He opens his eyes and is met with evidence to the contrary. The bulge in his pants is still there, no hint of relenting. Not when the image of you keeps forcing its way back into his mind.

Fuck, you look good in that sweet blue, wrapped up for him like a present, iced in lace and silk like his perfect midnight snack. His cock twitches when he thinks about you complying with his command to go up to bed, yielding with halfhearted attitude and hurrying up the stairs dressed in something he picked out for you.

You weren’t meant to sleep alone in something like that. You were meant to strip it off for him slowly, your lower lip caught between your teeth as you pout at him to touch you. Or to listen to him with syrup-slow, wide-eyed obedience as he growls commands—just as you’d done downstairs. Or to beg him to take it off for you.

Some nice things were made to be torn apart.

Din would happily buy you a new set of those exact pajamas every single day for the rest of your life if you let him rip them off you each night.

Dank farrik. He’s getting way too ahead of himself. You’re not really his. You’re not thinking about forever with him. Din sighs. Somehow, spoiling you—his favorite fucking thing to do—is backfiring on him tonight: he’s managed to trap himself inside a fantasy and a nightmare by dressing you in something like that and inviting you to stay in a house with him.

And it’s not going to get easier—he’s going to be with you for an entire week. He has to work this out of his system. Maybe if he takes care of it now, the building pressure won’t get too intense.

Deciding to believe that insane logic, Din braces a forearm on the door above his head and shoves the band of his sweatpants down his hips. His stiff cock springs free, and he chokes back an audible groan when he takes himself in hand. The things you do to him. You stand in his personal space for twelve seconds, and suddenly, he has the overeager body of an eighteen year old again.

He’s only done this—gotten himself off while thinking about you so explicitly—once before. After you told him you like his voice. That night, his filthy sounds had been drowned out by the rush of his shower as he pictured you: sprawled out in bed, slipping your hand into your underwear to touch yourself, your comm set to speaker on the pillow next to you. He didn’t let himself do that ever again.

Until today.

Now, he’s grateful your room isn’t right next to his so he doesn’t have to worry about you overhearing when he spits on his palm and starts jerking his hard cock. He’s hot and throbbing, those two thick veins snaking angrily up his shaft, and there’s precum already glistening along his slit. The wet slap of flesh and his low grunts aren’t loud enough to carry down the hall, so he can let go of his control just enough to really get lost in it.

Din shuts his eyes and pictures you caught between his body and the door, dwarfed by him, looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes. He can see that rogue droplet of purple liquid trailing between your tits, his mouth watering at the thought of leaning down and licking it off. He recalls that dark, unnameable look that flitted across your features in the kitchen when he said don’t make me tell you again, baby.

Din grunts and tightens his grip, his hand working faster.

He imagines your hand taking the place of his—smaller, less rough, a little more tentative. You work him over with strokes of your wrist, pressing yourself closer to him until the tip of his cock nudges into the sliver of space between your shirt and your shorts. You pant against his bare chest—a whined please, daddy—while his leaking, sensitive head rubs against the silken skin of your stomach, smearing precum there, and his abdominal muscles pull up tight as he chases the warm caress of your body.

Cum for me, daddy. Cum on me, just like this. I want it.

Din does, his cock spitting against the mirrored surface of door, dripping over his clenched-white knuckles, and spattering onto the floor below. His hips stutter forward into the circle of his hand as he works himself through his orgasm, a broken gasp of the word babygirl on his lips.