationship. Well, that was too much.

Michael did not understand the urge. Possessive by nature, he was not going to share her with anyone. “I’m not a fucking saint,” he shouted in her face while she was looking at him with her eyes full of tears.”And I’m definitely not a fool.” 

They had spent days fighting over that matter until she won. Langdon did not know what exactly made him change his mind: the sadnesses that flooded his lover’s mind and became unbearable for him to handle or the unknown force within himself.

“Let’s see who’s the one needing our help first,” he said through gritted teeth, secretly hoping that Y/N would drop that idea soon enough.

To find out that it was Roman Godfrey being the one in need of help was similar to being punched in the face. When he and Y/N were following the upir on his way home, Langdon tried to do his best to talk her into choosing someone else.

“He’s in pain,” she begged, turning her head at him, “don’t you feel it, Michael? I know you’re aware of how torturous his hunger is.”

“And why should I care?”

“Because I do,” she protectively crossed her arms, “and you care about me. He’s special, Michael. He needs help.”

“Fuck, remind me to ask my father why he chose a fucking angel as my eternal partner,” Langdon rolled his eyes and sped up the car.

He did not believe that any of them would ever turn this into a relationship. He was sure that Y/N would drop the idea as soon as she would see how fucked up Godfrey was. He refused to admit that at that moment jealousy was boiling in every fiber of his body.

When Roman started spitting the curses out, and the subtle hint of doubt sparked in Y/N’s eyes, Michael was celebrating his triumph. However, his content didn’t last. Y/N had this weird talent of persuading people, and eventually, both men fell victims to her charm.

Neither of them knew how to act. Michael couldn’t overcome the feeling of disdain he felt toward the younger boy and he was determined to treat him as such until he would prove that he was worthy of his respect.

On the other hand, Roman didn’t understand why she had to “win” anyone’s trust when it was Langdon and Y/N who had broken into his house and decided to make him “a proud member of their relationship”.

“You two,” he pointed his finger at them, “are fucking insane.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t done anything worse than this,” Michael scoffed, “I’m sure impregnating Letha was far less moral”

Those words nearly brought the entire venture to its end.

Roman realized that he really needed help, Langdon’s help, when the Antichrist had soothed his thirst for blood. Using his magic, Michael subsided Godfrey’s desire to kill and for the first time in what it seemed like forever, the upir could breathe.

Y/N made him believe that his kindhearted human nature was still within him. Of course, it took her months to persuade Roman, but the result was worth it. He desperately wanted to be good. All those sleepless nights he had been punishing himself for his victims were gone, and finally, he found someone who could turn him to the light. Well, technically they had found him.

Funny, how salvation came from the Antichrist and his lover. They moved from Roman treating the affair among the three of them as just sex to a deep, serious commitment.

It took Roman a lot of time to realize that he wasn’t alone anymore. The three of them took care of each other.

The turning point happened when Roman had another breakdown. He had been dealing with his hunger relatively good thanks to Michael and Y/N’s influence, but then he went on a business trip and just snapped. 

He rested his head in his hands, trying to keep breathing, but it felt like the air had suddenly got thicker. He rushed to a small fridge in his hotel room, looking for a bag of blood that he had stored in case of emergency, but the shelves were empty. He growled in frustration, his senses becoming more acute. His thirst, an obsession with blood, always put him in a weird, dizzy state where he could barely control himself. He didn’t feel like himself anymore. A white fog covered his eyes and enveloped his brain like a thick blanket. He couldn’t think straight.

“Heeeeelp!!” A loud, animalistic scream of a man he was holding in his arms, pulled him out of the trance. Godfrey opened his eyes and faced the dreadful look on the poor man’s face. He had no idea who it was and how he ended up there, in a dark alley far from anyone’s eyes. He tossed the man’s body aside like a useless puppet and looked at his hands covered in blood.

“What are you?” He snapped his head at the man who was on his hands and knees, looking terrified. Roman inhaled sharply, his body trembling as if he had a fever.

“You better fucking run,” he managed to bark. Panic rose inside of him like a tsunami, flooding his mind with a bitter aftertaste of fear and despair. He was scared of himself. He instinctively reached for the phone in the back pocket of his jeans and pressed one button of a speed dial. Please, pick up the phone, please, pick up the-

“Yes?” A familiar soothing baritone responded.

“Langdon, please...” Godfrey sobbed, feeling ashamed of his weakness. He fell to his knees against the dirty stone wall and squeezed his eyes tightly, but it didn’t prevent a couple of crystal tears from falling down his sharp cheekbones. “Help me, I’m begging you, Langdon.”

Michael did not need any explanation.

“Think of the place where you are at now,” when he spoke his voice was ringing with ice and calmness. Roman let out a sigh of relief. “I’ll come get you.”

“Okay,” he whispered and concentrated on the scenery he needed Michael to see.

Langdon was there in no time.

Something about Y/N kept Roman glued to her. Maybe this nagging feeling in his chest was aroused by the radiant warmth that surrounded her like a halo. “How does she even handle you, Langdon?” He once teased Michael.

The dynamic between her and the Antichrist was amusing as well. Roman did not like to admit it but he had been fascinated by Michael’s protectiveness over her since that time when he met them at the club. He thought that such a delicate flower as Y/N deserved nothing but the most careful guidance.

“Is she your little girl?” He asked, folding his hands over his chest and watching Y/N make her way toward Langdon and taking her seat on his lap, wrapping her arms around Michael’s shoulder.

“She’s my girl,” the blonde man answered, his palm cupping her bum and gently squeezing through a flimsy fabric of her dress, “but she’s not little. She does need me to take control when we’re intimate, but it’s never about age regression.”

Dominant by nature, Roman wanted to take care of the gorgeous girl, sitting on Michael’s lap, too. He missed the moment when he had started dreaming about her calling him daddy and letting him touch her wherever he wanted. He desired to learn every inch of her body because Michael seemed to had known where to touch, pet, and lick in order to turn her into a pliant mess.

She looked angelic in her pink and white set, her body splayed out on the expensive sheets, hair tossed around her head as Michael worked his tongue between her parted thighs (her panties were pulled aside), making her tug on his blonde locks and moan his name out loud.

“You need to earn the privilege to make her feel this good, puppy,” Langdon said, using the back of his palm to wipe Y/N’s cum off his full, glistening lips, looking extremely pleased with himself.

And Roman did. He was a bit rougher than Michael at times due to his impatience and youthful maximalism which worked perfectly in tandem with Langdon’s soft dominance. Secretly, he thrived off of bossing Roman around and telling him what to do. He loved holding the younger boy by his neck and burying his face between Y/N’s legs, making him feast on her pussy.

“Good boy,” Michael mused, letting go off of his grip. Roman was panting heavily when he pulled away from her throbbing core. He inhaled sharply and his body jolted forward back to her center when Langdon slid his hands down the younger boy’s torso, encouraging him to continue.

Godfrey found himself addicted to this romance. The obvious competition for Y/N’s attention was making his blood boil but it was different from what his hunger had been making him feel. Ardor electrified every sense in his body and made him feel alive.

She indulged his panty kink like nobody else. Y/N always wore the pretties undergarments, and to pull her panties down and off her legs with his teeth was Roman’s favorite thing to do. He loved dragging the lacy piece down while looking her in the eyes, making her watch his every move. She looked the prettiest when lying against Michael’s chest, while the blonde man was playing with her nipples, caressing them with featherlight touches.

Roman often found himself in a reverse position: blindfolded and gagged with her lacy thong. “Keep riding him, doll,” he moaned at Michael’s command and the increased pace of Y/N’s hips moving in sync with his hammering heartbeat.  

Thanks to Michael and his training, Roman became more patient and grew to enjoy edging their girl for hours. He and Michael would have her on her back, hands and legs bound to the bed and with a vibrator pressed against her clit. She looked ethereal, all desperate for his and Langdon’s cocks. The delicious stretch that both cocks made her feel was indescribable. She felt so, so full and worked up, but most importantly — she felt safe and taken care of.

Sometimes, as a part of her punishment, they would not let her cum for days. Prohibited to touch herself, she was suffering from the overwhelming arousal flooding her body. She’d try to clench her thighs, to rub herself against the armrests of Michael’s chair, to hump her pillow, but it seemed like the two men always knew what she was up to. They were always there to hush her and remind that if she continued “acting like a bratty slut” they’d have to extend the period of punishment. Godfrey and Langdon knew what buttons to push. One day when she was on her third day of edging, Roman came up to her when she was washing the dishes and slowly started peppering her neck with kisses. Being impossibly horny, she instantly leaned into his touch, hoping that her punishment was over. He fingered her until she turned into a whimpering, pleading mess, begging his to free his cock that she could feel against her ass from the confines of his slacks and fuck her right there on the kitchen counter. But the upir only laughed and pulled his hand out of her panties, leaving her on the verge of tears, wanting more.

Langdon loved eating her from behind while she was on her knees before Roman and sucking his cock, letting the mix of his precum and her saliva drip down her chin and breasts. She would cup the two mounds in her palms and smear the liquid all over her nipples, twisting and rolling them between her fingers. She could feel Michael’s hair brushing over her thighs every time he brought his mouth to her center to bury his tongue into her heat.

The men loved spoiling their girl. Her closet was full of the most beautiful designer dresses and the prettiest underwear. Roman adored when she put on a little show for them every time they’d buy something for her.

“Sit back and enjoy, daddies,” she’d tell them, and Michael and Roman would wait for her to come out of the bathroom in the new see-through set adorned with ruffles and pearls that matched her angelic personality but also showed off her spicy, devilish side. They nearly choked on their whiskey when she took a couple of elegant strides toward them and bent over to demonstrate how deliciously the sheer fabric of the panties hugged her bum, a purple jewel of a butt plug poking through the lace.

Michael’s blood ritual was something Roman always looked forward to. The first time he witnessed it, the younger boy thought he was going to lose his mind from how erotic it looked. That was when he tasted Langdon’s blood. His silver tongue glided over the Antichrist’s smooth, porcelain skin, leaving burning imprints in its wake. Michael’s chanting in Latin was mixing with the sound of Y/N’s moans and the obscene slapping of  Langdon’s flesh against her thighs. The men’s eyes were as dark as cosmos, illuminated by the light radiating from the candles that were put in a circle around their entwined bodies. There were no green and blue, only dark, deep emptiness of the supernatural creatures.

Michael know what big stress the ritual was for Y/N, thus he always made sure to take care of her afterwards, and Roman was always there to help. They’d carry her upstairs and run her a bath.

Speaking of bathing together, Godfrey loved when she rode him and Michael in the tub. The used a water-based lube, so it would not be uncomfortable for all of them. Plus, doing anal in the tub where everything was nice and clean was a lot easier. Roman adored the view of her breasts bouncing before his face as she kept moving on his length up and down, her wet hair clinging to her face.

Aftercare was the most important thing after making Y/N cum, of course. Especially if sex was rougher than usual. Sometimes the mood would strike for forceful face fucking, slaps across her tender cheeks and a cum shot all over her pretty face, but Roman and Michael always made sure to tell her how good she was for them.

“We’re so proud of you,” Langdon whispered against her cum-stained lips, and she smiled so wide, feeling happy and satisfied with how she had taken him and Roman. Every inch of her body was sore, muscles burned from overstimulation, but the pleasure that had come beforehand was worth it. She could still feel the mix of Michael’s and Roman’s cum seeping out of her, so she indulged the temptation to snake her hand between her legs to collect the pearly essence and lick it all clean.

When it was getting darker the following scene was very common for their mansion: Y/N was curled up on Roman’s lap while he was absentmindedly playing with her hair, threading his fingers through the soft strands. Michael usually worked till his eyes would get tired, so after a while, Godfrey and Y/N came up with an idea of how to get the Antichrist’s attention. Roman wouldn’t take his eyes off the tv as he slowly dragged his palm down her body and rested it on her thigh, his fingers barely swiping over the hem of her pj shorts. She looked up at him and shifted a bit, pressing her body against his torso. Roman toyed with a little bow on her waistband and slightly pulled the ribbon to untie it and slip his fingers under it, frowning when he touched the fabric of her panties. He looked down at her and mouthed “Why are you wearing them?” She shrugged and smiled, her breath was already uneven and heavy. She had to bite her knuckles to suppress a needy whimper threatening to fall from her lips. She wriggled her bum and parted her legs, letting Roman properly touch her. He cupped her pussy in his palm, outstretching the fabric of her already wet panties and shorts, starting to massaging her clit in slow, lazy circles.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Michael said in a sing-song tone, making Y/N nearly jump out of her skin. She looked at him with her eyes wide open and instinctively covered Godfrey’s hand between her thighs with her palm.

“Get back to work, Michael,” Roman mewled, ignoring Y/N’s attempts to close her legs. He smeared her arousal all over her folds, earning a loud gasp from her.

“It’s hard to concentrate when I can fucking smell her,” Michael drawled, gripping on the pen with such force that he nearly broke it.

So yeah, Roman’s plan always worked.

They loved traveling together. Eating fresh croissants in France, tasting every sort of pizza in Italy, buying the best vine in Spain, and walking down the narrow street in Monaco. Even though Roman and Michael were busy they always found time to take their girl, who looked good in white summer dresses, with her skin glowing and lips dripping with juices of ripe fruits, somewhere nice. 

It’s been only twenty minutes since you tried to fall asleep for the third time, yet again you find yourself wide awake, staring at the view of the midnight city looming from afar through the big windows framed with jacquard curtains. You close your eyes and sigh frustratingly, rubbing the tired lids with your fists. You shoot a quick glance at the clock and groan quietly.

3:24 a.m. God, why?

You look over your shoulder at Michael whose face looks so relaxed and peaceful in comparison to his awoken self — his usual frown between the straight brows has disappeared, his chiseled jaw unhinged, and he suddenly looks a lot younger than he actually is. Biting your bottom lip, you start contemplating the thought of waking him up and asking him to use his powers to help put you to sleep, but then you glance at him once again and the bitter feeling of guilt washes over you. No, you can’t ruin his sleep like that. You’ve already caused enough trouble disturbing his peace every time you turned and tossed on the bed.

Trying to be cautious, you turn over on your side to face Michael, but in the process, the burgundy blanket gets wrapped around your ankles too tightly, so the next moment you have to lift yourself from the bed, propping yourself on the elbows to adjust it. You can barely see anything in the dark, so you end up kicking the blanket off completely. It slips off of the bed and helplessly pools on the floor like a puddle of crimson blood. Fuck. You look down and decide that it’s useless to try picking it up.

Your lips are pressed in a tight line, as you hesitantly reach for Michael’s blanket. He won’t notice if you steal it, right? He seems far deep in his dreams. You get a grip of the corner of the fabric and slowly, inch by inch, pull it towards yourself, watching Langdon’s face for any signs of him being awake; you aren’t even breathing at this moment. Shifting a bit closer, you lean forward and slide your cold feet under Michael’s covers. You lie back on the pillow, but the mattress treacherously dips beneath your body, and Michael lets out a deep sigh.

“What is it again, kitten?” he asks, his voice low and deep, making your freeze to the spot with the blanket still clenched in your fists. Shit, you thought he was asleep. When Michael asks the question, he doesn’t even open his eyes, desperately not wanting to leave the sweet kingdom of Morpheus.

“Nothing,” you whisper, trying to position yourself on the bed as if you haven’t stolen his blanket a minute ago. “Go back to sleep, Michael.”

Langdon brings his large palms to his face and rubs his eyes, slowly opening them, the ocean blue coolness of his look peering at your annoyingly. He drops his left arm on the sheets and beckons you with his fingers.

“It’s the fourth time you wake up,” he sighs and shifts to the side, giving you some space on his pillow. “С’mere, you little thief,” he smirks at the fact that you’ve grabbed his blanket, leaving him almost uncovered.

An apologetic smile makes the corners of your mouth twitch, and as soon as you lean forward, a surprised yelp falls from your lips — Michael’s arms got wrapped around you securely and pulled you in for a tight hug, pressing you close to his chest, his long limbs enveloping you like tentacles. He nuzzles his face in the crook of your neck, the radiant warmth of his body immediately surrounds you like a protecting shield.

“Sleep, sugar,” he mumbles inches away from your ear, and his hot breath awakens your flesh with goosebumps; his long hair tickles your neck and bare shoulders. You brush the honey strands behind his ear and let your fingers wander over his cheeks and the sharp line of his jaw, caressing lovingly. Michael hums and tightens his embrace around you. You possessively throw your leg over his muscular thigh and press your PJ-clad crotch to his pelvis.

“I can’t,” you whisper, continuing running your fingers through his hair and playfully curling his silky locks around the bony knuckles. Your soft touches soothe him, making even more sleepy and pliant in your arms. It’s almost impossible for him to keep his eyes open, and you can tell it by the way he blinks lazily and tries to hold a yawn back.

“Have you tried counting sheep?” He asks, making long pauses between the words, and you scoff in response. “Or how many times I’ve made you cum,” you can feel a cheeky grin spread over his lips as he says that. Even when he’s on the verge of passing out he manages to make such remarks. You shake your head, but a quiet laugh still falls from your lips.

“Michael...,” you roll your eyes at him even though you know that he can’t see it.

“What?” He hums and presses his lips to your neck, leaving small kisses where he can reach, “I think it’s a great method.”

You tilt your head to the side, resting it on his shoulder, and let your hands travel over his back and arms, sliding up and down, praising him with featherlight touches. The feeling of being so close to him sends exciting sparks of pleasure down your spine, electrifying every cell of your body with the tension of million volts, the familiar warmth spreading in your lower abdomen. You curl your fingers against his shoulder and brush his porcelain skin that looks luminous in the moonlight and the reflection of the city lights with your knuckles.

In contrast to your energetic self, his breath becomes even and you can feel his grip around you loosen up a little bit, indicating that Michael has lost the battle and drifted back to sleep. You sigh and pensively drag your fingertips over the patch of skin between his neck and shoulder blades, drawing a little heart with your pads. And what are you supposed to do now?

You shift next to him, trying to adjust your body into a more comfortable position, but accidentally end up grinding your clothed hips against his crotch. The innocent movement makes your insides flatter in excitement, the tingling sensation in your tummy causes your hand involuntarily fly to your lower abdomen to cover the warm skin with your palm. You absentmindedly run your fingers along the waistband of your pants, toying with the silk ribbon tied in a bow.

“Daddy,” you whisper under your breath and bring your face closer to his, pressing your cheek into the soft pillow that smells like a mix of Langdon’s shampoo and cologne. Michael doesn’t respond, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Daddy, wake up,” you gently stroke his features and lean forward to peck his full lips.

“Mhmm,” he mumbles incoherently, his leg sliding between your thighs.

“Daddy, please, wake up,” you whine, sounding more demanding, and lightly pet his shoulder, “I need you.”

“Angel, can it wait till morning?” He groans, and you kiss the tip of his nose.

“Please, use your magic to help me fall asleep,” you beg him and lightly tug on his hair in an attempt to draw his attention, “I can’t do it on my own.”

Slowly, opening one eye and then another, Michael wakes up. He flips his hair over his shoulder and rests his chin on his hand, looking at you through the heavy lids.

“Someone’s being too active tonight,” he muses, sensing your energy buzzing within your body. You feel so excited and aroused despite the early hour that it makes Michael wonder what has influenced such a drastic shift in your spirit. He blinks the last traces of sleep away, and you watch him sit up on the bed with a sigh, the muscles on his back rolling as he stretches his arms. You watch him curiously get on his knees and crawl up in front of you, crumbling the white sheets.

“We don’t need my magic,” he rubs the bridge of his nose tiredly and then places both of his hands on his thighs, “let’s see if Daddy’s mouth can calm you down.”

Your heart skips a beat at Michael’s words and then starts racing, pressure pounding in your temples. He reaches out to the lamp on the nightstand and presses the button — a dim light immediately illuminates his soft features, tangling in the luscious waves of his curls. Langdon waves his index and middle fingers at you, urging to spread your legs for him. You obey eagerly and part your thighs.

“You really don’t have to do this,” you murmur, secretly wishing that Michael won’t listen to your protests, and he knows that. He brushes his hair back, letting the gold waves fall freely behind his shoulders.

Michael reaches his hand to the waistband of your pants but before he unties the bow he lets his fingers get under the flimsy top and graze the soft skin of your stomach that immediately flexes under his touch. He traces the unknown patterns over your flesh and uses his digits to hook under the hem of your top and bunch it up. You inhale sharply as his lips follow up, leaving open-mouthed kisses next to your bellybutton. He darts the tip of his tongue out and licks a wet stripe to the waistband, stopping right at the little bow to nip on your skin. You whimper and he immediately licks the bruised patch up.

“Gotta keep still for Daddy, okay love?” He mewls and gives you that look — the signature stare of two magnetic icebergs that can undress you in a matter of seconds. You nod and shift your head on the pillow, taking a more comfortable position. Michael smirks at your silent agreement which is clearly not enough for him. He needs to make sure that you have understood his order. He puts his warm veiny hands on your thighs, his thumb brushing over the fabric of your pants.

“Use your words, kitten.”

You cover his palms with your hands and lightly squeeze his fingers.

“Yes, Daddy, I’ll behave and let you use your tongue to make me feel good,” the devils in Michael’s eyes flicker in the dim light at your words, the dark lustful void envelops his blue irises. He leans forward, closing the distance between you two and crashes your lips in a passionate kiss. His tongue possessively pushes on your bottom lip, demanding access, and you obediently open your mouth, letting him in. You moan into the kiss at the feeling of Michael’s hand tangling in your hair and pulling at the roots to make you tilt your head for a better angle. His other hand leaves your thigh and unties the ribbons of the pants, loosening up the bow.

You are the first to break the kiss but only because you need to take a breath. Michael doesn’t let your shy away from him — he’s holding you firmly by your hair, his forehead pressed against yours. He slides his hand down to the valley of your breasts and cups the mound of flesh in his palm. He massages it firmly, yet gentle enough for you to moan his name in response.

“Such a good girl,” he praises, and you wrap your arms around his neck to lean in for another kiss. The synchronized movement of your lips speaks more than any words could ever — it confesses your love for Michael, an uncontrollable desire to be closer, to become one. There’s no space between you two, and you can feel his heartbeat drumming against your chest.

“Only for you, Daddy,” a quiet giggle escapes your lips.

His long eyelashes flatter when he looks down at your pants and licks his bottom lip.

“I want them off,” he pulls the waistband and lets it snap against your lower abdomen. Michael quickly helps you discard the unnecessary piece of clothing, leaving you in nothing but your PJ top. He neglectfully tosses the pants aside without paying attention to where they landed.

Before you could close your legs, he gets a strong grip of your knees and pushes them apart, forcing you to keep your thighs open for him. His eyes light up at the view of your pink, glistening pussy, and you nervously look away, being too intimidated. Michael never fails to make you feel vulnerable, especially when he looks at you as if he’s ready to devour you, drink you up. And he actually is. You bring your fingers to your mouth and bite the knuckles in order to suppress a reserved smile.

Langdon hooks his arms around your calves and pulls you in, making you slide a little lower on the pillow and lie completely flat before him. Satisfied with your position, he gets comfortable between your thighs and looks up at you.

“Relax, princess,” he places a soft kiss to the inner side of your thigh, “Daddy will take care of you.”

You sigh and sprawl your arms out, smoothing the sheets beneath you. You expect Michael to immediately get down to business and go straight to your clit, but instead, he surprises you with long, sloppy stripes that his tongue leaves along your puffy folds. He lazily drags his tongue down all the way to your puckering asshole and then traces the pink tip back up to your pubic bone, wrapping his lips mere inches away from your clit. Using his long fingers, he parts your pussy and does the same thing to your inner labia, collecting the wetness. You can’t help yourself when you hand flies to his head and you thread your fingers in his hair, long and honey-like. You slightly tug on the strands, knowing how much Michael likes it, and elicit a low growl from him that sends subtle vibration down your spine, making another wave of arousal flush through you and coat his tongue with salty fluids.

“Fuck,” you gasp and squeeze your eyes when he reaches your clit and gives it small kitten licks.

“Watch your tongue,” Michael hisses and turns his head to bite at the pulsing sinew near your navel in a warning.

You embarrassingly press your crimson face into the pillow and mutter, “I’m sorry, Daddy.” Langdon licks the abused spot soothingly, but it doesn’t prevent a purplish bruise to start blooming over the sensitive skin.

“It’s just...” you mumble as Michael’s tongue makes its way back to your clit. He presses the tip to a swollen bud firmly and agonizingly slowly slide it to your wet, pulsing center. “Oh my God, you feel so good.” He barely penetrates the tip into your hole, refusing to go all the way inside, much to your dismay.

“Daddy,” you sob brokenly, arching your back trying to bring your pussy closer to his parted lips that are already slick with your juices. You are so impatient, every cell of your body trembles in anticipation for more, more, more licks and kisses, but Michael has other plans. Every move of his lean, muscular body is slow as if he performs it in some sort of a trance. He wants to calm you down, help you relax, and the best tactic for it is to show you that he is not going to put up with your neediness. So he ignores your whimpers and quiet protests when he proceeds to lick you lazily.

You try to wriggle your hips under him, your fists crumpling the sheets and pulling harshly, so your knuckles bleed white.

“Y/N,” Michael’s threatening tone comes from between your legs, “You need to stop moving, otherwise I won’t let you cum. Do you really want to continue being a bad girl?”

You know that when he repeats himself twice it’s a final warning. You have no choice but obey, so with a shaky sigh, you try your best to relax. Michael’s overall dominating aura and sensual touches make your body go pliant. He watches you unhinge your jaw and close your eyes, admitting your defeat.

“Good...” you whisper, and it takes Langdon some effort not to crack up and smile at your pout, but he knows that you can do better than that. He rises up and towers over you. Michael puts his hands besides both sides of your face, holding the weight of his body above you, his hair flowing down like curtains.

“I’m sorry what was that?” He muses, tracing his finger over your bottom lip.

“I’ll be good,” you try to look away, but he uses the same hand to get a grip of your chin. He arches his brow at you, demanding a proper answer. “I’m sorry for being a brat, Daddy.”

He gives your lips a small peck and rubs the tip of his nose against yours.

“I wonder why you are suddenly acting up,” he says against your lips. “Hm?” Michael trails his lips towards your ear at traps your earlobe between his teeth. “Such a naughty girl for having woken Daddy up at 4 a.m. What happened, kitten? Did you dream about my tongue between your legs? Did the throbbing in your kitty keep you awake?” He cups your sex in his hand and presses the heel of his palm to your clit, drawing another moan from you.

“I’ll take it as a yes,” he smirks and slides back between your legs.

You try your best to keep your word and stay still. He eats you out with no steady pace, his tongue alternates slow, sensual licks with sudden hard thrusts into your core, and you never know what’s going to happen next. He is playing by his own rules.

“Please,” your voice breaks in a pathetic plea; you look down at Michael with glassy eyes, watching him lazily lap up your arousal, his hair spilled between your parted legs like liquid platinum. He places his hand on your tummy and slowly pushes on it, pinning you down to the mattress. This subtle move of dominance makes your breath heavy, and you feel your orgasm start building up deep inside of you. You want to scream at Michael for being such a tease, for keeping you on edge. At first, it seems like he is giving you enough — his tongue feels heavenly playing with your pussy — yet you want to flip you and him over and ride his face at the impossibly fast pace like you really need it.

“You are so beautiful, my love,” he drags every letter of the words, pretending that he  doesn’t notice your fucked out state; his fingers slide up and down your folds, smearing your arousal and then stopping by the hole, you keep pushing out on display for him, to swipe off some more of the creamy liquid. He rubs it between his fingers and smirks. “The prettiest little pussy, so warm and wet for me. You like it when daddy fucks you on his tongue, don’t you, kitten?”

“Nghhh,” your head thrashes from side to side. Every nerve ending of your body is on fire.

Edging is fun and games until it starts being exhausting. You drop your bent legs on the bed, spreading them out for Michael as wide as possible and take a deep breath. You can’t take it anymore, it feels like if Langdon doesn’t give you what you need, you will die. You extend your hand out and tiredly pet his head.

“Daddy,” you whisper, watching him circle your sensitive clit with his tongue, “Please, let me cum.” You clasp your hands in prayer, and Michael’s dick twitches at the sacred gesture. It’s like you admit that he’s your only God who blesses you with the carnal pleasure.

With a low, throaty groan, he inserts two fingers inside of you and wastes no time curling them upwards right where your most sensitive spot is located. He brushes against the spongy wall of your pussy and makes a beckoning motion inside of you, making you nearly choke on your saliva. He expertly scissors his digits and attaches his mouth to your clit. The sweet teasing kisses were now replaced with intense, circular motions of his tongue, the tip of it pressing right on your oversensitive clit. Your mouth falls agape, eyes flying open as the sparks of pleasure ripple through you. You feel so, so wet — the squelching sound that Michael’s fingers make as he pumps them in and out of you is vulgar and irresistibly obscene.

“Cum for me, angel,” he urges you, pushing his finger deeper into your quivering pussy. He can already feel your walls start clenching around his digits. “Show me what a good little slut you are for Daddy.”

And you snap at his words. The tight heat in your stomach that’s been coiling all this time finally unwinds and your body gets flooded with warmth and pure ecstasy. Your limbs go numb, as you clench around his fingers with force, milking them so nicely that Michael wishes it were his cock instead. Your cum drips down your thighs, making a mess all over Langdon's hand and the sweat-soaked sheets.

He doesn’t pull his wet fingers out until you wince at the overstimulation and shift your hips away uncomfortably. With a sloppy “pop” sound he withdrawals them and brings the shiny pads to your lips. You eagerly wrap two of your hands around his wide wrist and happily start sucking on his fingers, licking your own cum off. The thick drops of it coat his knuckles like pearls.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he cooes when you take too much of his fingers at once and nearly choke. Michael brushes the sweaty strands of your hair to the side and gently pets your hollowed cheek.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you smile at him after every drop of your creamy essence has been swallowed.

Michael nods at you and lies down on his stomach next to you. He puts one of his arms under the pillow and rests his head on it. Despite the delightful smirk ghosting over his lips, Michael looks tired. You glance up at the clock.

4:10 a.m. Damn.

The sun is about to rise from the horizon. The eastern sky has already been filled with blended tones of rosy pinks and sandy yellows, welcoming a new day.

“Michael,” you cup his cheek in your hand and runs your thumb over his smooth cheek.

“Hm?” He responds tiredly and closes his eyes.

“Can we talk?”

Langdon shifts closer and wraps his arms that isn’t under the pillow around your waist and pulls you in. His grip is steal-like, holding you securely.

“My love, I am begging you, please, go to sleep,” he mumbles into your hair and presses his lips to your temple.

“But, I just...”

“Y/N,” he uses this tone on you that makes you bite your tongue. “We have eternity together, alright love? We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”

You trace your finger over the bridge of his nose, to his full lips.

“Okay,” even though he can barely function at this moment, he still kisses your fingertips and the small gesture of affection makes you smile.

Soon enough, you peacefully fall asleep in the arms of Michael Langdon.

Trying not to stare at his chiseled face caressed by the flames of numerous candles that were all over the room, you still could not help yourself but occasionally shoot snotty little side glances at him, eyeing the way his chest clothed in a black jacket and a dress shirt rose and fall heavily. You sighed and rested your head on your hand, tapping the fingers of your left hand against your knee impatiently.

“What’s the hurry?” his low, velvet baritone suddenly thundered through the room. He asked without lifting his eyes from the papers and put another checkmark on the sheet.

You immediately straighten your back and put your chin a bit too high than it was necessary, hoping that your body language would trick him into believing that you weren’t bored to death with an endless waiting. Sliding your hand down your thigh, you adjusted your dress, smoothing the imaginary wrinkles out.

“What? No, nothing,” you said and leaned back on your chair, ready to meet the stare of the icy blue eyes. Michael, however, did not spare a glance at you. He hummed in response, put the papers back in the folder, and placed it aside on the oak table.

“I can sense your body vibrate with impatience,” he finally looked at you, and for a moment it felt like the floor disappeared below you.  You licked the corner of your mouth with a tip of your tongue and squeezed the corner of the lace that was adorning the hem of your dress with your fingers, trying to remain calm and unbothered, or at least to seem that way.

“Well, I’ve been sitting here for,” you glanced at the antique clock above his blonde head, “twenty minutes, and my interview hasn’t started yet. I wonder if maybe I could come another time?”

He arched his eyebrow at you.

“There might not be another time, Y/N,” he mused, and even though you would never admit it to yourself, your stomach flattered at the way he pronounced your name. Plump lips moved slowly, his silver tongue savoring every letter that dripped from his mouth like the sweetest syrup. “If I decide so.”

He leaned back, mimicking your position, and placed his right elbow on the armrest, caressing his cheek with his bony fingers. The flames danced beautifully in the cut of his rubies. You did not say anything in response, waiting for him to continue. It was better to find out what he was up to first: if he used a soft approach or preferred to force his interviewees into obedience. The right strategy was a dangerous thing especially in the skillful hands, and you knew it like nobody else.

Michael nodded at the file.

“You have a reputation of a very short-tempered person,” he opened it on the first page where there was a picture of you and some basic information. “Starting from high school and then through university, your professors described you as “bald, rebellious,” he flipped through the pages lazily, “insurgent, passive-aggressive,” he smirked and slightly tilted his head to the side, blue eyes scanning through the notes he had made.

Your jaw tensed at his words. Was he trying to provoke you?

“I’m aware of what kind of a person I am, Mr. Langdon,” you said, twisting the silver band around your index finger from side to side impassionately. “Is it all you invited me here for?”

Michael licked the inside of his cheek and you saw his tongue outstretching the skin of it, making it look as if there was a cock in his mouth. You mentally slapped yourself across your face for that thought.

Langdon scoffed.

“You wanted to be seen so desperately. Why is that?”

“It’s not polite to answer a question with a question, Sir.” You answered, trying to take the unnecessary thoughts out of your head, and watched him stand up from his seat and with the elegant strands approach your chair. He walked like a predator hunting his prey, slightly bouncing at the knees with each step. It took you some of your self-control to stay in place and not to start turning your head following his direction. Every inch of your body tensed in anticipation at the sound of his boots clicking on the concrete floor. His aura, deep and magnetic, enveloped you like a thick cape, making your heart race.

He stood right behind you; you could not see him, yet his presence was obvious. You missed the moment when you squeezed the armrests so tightly your knuckles bled white, but when his hands fell on your shoulders and you let go off of the handle, you quietly gasped at the stiff feeling in your fingers. His touch, firm and steel-like, sent subtle vibrations all over your body. You had noticed it about Langdon before: he was so tactile; Gallant slept in the jacket he had worn when Michael petted his shoulder at dinner the other day.

“Silly little thing,” he cooed, “you think you can run your mouth so freely?” His fingers brushed against the collar of your dress, outlining the trim of the delicate lace, mere inches away from your neck where the prominent sinew was pulsing from the adrenaline running in your veins. “You, just like any other human, are somewhat clueless about  how fragile your body is,” you were holding your breath as he spoke, the look of your e/c eyes lingering over his fingers. He was so close to you that you could see the faint monogram “ML” engraved on a chunky ring.

You did not know where all that strength came from when you parted your lips and said:

“You claim that you can see through our mundane guise,” your voice came out squeakier than you expected, so you cleared your throat and then continued, “but you are wrong, Mr. Langdon,” you emphasized the letter “M” by smacking your lips together and spitting the word out as if it was filled with poison, “if you think that I’m not aware of the presence of death,” he circled the chair, dragging his hands off of your shoulders slowly, and made his way back to the desk. He turned around to face you and leaned his hips against the table, placing his hands on the polished surface of it for leverage. His hair framed his face like curtains, as he looked at your figure from up and down.

He narrowed his eyes, full lips curling into a smirk.

“Am I?” the man who could call death his best ally, who was bound with it on more than just a spiritual level, felt deeply amused with your bravado.

You nodded.

“Remembering that I could be dead at any given moment was the most important tool I’d ever encountered to make the big choices in life before you destroyed the world and I,” you paused, “we, meaning the humanity, lost everything we could choose from.”

You did not know whether Michael’s eyes lit up on their own at your words or it was the reflection of the flames.

“Then why are you here if you hate it so much? I can end your suffering with the snap of my fingers and free you from the burden of living in the new world.”

“And leave me without a choice? Again?”

A moment of silence followed the question. Your words hang in the electric air. Of course, you would lie if you said that you were not scared at all. In fact, fear chained every muscle of your body and pinned you to your seat, but you were strong enough to control your emotions and at least, pretend that you were unbothered. At least on the facade. Michael leaned forward, bringing his angelic (as paradoxical as it was) face closer to yours. His eyes drilled through you, seeking for your weaknesses. Physically he was present in the room with you, but mentally he was far deep in your thoughts, ravishing the darkest secrets.  

“A man has no choice in his origins,” he hissed, “you all are cursed since the day you are born to sin, to destroy, to sow despair.”

You pushed yourself out of the chair and in a matter of seconds you appeared so close to him that you could smell the musky scent of his cologne. He did not expect this move, and if you had not been mere inches away from him,  you would not have noticed the way his breath hitched. But since you were in his personal space, you saw it all: his widened pupils, parted plush lips and the way his eyelids fluttered.

“Then why are you giving us a chance?” Unintentionally your gaze dropped to his lips and for a second, the thought of tasting them had crossed your mind before you tucked it in the furthest corners of your subconsciousness. To be this close to a man as gorgeous as Michael was equal to experiencing a number of heart attacks in a row. You secretly admired the way his locks flowed down his shoulders, his skin looked so soft and smooth that you wanted to leather it with your lips, caress it with your touch, but at the same time something about him was off. Langdon inhaled sharply, a carnivorous smile touched his lips from ear to ear, and a sudden realization came to your mind. You close your lids, breaking the eye contact.

“There’s no sanctuary, is it?” You said, clenching your fingers in tight fists, your own voice sounded foreign. “You fucker…”

His loud, high cold cackle roared through the room. It was a peal of mocking laughter that was supposed to scare you, make you feel hopeless, abandoned. Michael kneeled down before you and took your face in his palms, forcing you to look up at him. He was so pleased with himself. Running  his fingers through your hair, stroking your cheeks with his ring-clad fingers he said:

“Oh my little pet,” a wide grin on his face made him look like an obsessed madman, his touch leaving burning imprints on your skin. He could not get enough of your resistance, he was thriving off of the anger boiling within you, he looked forward to unleashing, make it flood your entire being with its hellish waters. Believe it or not, but the indifference to the new world he was going to built made you more alive than any other resident of the outpost who had spent hours on their knees begging Michael to choose them. You had nothing to lose, and that was the true definition of freedom. “You’re a fighter, I like that.”

At that moment you wish you had possessed any magic abilities, too. You wanted to read his thoughts, crawl under his skin, become one with Michael Langdon in order to understand if he was bluffing or not.

“If you really think that I’m gonna believe any of your words, you are not quite a perceptive Antichrist that you claim yourself to be,” you fended off, noticing that you somewhat had missed the moment when his hands appeared on your things, the heaviness and radiant warmth of his touch tightening a familiar knot in the pit of your stomach. The tension between you two was excruciating, you could feel it with your skin, burning, igniting every sense of your soul, making your feelings more acute. You wished you could clasp your legs together to ease the ache and need between them, but if you did so, it would expose you and the game would be lost. Just like the remains of your self-control.

“Hmmm,” he smirked, digging his fingers into the drapes of your dress and squeezing your thigh roughly. “What if I told you that I could sense how hungry your wet womanhood is for me right now? Would that make me more of a perceptive Antichrist?”

“Perhaps,” you responded, wrapping your fingers around his wrists to take his hands away from your hips, “you could say that, but in order to check if it’s true,” your voice dropped a few octaves lower as you were about to share a secret, “you have to earn the opportunity. Patience is bitter, but its fruit is sweet, Mr. Langdon. Aristotle said that, listen to him.”

“Especially if the fruit is between my legs,” you thought to yourself, knowing that Michael was listening to your thoughts.

“He did not say that part,” he smirked, standing up on his feet and going back to his seat. Your heart was about to beat out of your chest as you waited for his next move. Did you cross the line? The swirl of numerous questions was buzzing in your mind like a hive. To your disappointment, the only thing Michael said was, “you’re dismissed Ms. Y/L/N.”

But as you approached the closed door and your fingers touched the silver knob, he called you by your name. You slowly turned your head at him. 

“I expect you to be in my room at midnight for the second part of our interview. I’ll make sure that after it the only man you’re going to quote is me.”