#big wilo

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@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

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@kjlovesbigwilo @kyoshithewriter

note: hey y’all. my writers block is gone (for now) and finally wrote something after 564 days🥳. i actually had this idea ahead ago but i haven’t been able to wrote anything. no song this time, crazy lol. anyway, as always enjoy and tell me what you think🤍!!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The spotlight was where you thrived. Not just a place you stepped into, but a place you belonged—like a second skin stitched from gold thread and flashbulbs. You didn’t just stand there for attention; you existed there, luxuriated in it, stretched yourself across its glow like you were soaking in sun on the French Riviera. The light found you and lingered, as if even photons were seduced by your presence.

The cameras, the murmuring crowds, the rising tide of admiration that always seemed to follow in your wake—they weren’t distractions. They were fuel. You moved like a secret whispered on velvet. Every gaze that trailed behind you fed something warm and pulsing inside your chest. Something electric. You loved being watched, not in some hollow, thirsty way, but with the quiet arrogance of someone who knew they were worth watching. You didn’t chase attention—it chased you, breathless and grateful.

You weren’t the type to try. You didn’t need to. You were the woman they designed phrases like “showstopper” for. The one who walked into a room and made even the chandeliers pause. Heads turned not because you demanded it—but because not turning felt like a mistake. Your presence was magnetic, your allure effortless. You were the main event in every room you entered, and you wore that truth like perfume: subtly, seductively, completely.

You liked your life the way you liked your drinks—fast, full-bodied, and with a little bit of a kick.

You craved momentum. You thrived in the blur of packed calendars and back-to-back calls. You wanted your name on everyone’s tongue—group chats, editorials, podcast recaps, late-night tweets. You didn’t just live in the moment; you owned it. And modeling, well… modeling didn’t just suit you. It was written in your bones.

To you, it wasn’t a job. It was tempo. It was transformation. You could turn it on like a light—be storm or siren, flame or silk. You understood angles the way a dancer understands gravity, knew when to soften and when to scorch. And when the camera flash cracked the air like lightning? You gave it thunder. You gave it legend.

And fame? Fame never rattled you. You wore it like vintage Versace—bold, intentional, a little cheeky. You smiled at the whispers, winked at the headlines, never let your crown tilt. Fame was the easiest part. You didn’t chase it. You invited it in, offered it a drink, told it to take off its shoes and stay awhile.

Of course, the perks were nice. The way velvet ropes parted like scripture when you approached. The hotel suites. The fashion house gifts. The stylist who FaceTimed you from Paris when a last-minute gala popped up in Cannes. But the real magic was in the small, sparkling details: handwritten notes from designers who said you were their muse. Messages from fans who swore you’d made them feel beautiful just by existing. Little girls clutching your campaign ads with their eyes wide and their hair in braids, whispering that they wanted to be you one day.

That part kept your feet on the ground. That part reminded you that what you were doing meant something.

But if there was one thing—just one—you couldn’t stand?

It was the way people treated your love life like public property.

Not your skincare routine. Not your clothes or your shoot locations or the hotel you were spotted leaving. No—him. Whoever he was at the time. The man beside you in one blurry photo and suddenly you had a whole new narrative.

You could tolerate curiosity when it was shallow. But this was invasive. Speculative. Obsessive. Every dinner outing became a Reddit thread. Every hand brush or shared laugh became a fucking thesis paper. Theories built off the shape of a shoulder. Your happiness dissected like gossip was an Olympic sport.

At first, you pushed back. You denied, deflected, dodged every “Who are you seeing?” like it was a punch. You didn’t owe anyone an explanation. But eventually… something shifted. You stopped fighting. Stopped hiding. Started playing the game your way.

Let the rumors hang in the air like perfume. Let the people guess.

A little mystery wasn’t just protection. It was power.

Like tonight.

Tonight, you weren’t just in the spotlight—you owned it. On the red carpet for the highly anticipated F1 movie premiere, you were nothing short of divine. A vision dressed in liquid moonlight. Custom, of course. A designer two-piece crafted just for you: a white satin bustier, sculpted to frame your body like it had studied you first. The beading at the hem sparkled with each breath you took. The trousers—wide-legged, trailing the floor—moved like melted pearl, rippling over your heels like they were floating. Around your neck, diamonds dripped like water. Your skin glowed like dusk. Your hair was pulled sleek, not a strand out of place. And your lips—plush, painted, kissable—curved in the kind of smile that made photographers forget their settings.

You looked like wealth. Like elegance dipped in sin. Like you knew something everyone else didn’t.

And maybe you did.

Because tonight… you were thinking of him.

William.

The French defender. The wall of muscle wrapped in calm. A man who made silence sexy. Whispers had followed the two of you for weeks—restaurant sightings, hotel lobbies, courtside seats at games. Photos that weren’t exactly damning, but weren’t innocent either. A laugh shared too close. A hoodie that may or may not have been his. Internet sleuths were working overtime. Was it a PR stunt? A new situationship? Was it love or lust?

You weren’t saying. Not yet.

As you made your way down the press line, the usual questions came: “Who are you wearing?” “Do you follow Formula 1?” “Are you team Mercedes or team Ferrari?” You answered smoothly, charmingly, letting your voice curl like smoke. And then it came. The question you’d been waiting for.

“We’ve seen you out with a certain someone recently,” the journalist teased, eyebrow arched, tone playful. “What’s going on with that?”

You didn’t blink. You smiled, slow and sweet, head tilting just so. A laugh like honey spilled from your lips.

“I’ve been seen with a lot of people lately,” you said, teasing right back. “Life’s moving fast—I can’t track every person I’ve seen.”

Another laugh. Breathier this time. A glimmer in your eye. The journalist grinned, knowing she wouldn’t get more. Not yet.

“Okay, okay,” she relented. “Last one. What’s your dream ride, Ms. Y/N?”

You let it linger. Let your lips part as your tongue tucked into your cheek. Your eyes went to the camera. And then—

“My dream ride?” you repeated, voice syrupy. “A Rolls Royce.”

You smiled like you knew something they didn’t. Because you did. And with that, you turned and walked away, heels clicking like applause trailing behind you. You checked your phone briefly before heading inside the theater.

And there it was.

Already posted. Already viral. Already on his For You Page.

Wilo – *link to the video*

Can get you your dream ride.

You – How quickly?

Wilo – 8 days. 6 if I’m lucky.

You – Expedite shipping please 🙏🏾.

Wilo – Will do what I can. See you soon sexy x.

You bit your lip as you locked your phone, the flutter in your stomach unmistakable.

He always knew how to keep you smiling.

~~~~~~~

Later that night, curled on your couch under a cashmere throw, skin still glowing with champagne and attention, you opened Instagram one last time. Posted a story thanking the premiere team. Tagged the designer. Then sat back, letting the comments roll in.

“you’re fw wilo i knew it!!!”

“new WAG alert 🚨🚨🚨”

“she bad af AND she got saliba? i’m not okay”

“ok but imagine how good the sex is 😭😭😭”

“tell wilo to tell saka i love him 😏”

“you didn’t confirm it but you didn’t deny it either 👀”

“you’re a goddess. period.”

You laughed out loud, the screen casting a soft light on your face.

It wasn’t a hard launch. Not quite a secret either. It was something better—something soft, luxurious, intentional. Like silk over skin. A reveal that hinted without screaming. That let you have something for yourself, while giving the public just enough to feed on.

And that felt… good. Right. Like breathing for the first time in weeks.

Because the truth was, those twelve names they’d paired you with over the past year?

They didn’t matter.

There was only one man who made your heart thud when your phone lit up.

Only one who touched you like your body was gospel.

Only one you were willing to be patient for, to risk it all for.

His name?

William.

Wilo.

Your dream ride.

~~~~~~

Now here you were.

Days later. Different outfit, same ache in your belly.

Because he listened—of course he did.

Wilo was many things: fine as hell, easy to read, sometimes slow with his texts—but when it mattered, he heard you. He always did. He read between the playful, flirty lines you texted after the premiere. Picked up on your hints like signals sent in code. He caught every one.

And then he moved.

Quietly, smoothly, confidently.

He expedited the shipping of himself right to your damn door like he was the package. Fragile, maybe. But fully intact. Fine as hell. Marked priority.

It didn’t take six days. Or eight like he said it might.

It took five. Just five.

And honestly? You’d take five days of silence in exchange for the look on his face when you opened the door—over and over again, without question.

Because that look had done something to you.

And everything since then had made it harder to pretend like this was casual. Like y’all weren’t careening straight into something big and breathless and impossible to deny.

No more games.

No more ducking cameras. No more strategic exits or slipping out of hotel lobbies like shadows. No more avoiding each other’s tags in Instagram photos, no more “that could be anyone’s arm” captions. No more pretending like you didn’t spend most of your week wrapped up in each other.

You weren’t hiding anymore.

You were moving through the world together now.

Arms linked. Steps matching like rhythm. Bodies tilting into each other like you’d done it for lifetimes. Every touch was second nature. Every glance told a secret. Every sidewalk became a runway when you walked beside him.

And people noticed.

Oh, did they notice.

You trended for three days straight. Three. Days.

Your names bounced off each other in hashtags like echoes. Twitter could barely keep its lungs. Every five minutes, someone reposted a blurry photo of the two of you: laughing, holding hands, sharing a look so heavy it could sink a ship. Existing in the same frame was enough to send entire fandoms into tailspins.

You were becoming the dream couple of someone’s stan account fantasy.

The soft launch to end all soft launches.

A couple curated by God, styled by accident, photographed by fate.

Even your orbits started bleeding into each other.

Some of his teammates had started following you.

Your mom followed him—him!—and had the nerve to send you a screenshot like, “He seems sweet. I like his eyes.”

You’d been caught doing normal things: shopping for groceries, making out in the back of some building you were doing fittings at for an upcoming show, comparing the scents of fabric softener like you were building a home, laughing outside a corner store with matching plastic bags swinging from your hands. He kissed your temple like it was routine. Tied your sneaker on a public sidewalk like it didn’t matter who saw.

At one point, you caught yourself fussing in his hair—standing between his knees as he sat on a bench outside your apartment—and realized…

You were acting like he was yours.

And maybe he was.

Maybe he liked it that way.

The truth was simple: you’d both stopped pretending.

There were still no labels. No contract. No talk of titles or timelines.

But there was… this.

Whatever this was—sweet, slow, electric. The two of you wrapped around each other like you were studying, tracing, learning. Getting close enough to burn but never pull away.

And sure—maybe it scared you. Maybe the speed of it made your heart knock sideways in your chest.

But you didn’t show it.

Because tonight? Tonight was easy.

One of your favorite kinds of nights: no pressure, no flashing lights. Just you and Wilo, walking hand-in-hand down your block to the little Italian place you loved—the family-owned one that always played Anita Baker like it was church, the one where the gnocchi melted in your mouth and the chef greeted you with a hug.

The hostess led you to your usual table by the window without even asking.

You stood across from him, pretending to study the menu.

But the truth was, you couldn’t concentrate on anything.

Not when he looked like that.

Not with that fresh damn haircut. That razor-sharp fade that made him look even more edible than usual. Skin deep and golden under the glow of the wall sconces. Jaw dusted with the clean edge of his beard. Eyes slow and knowing, lips parted slightly every time he said your name.

Every time he licked them?

It was like being touched without contact.

Your brain stopped functioning properly somewhere around the wine menu. It was too much. Too sharp. Too clean. Every glance was a seduction. Every movement, an invitation. You started fidgeting with yourshirt, thighs pressing tighter together every time he leaned in.

You were not going to make it through a meal.

When the waiter came to check on you, you didn’t even pretend.

“Can we have it to go, please?” you asked sweetly, voice wrapped in velvet.

Wilo blinked, surprised. “I thought we stay and eat ‘ere?”

You tilted your head, lashes low. “I’d rather eat at home.”

He stared at you for a beat.

Then his mouth curled slowly. Lazily. Like he knew exactly what was waiting at home and couldn’t wait to unwrap it.

He reached, pulled you in gently—arms folding around your shoulders, chin resting on your crown like he could hear your pulse from there.

“Okay,” he murmured, soft lips brushing your hair. “We eat at home.”

You melted against him, cheek resting on his chest as you took in the scent of him. Expensive. Warm. Slightly sweet. Like cedar and cream and something uniquely him.

“Mm.” A hum slipped from your throat uninvited.

He chuckled low and deep, the sound vibrating through your bones.

“I know bébé,” he said, mouth near your ear. “We will be home soon. You can ride your Rolls Royce.”

You laughed, a soft, surprised snort that crumpled against his hoodie.

He always knew.

Maybe your thoughts were just too loud around him. Or maybe he really saw you—heard the things you didn’t say, felt the way your body responded to his like a magnet.

Either way, at that point, you were ninety-nine percent sure the entire restaurant could guess what the rest of the night had in store.

And honestly? You didn’t care.

~~~~~~

Back at your place, the clothes came off before the lights even had a chance to come on.

Well—his clothes.

You had rules. House rules. The kind that kept your energy clean and your peace preserved.

No outside clothes in the bedroom.

No exceptions, no matter how fine the man.

So like he’d done before, Wilo stepped over the threshold of your sanctuary and peeled himself out of the day like it didn’t belong here. Left his hoodie near the door. Kicked off his sneakers with the laces still tied. Shrugged out of his shirt like it owed him nothing.

You slipped into the closet, traded your dinner outfit for something soft—just a black tank and cotton shorts that skimmed your thighs and hugged your hips. Comfortable. Breathable. Slightly dangerous.

When you stepped back out, he was in front of the vanity mirror—shirtless, brushing out his curls with an easy, self-assured rhythm that made your mouth water. Calm. Casual. Knowing exactly what he looked like.

And still pretending like he didn’t.

The shorts on his hips hung low. Teasingly low. Just enough to show off the deep dip of his waist, the firm line of his stomach, the warm sheen of skin kissed by lamplight. His back flexed with every movement. Shoulders broad. Collarbone gleaming.

You bit your lip, pulse kicking.

The only thing you could think, over and over, was:

Don’t bother fixing your hair, baby. I’m about to ruin it anyway.

He caught you in the mirror—your gaze hungry, your posture poised.

And he turned slowly. Walked to you like he had all the time in the world. Stopped at your knees, opened your legs a bit so he could step between them as you sat on the bed. Reached down with both hands and cradled your face.

Held it like it was art.

Held you like you were his.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Like silk. Like sky. Like something sacred.

Your hands rose instinctively, fingers wrapping gently around his wrists—not to pull him closer. Just to feel him. Anchor yourself. Let him know you were here. You were ready.

He pulled back just enough to breathe. Just enough to look at you—really look.

“You tell a lot of people about us,” he said quietly. Not accusing. Just… observant.

You blinked. Searched his eyes. “Is that a problem for you?”

“Non,” he said with a faint shake of his head. “But you move fast… all the time. We can be slow… sometime.”

A kiss followed. Featherlight.

You smiled, lips brushing his. “Whatever you want baby.”

Then you kissed him again. For real this time—mouth open, breath shallow, body leaning in. Your fingers skimmed his skin like a map you already knew by heart, but wanted to rediscover just the same.

And that was it.

That cracked him open.

He melted into you, pressing you down into the sheets like you were made to be there. His hands slipped beneath your shirt, palms trailing over your skin like they had a purpose, like they had faith.

He found your waist—warm, firm.

Slid up your ribs. Up your sides. Reverent.

Your breath caught. Eyes fluttered.

It was soft.

It was warm.

It was velvet.

And the rest of the world vanished.

The kissing didn’t stop.

Didn’t stutter. Didn’t stray.

It just deepened—grew more molten, more intentional, more spellbound by the gravity of being this close to someone who truly saw you. Who felt you like music. Like sunlight. Like a slow tide pulling two bodies into the same current.

You moved together beneath the sheets like something blooming in real time. Tangled limbs and flexing hips. A slow, steady grind that built from the center and spread outward. Breath became sound—quiet moans slipping from your lips, low grunts blooming in his throat. Heat collected in the space between you. A hush of friction. A rustle of cotton. A hiss every time a new nerve lit up from a touch that felt too good to be gentle.

One of his hands found your neck. Not tight, not demanding—just resting. Just holding. A reminder that you were here. That he was too. The other slipped beneath your waistband, bold and familiar, nestling right where you needed him most. His fingers explored you like he was reading Braille—slow and sure, mapping every tender spot, coaxing them open with reverence.

Your hand mirrored his. Slid around the weight of him like a practiced secret. Stroking in time with his rhythm. Giving back what he gave you. Matching his patience with your own.

You were in sync.

More than that.

You were in communion.

Breath to breath. Pulse to pulse.

Each of you listening without speaking, answering without words.

He pressed his forehead to yours, sweat already misting the edges of his hairline, and his lips brushed your cheek before hovering by your ear.

“Want you so much bébé ” he whispered, voice gravel-warm and laced with restraint. “Can I have you?”

It wasn’t just a question.

It was a petition. A promise. A vow tucked inside a breath.

And your answer floated out of you on instinct.

“Yeees.”

That single word cracked the world open.

He pulled away, exhaling hard, chest rising and falling as he crossed the room like a man possessed. Focused. Needing. His shorts came off without preamble, hitting the floor in a soft puddle.

And there he was.

All of him. Unapologetic. Glorious.

That wasn’t just anatomy. That was worship.

The kind of beauty that made you ache.

Made you want to drop to your knees and praise him with every inch of your mouth.

Your breath caught. Lips parting slightly as you stared—eyes wide, chest fluttering with anticipation. He was already hard, already slick at the tip, already impossible not to want. You watched as he reached for his bag, tore open a golden square with his teeth, and slid the condom on with the care of someone handling fine silk.

You bit your finger nail, unable to hide the hunger in your voice.

“You ever get back pain from that thing?”

He chuckled, low and indulgent. “Non. You hold it for me.”

He took a step toward the bed like he meant to climb back on top of you—but your hand on his chest stopped him. Firm. Commanding. Sweet.

“Mm-mm,” you shook your head. “Sit against the headboard for me.”

Something in his expression shifted. His brows lifted slightly, but the glint in his eyes darkened. Curious. Obedient. Turned all the way on. He circled around to the head of the bed and sat, legs parted just enough, muscles flexing beneath his skin like they were answering only to you.

His hand wrapped around himself, stroking slow—just enough to keep the edge from fraying.

And then you moved.

You crawled to him like temptation incarnate, hips swaying, arms graceful, your whole body fluid like seaweed uner soft waves. You weren’t rushing. No. You were savoring. Drawing out the moment like it was dessert. Like he was something to unwrap, taste, and savor down to the last drop.

When you reached him, he looked like he’d already lost the first round. His lips were parted, his jaw tense, his breathing shallow and uneven.

You straddled his lap, heat pooling where your thighs met his. But you didn’t sink down onto him—not yet. You hovered. Teased. Touched. Your hand found his again and replaced it, fingers curling around his length with care, with confidence. Your strokes were slow and precise, pressure perfect.

He hissed. Jaw clenched. Muscles tightening.

“You ready for me baby?” you asked, voice soft but heavy. Thick with need.

His eyes snapped up to yours, dark and drowning in lust. But when he looked at you—really looked—he saw something new. Your pupils blown wide, irises nearly consumed by desire. Your eyes looked like twin obsidian stones—glimmering, hungry, bottomless.

And he loved it.

Loved the way you didn’t hold back.

Loved that you let him see just how badly you needed him.

Loved being the reason for the unraveling.

“Of course,” he said hoarsely. “I’m always ready for you.”

His gaze dropped, drinking you in—your flushed wet lips, the rise of your chest, the softness of your thighs wrapping around his. And lower, to where your hand still worked him with slow reverence, each stroke promising more.

He groaned. Deep and broken. His hands found your ass, kneading and spreading, anchoring you to him like a man unwilling to risk losing his center of gravity.

But you weren’t done yet.

You let go of his shoulder long enough to tilt his chin up with your fingers, bringing his gaze back to yours.

“Up here,” you said, your tone silk-wrapped steel. “Keep your eyes on mine.”

His breath hitched. His eyes held yours.

He was used to your voice. Commanding in boardrooms. Charming in public. Playful in private.

But this?

This was something else. Something potent.

And he gave into it willingly.

“Yes,” he rasped. “Y/N.”

You smiled at the sound of your name on his tongue. Like a promise. Like a surrender.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” you asked, slowing your strokes, letting the weight of the question settle in the space between you.

His throat flexed as he swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“How many times?”

You leaned forward, mouth brushing his ear. Teeth grazing the lobe.

He shivered.

“As many as you want bébé.”

That did it.

Your smile turned wicked. Dangerous.

Your body swayed forward, mouth catching his in a kiss so deep it felt like a plunge into warm water.

And the night finally began.

Not with a bang.

But with a promise.

With a rhythm.

With you, riding him into a place where only the two of you existed.

And neither of you planned to come back anytime soon

You guided him in silence—fingers wrapped firmly around the base, angling him just right. His thick, glistening tip slid through your folds, slow and sure, not entering—just there. Stroking. Teasing. Claiming.

The first brush over your clit sent a jolt through your spine—so sudden, so sharp, it left your thighs trembling.

You moved him again, gliding him up and down through the slick heat of your arousal. Wetness coated him easily, like your body had been waiting all night for this exact moment. The glide turned your breath shallow. Your lips parted. Your head tipped back, spine arching as sensation bloomed everywhere at once.

But still, even with your body writhing in response, you kept one hand steady on his jaw—tilting his face toward yours. Holding his gaze.

Look at me.

You needed him to see.

See what he did to you—how you came undone with nothing but the head of him resting against you. How your breath caught. How your chest rose. How your need poured out like prayer.

His grip on your ass tightened—rough and possessive.

“Ughhh, Wilo,” you moaned, your voice a soft rasp, heavy with need.

That was all it took. He surged forward, mouth on your neck like he’d been starved for it—dragging lips, grazing teeth, open-mouthed kisses stamped against your skin with growing urgency. Every touch was wetter than the last, darker, deeper. Like he wanted to mark you. Map the shape of you in kisses and bites.

His hands slid upward, slow but sure, settling at your waist.

No more waiting.

He lifted you in one smooth motion, the strength in his arms making your stomach tighten. You braced yourself on his shoulders as he guided you down, the head of him pressing again at your entrance.

The stretch knocked the wind from your lungs.

You eased down inch by inch, the fullness taking your breath with it. That slow burn that always made your thighs shake. That feeling of being split open just right.

“Ahh—shit,” you both moaned together, tangled voices breaking in the quiet.

“So big,” you whispered against his mouth, forehead resting to his, toes curling against the sheets.

He held your waist steady, strong hands keeping you grounded while you adjusted. He never rushed you. Never pushed. Just let you take him slow, let you feel all of him. Every inch. Every ridge. Like he wanted you to remember what you were made to take.

When your hips finally pressed flush to his, your walls fluttering around him, you leaned in and kissed him deep—tongue sliding, lips sucking, kissing him like you were trying to crawl inside his chest.

Your hips began to move, slow and fluid. A soft rock forward, then back. Each grind deep and dragging, making him moan into your mouth.

His head fell back with a soft thud against the wall, a strangled breath leaving his chest like it’d been punched out of him.

“Ugh—Y/N… if you keep doing that—I will cum fast,” he warned, voice rough, body twitching beneath you.

His grip on your hips tightened, trying to slow you down—but you didn’t give him room.

“That’s okay,” you purred, breath hot at his ear. “We can go again.”

You flexed around him deliberately, rolling your hips harder now, deeper, each movement soaked in heat and want.

He unraveled beneath you.

A long, broken grunt tore from his chest. His hands clutched your ass, squeezing, spreading—like he needed to anchor himself to you. Like he didn’t know where he ended and you began.

You felt it. The tremble in his thighs. The pulse of him inside you. Once. Twice. A third.

Then stillness—his forehead dropped to your shoulder, breath heavy against your skin.

“Damn babe…” you laughed softly, chest heaving as your muscles relaxed.

“I told you,” he groaned, voice slurred with pleasure as he leaned back to look at you, eyes hazy, grin crooked. “You feel too good. I can’t last. But next time, I will.”

You kissed him sweetly, mouth soft and lazy with satisfaction. He lifted you gently, easing out with care, and you gasped at the loss—still aching even after.

He stood, peeled off the condom, and tossed it, pulling another from the drawer without a word. There was no teasing this time. Just hunger. Just intent.

He climbed back into bed with purpose, hands on your thighs, pulling you into his lap like you weighed nothing.

And this time, he teased first.

He took your hand in his, wrapping it around his softening length, guiding you into slow, steady strokes—reviving him beneath your palm.

But while you worked him, he worked you.

His fingers dipped between your legs without warning—two thick digits sliding in effortlessly, coated in the aftermath of your shared high. The heat of your body clung to him.

Then he curled his fingers forward—hard and sure—right into that sweet, swollen spot that made your hips jerk and your breath vanish.

You gasped, back arching, toes digging into the mattress.

“Shhh,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Let me get you ready again.”

But you already were.

You were soaked. Open. Trembling.

Still full of everything he’d just given you and desperate to take more

Your arousal was a symphony—bold, shameless, wet. The slick sound of his fingers working inside you echoed through the room, bouncing off the walls like water bursting from a cracked pipe. Every stroke carved new waves of heat into your skin, crashing between your thighs, loud enough to rival your moans and ragged breaths.

“F- uck, William,” you gasped, voice fraying at the edges as he curled just right.

That spot.

The spot.

The one that made the world fade to static. The one that seized your lungs and swallowed your breath whole.

Your thighs jumped. Your hands trembled. Your head rolled back so far it nearly cracked against the wall.

You lost your grip on him. Your hand slipped from his length without a second thought, useless now—your body hijacked, your mind white with want. But that didn’t matter. Not to him. Watching you come undone was enough. More than enough. His chest rose and fell faster. His jaw clenched tight. His dick pulsed against your thigh like it was knocking, begging, waiting for its turn.

“Right ‘ere?” he murmured low, teasing—fingers relentless.

“Ooohh—yes,” you cried, eyes glassy and dazed. “Right fuckin’ there—yes.”

Your nails dug crescents into his shoulders. You braced yourself as he dragged you to the edge, each thrust of his fingers rough and reverent. He watched your face like it held scripture, reading every twitch, every plea in the arch of your brow and the part of your lips.

But you stopped him.

You grabbed his wrist, breath ragged. “Wait—wait… I don’t wanna cum yet,” you pleaded, voice nearly breaking. “I need you inside me.”

He obeyed instantly. Fingers sliding out, glistening, dripping. He brought them to his mouth without hesitation, licking them clean in long, hungry strokes. And the sight of him tasting you—savoring you—cracked something open deep inside.

You surged forward, crashing into his mouth like a wave. Tongue greedy. Lips fierce. Both hands cradled his face like you were afraid it might vanish. You kissed him like you needed to taste yourself in his mouth to believe this was real.

And while your tongues tangled, you slid down onto him again—one smooth, searing stroke. You took him like you were made for it, like your body had only ever been meant to house him.

He moaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, the sound vibrating through your ribs.

“Y/N…”

You rolled your hips with slow, devastating grace—each lift and drop, a spell you put him deeper into. He groaned again, voice hoarse and wrecked, his hands back on your ass, dragging you down, deeper. And you let him.

You lived for this part. For the unraveling. For the moment when cool, collected Wilo—the man the world thought they knew—shattered under your touch and revealed the hunger he hid from cameras. That fire? That desperation? It was only for you.

“Fuck,” you hissed through clenched teeth as he started thrusting up, hard, matching your rhythm stroke for stroke.

“You feel me bébé?” he asked, eyes glued to you—dark, wide, worshipful.

That look… that look could’ve ruined cities. It nearly ruined you.

His eyes weren’t just hungry—they were drenched in awe. Lust. Reverence. Like you were the altar and the sermon.

“Keep looking at me Wilo,” you whispered, breath catching as your hips ground harder. “Don’t stop.”

The room answered for him—music made of flesh and breath and love. Wet slaps. Swollen lips in every form. Hushed moans. Raspy graons. Nasty words. The rustle of sheets. The creak of the bed. The sharp gasp when he bottomed out. Burning muscles. Every sound a chord in your own private symphony of worship and want.

Your bodies gleamed in the low light, drenched in sweat and lust. Your neck shimmered. Your lips were swollen. Your moans spilled like dark chocolate over his ears, rich and molten.

And then you shifted gears.

You began to ride him with purpose. With fire. With ownership. Like you were claiming what was yours, not asking for it.

“Harder baby,” you said—and he listened.

His hands clamped down on your hips and pulled you down to meet every sharp, punishing thrust. He slammed into you with force—deep and demanding—his thighs slapping against your ass like applause. You welcomed it. Craved it.

You buried your hands in his curls and tugged, grounding yourself as you bounced faster, filthier, hips meeting with a sinful rhythm.

“Oh my God, fuck, William—right there. Yessss,” you moaned, eyes wide, voice shattering around the edges of pleasure.

“This pussy feels so fucking good,” he groaned, jaw slack, voice thick with reverence as your walls clenched around him again.

Another slap landed on your ass—loud, stinging, perfect. Then he gripped you again, harder this time, like he wanted to etch the memory of your body into his palms.

Let the neighbors hear. Let the whole building eavesdrop. Let them all listen. You didn’t care.

The bed howled beneath you. A pillow flew to the floor. The windows fogged.

And still—you rode.

He licked his thumb, reached between you, and pressed it against your clit. Tight, furious circles.

“Make me cum baby. Please I’m right there.” you begged, a cry, a command, your voice cracking as the pressure climbed to unbearable.

He didn’t speak. He just worked.

You screamed.

Your back arched. Your hands clawed at his chest. Your thighs shook as heat surged through you like fire in your veins. Your body clenched, shook, broke.

Your ass clapped. Your legs locked. Your pussy gripped him like a vice.

And then it happened.

You froze—mouth open, eyes wild—then moaned loud and long as your orgasm overtook you. It hit like lightning. Your body stuttered. Your hips jerked. Your walls fluttered around him, dripping, milking, claiming.

That was it.

He growled your name like a curse and a prayer, his whole body seizing as he thrust once, twice—then spilled into the condom with a sound that split the air between worship and surrender.

You collapsed into him, chest to chest, forehead pressed to his. Both of you heaving. Both of you dazed. Drunk on sweat and sex and each other.

He wrapped his arms around you like he was afraid you might drift away. One hand stroked your ass softly now—like he hadn’t just marked it as his.

“You okay?” he murmured, his fingertips tracing light, lazy circles on your back.

“Mmhmm,” you hummed, smiling into his neck, your voice syrup-sweet and sleepy.

Then you pulled back, lips still tingling, and whispered, “Just thinking about if I wanna be on top again next round. It’s a lot of work being a chauffeur.”

He chuckled—low, warm, real. You felt it in his chest before you heard it in his throat.

But you weren’t joking.

You’d driven him all night.

And needless to say—