#feaches writes

A humid breeze brushed against the open window, carrying the scent of rain and jasmine, earthy and fragrant. Moonlight slipped through the curtains in pale ribbons. Its rays caught the shimmer of sweat where their bodies had shared heat. It traced her where she lay turned toward the window, the gentle swell of her belly rising and falling beneath the sheets. Each breath, a reminder of what they had made together.

He woke when she moved, the whisper of her exhale and the shift of linen drawing him back from sleep.

The air felt thick, fevered.

A spark stirred in him before he even reached for her. Always so cold, he felt her radiance pull at him like gravity. Without thinking, he slid an arm around her waist, the contrast in their temperatures making him shudder. Her skin was flushed, slick from sleep. His fingertips slipped slightly as they traced the curve of her side, following her warmth down to the gentle roundness of her belly.

The steady rhythm of her breathing, the faint rustle of sheets, and then the scent of her—skin, salt, milk, and sweat—all rose to meet him, making the air between them pulse with want. He flattened his palm against her stomach, meaning only to soothe, but her low sigh undid him.

The sound was grateful, and he felt it spark along his nerves.

He exhaled slowly, steadying himself as thought and feeling collided. His caution wrestled with desire while he focused on her nearness, on the sound of her breath and the subtle shifts of her body. He knew every risk she bore, and the knowledge only deepened his need to handle her with care.

He blinked the sleep away, trying to read her expression through the dim light, a quiet flicker of worry cutting through the haze.

“What's wrong? Tell me.” His voice was rough with sleep, vibrating against her ear.

She shook her head faintly, sounding so tired. “Little one is so heavy.”

He hummed softly, pressing a kiss to her shoulder before shifting closer. Lifting her belly carefully, mindful of her posture, he spread his fingers to cradle her with practiced care. The motion earned a quiet gasp—half relief, half pleasure. 

The sound threaded straight through him, quickening his own inhale, drawing her closer.

His heartbeat thundered, each pulse echoing in his fingertips where they rested on her skin. Her warmth drew him nearer, and his thoughts blurred into sensation. The line between restraint and need practically dissolving as he breathed her in.

Instinct urged him forward, but instead he lingered, memorizing the rise of her breath, the promise of another dawn waiting with her. He held back just enough to feel the tension sing through him as her mere breath teased at his control. 

Just the gentle shift beneath his hand made her body tense. Her hips tilted back toward him, a small, instinctive motion. Her breath caught as his palm spread wider to steady her. Then, a faint flutter rippled through her belly—their child stirring. His own breath faltered.

She began to rock against him, making small circles with her hips. Awe and want rose together, the healer and the lover tangled beyond separation. Each soft sound she made struck a chord between protectiveness and hunger. He wanted to soothe her, to make her feel safe. Yet the ache beneath his control deepened, pulsing through every nerve.

Comfort bled into desire. A high-pitched gasp escaped her, breaking the silence. He drew her closer, their bodies finding a rhythm so natural it felt like muscle memory. His chest pressed to her back, thighs framing hers. The air thickened around them, breaths quickening. Restraint frayed, thread by thread, until only devotion and hunger remained.

She shifted again, a quiet sound escaping her lips. “It’s not enough,” she whispered, voice trembling with need.

He hummed low in his throat, the vibration rough against her skin. His mouth traced the line of her neck in slow kisses, each one a promise. The curve of her jaw led him upward until his lips found the tender hollow behind her ear. She shivered, her breath catching on a sigh.

“Do you want my mouth or my fingers?” he murmured.

She turned her head, eyes dark, breath mingling with his. “I want your cock,” she whispered, voice husky with longing. “I want you inside.”

For a heartbeat, he forgot to breathe. The words struck like lightning, heat flooding every nerve.

She wanted him.

He knew it was safe to do so, but he didn't let himself think about it for too long.

Until now.

His arousal throbbed beneath restraint, every pulse both desire and assessment—temperature, tension, alignment—measured in the same breath. His doctor’s mind flickered—cataloguing what it could even as desire blurred the lines between observation and touch each detail even as want pulled at the edges of thought. The ache was almost unbearable; her invitation alone nearly undid him.

His mind raced, balancing caution with need. Each thought narrowed to what mattered most: her comfort, her pleasure, her safety. He thought of her hips, the ache in her back, how easily pleasure could slip into strain. He imagined how to move without pressure on her belly, where to brace her, how to keep her steady.

Passion urged him forward; habit demanded care. He balanced on the edge of desire and restraint. She had to be safe—and he wanted her satisfied.

But the pause stretched for too long.

She whimpered, mistaking his silence for refusal.

“Please… please, I really need it.” Her voice was small, desperate.

The plea shattered his hesitation. His heart clenched at the tremor in her voice, guilt cutting through control. She thought he was denying her when he was only trying to protect her.

“I will,” he murmured between kisses, voice steady and low. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

He shifted, drawing back to sit upright. Gently, he guided her legs with him until she rested in the crook of his hips. Each movement was deliberate—steady, careful not to jostle her. His hands slid along her hips, anchoring her against him before wandering lower, tracing the curve of her body with reverent care.

She made soft, needy sounds as his touch explored. From this angle she could rest easily, his fingers teasing her open. Her body arched back against him, and he exhaled a quiet, shaky breath.

He lingered, chest tight as he took her in. The sight of her burning through him with want and tenderness pressing behind his ribs. Fragile and powerful, she trusted him completely. His gaze followed the curve of her spine to the gentle roundness of her belly, awe and desire merging into one.

Every inch of her was radiant, alive, carrying both life and pleasure. His hand drifted down her back, pausing at her hip to feel her warmth before his lips followed, drawn irresistibly lower.

He leaned to kiss the curve of her hip, lingering briefly before moving down. His breath ghosted over her skin, each kiss slower, deliberate, until it hovered just above her thighs. The moment shifted naturally from tenderness to invitation. He moved with patience, his lips keeping time with her soft sighs.

When she adjusted a pillow beneath her belly, he helped her, murmuring encouragement. Once she was settled, he guided himself to her entrance, the blunt head of his cock brushing through her slick heat. He hesitated—not from doubt, but from disbelief that this woman, carrying his child, wanted him like this.

He studied her face, searching for even the smallest flicker of hesitation in her eyes. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he whispered, his voice trembling with restraint.

“It won’t be,” she breathed. “Please.”

Zayne met her gaze in the dark. Their breaths and the trickle of rain the only sound in the room. He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, one hand braced at her back, the other resting at the curve of her belly. Her heat nearly undid him.

Once fully sheathed, he stilled, letting her body adjust.

She sighed with relief, a sweet, needy sound. The stretch of her was different now, so impossibly tight and soft. He could feel her heartbeat through her skin—the faint movement of their child beneath his hand—and it broke him open with so much raw feeling.

When he began to move, it was slow, measured. Each thrust was shallow, controlled, his hips rolling carefully to keep her comfortable. The soft rhythm of their breaths filled the room. Her moans were steady, born from closeness and weight rather than urgency.

Trying to collect himself, Zayne drew a deep breath, pulse racing. His thoughts flickered between how she felt beneath him and how her body met each motion. Holding back emotion made his body tremble. She was so beautiful—strong and soft, carrying everything he loved most.

Having her, providing for her, feeling her in his arms. It was more than he’d ever thought he deserved. His hand drifted to her stomach, thumb tracing the faint ridge of her navel. The subtle movement beneath his palm reminded him that everything he’d ever longed for was here, in this moment.

He pressed deeper, breath stuttering, forehead resting against her shoulder. “You’re everything,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Everything I ever wanted.”

She turned her head, brushing her lips against his jaw. “Then take it,” she murmured. “Take me. It’s all yours, Zayne.”

Her words pushed him past the last threads of his restraint. His rhythm deepened, steady and deliberate, gathering strength without breaking the tender rhythm they shared, still careful, but now driven by need and awe. The friction between them built slowly, sweetly, until it bordered on unbearable.

Every sound she made—every gasp, every sigh—was a pulse in his chest, a reminder of how much she trusted him, how much she loved him back.

He could feel her coming around him—her breath breaking in short, helpless sounds, nails dragging down his back. His own control slipped, rhythm faltering into uneven thrusts that came faster, more desperate.

The air between them grew ragged with their mingled gasps, heat coiling tight before it finally snapped—a tremor building beneath his palms, her body tightening as if drawn by invisible threads.

For a heartbeat, everything slowed: his breath heavy, the world narrowing to warmth and sound before it burst back into motion—her muscles contracting, clenching on him so perfectly.

Release loomed over him, unstoppable and raw. He buried himself as deep as her body would allow, holding there for a heartbeat, savoring the heat and the unbearable closeness before pulling out quickly. Leaning forward, he came in shuddering bursts over the curve of her ass, his breath breaking against her ribs as he trembled with the intensity.

His climax tore free in a rush that left him trembling. It wasn’t just pleasure—it was devotion, a supernova behind his closed eyes, warmth flooding through every vein, love and gratitude spilling out of him all at once.

He stayed there a while as he regained his senses, hands drifting lazily over her skin as they caught their breath. He nuzzled his face into her skin, breathing her in. The room was quiet except for the slowing rhythm of their breaths.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

She hummed an answer, too blissed to form words. He lingered, kissing the side of her neck, then her shoulder, before slowly easing back. His body ached with the need to stay close, but he shifted carefully around her, mindful not to press too much weight against her. She turned toward him instinctively, and he guided her until she was half lying against his chest again.

He brushed a hand through her hair, murmuring soft praise against her temple. “You’re incredible,” he breathed, voice low with awe. “You—both of you.”

She gave him a sleepy smile, fingers curling weakly at his side. “Zayne, I love you,” she whispered.

He leaned in, catching her mouth as rain began to patter softly against the window, their kiss deepening in rhythm with the quiet storm outside in a long, lingering kiss that deepened until neither of them could tell whose breath belonged to whom. When he finally eased back beside her, he wrapped his arms around her, adjusting the blanket over her hips and tracing light circles over her belly.

“I love you too. I’ve got you,” he whispered again, his voice thick. “Always."

❄️🪷❄️🪷❄️🪷❄️🪷❄️🪷❄️🪷❄️🪷❄️🪷❄️🪷

The lock clicked softly as she turned the key.

A wash of evening air followed her inside—cool, fragrant with the street’s rain, mixing with the richer smell rising from the paper bag she carried.  Fried chicken with french fries and pickled vegetables; he’d asked for that just before she’d gone out.

“I’m home,” she said, voice light, unhurried.

No reply came. Just the hum of her refrigerator and the quiet hiss of the city outside the window.

She set the bag down on the table, the paper crinkling in her hands.  Oil blotches spread slowly through it, dark and warm against her fingertips.  The domestic rhythm took over—shoes lined up by the door, coat hung neatly, sink faucet turned on.  Warm water ran over her fingers as she washed away the faint sheen of grease and rain.

Nothing felt out of place.  Yet, beneath the quiet, something pulsed.

A faint vibration, like the throb of distant bass through a wall, more felt than heard.

She stilled.

It was subtle enough that anyone else might have dismissed it, but her senses were tuned to the smallest change.  The rhythm repeated—steady, low, followed by a distinctly human sob.

A smile ghosted across her lips.

So he’d held out this long.

She took her time drying her hands, straightening the food containers, letting the ordinary linger just a little longer.  The air felt heavy now, humming against her skin.  When she moved toward the hallway, the vibration deepened—softer now, threaded with uneven, breathlike sounds.

Her steps slowed.  The warmth of the lamp pooled along the floorboards, guiding her toward the half-closed bedroom door.

The noise was unmistakable now: labored breath, small catches of sound wrapped in rhythm.  Not quite pain, not completely distress—something closer to surrender.

Her heartbeat quickened in answer.  She rested her hand against the doorframe, savoring the sight before her.

“I’m home,” she murmured again, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

The door gave under her touch, opening a few inches.  Light spilled across the room, glinting off something metallic, something trembling just beyond sight.  The faintest shift of air answered her, a shudder through the silence that told her he’d felt her there—without eyes, without ears, still attuned only to her.

Her sweet partner kneels in the closet, trembling and slick with sweat, every breath betraying how completely undone he’s become. 

Xavier’s hands are suspended, tied to the rail for hanging clothes. Over his ears are noise cancelling headphones, his eyes blind folded, keeping him attuned to only sensation. His face is streaked with sweat and tears.

The machine pumping the sleeve over his cock was still going at an even pace, the setting was left on medium for an extra special challenge for him. Judging from the cum overflowing from the edges of the toy, he’s already climaxed quite a few times. 

She knows he must know she’s there, but he hasn't greeted her or acknowledged her. He’s too busy teetering on the edge of another ceaseless orgasm. His breath is coming out in a staccato rhythm, hips trying their hardest to lean away from the onslaught of sensation, only for it to heighten. 

She suddenly remembers she gave him the prostate toy too before she left.

Every little shift of his hips brings him higher and higher. The pretty noises he was making alone would be enough to get her wet, but combined with the sorry sight of him, she was completely smitten.

She presses a finger to the hollow of his sternum. He jerks, a sharp breath. Another gasp follows, quick and broken. Each movement pulls a new sound from him, causing him to gasp and flinch at the touch. Every inch of him is damp, covered in sweat. He’ll need a bath and a nice long nap when this is all said and done. But for now…

She drags her finger up his chest, feeling his labored breathing, the way he seems to lean into that simple touch. His breaths become gasping moans. Wet, desperate sounds. She trails her finger all the way up his neck, then chin, finally resting on his lips. 

On instinct, he takes her finger into his mouth, lips and tongue working over it feverishly. The wet heat of him is enough to make her keen. She plays with his tongue a while longer before  she pulls her finger from his lips. 

He actually whimpers from frustration. 

She presses a quick consoling peck to his lips. He must not have been expecting it, because he stills at the contact. His lips chased her as she pulled away. 

His lips pull into a grimace.

Her partner was so cute, it made her want to be mean.

She lifts one side of his headphones off his ear, and he makes a noise of relief. She gives him a few seconds of pause.

“You know, I've been home for a few minutes now. Why haven't you greeted me?”

He ducks his head low, biting his lip. A muffled sound slips free despite his effort. The machine’s rhythm doesn’t slow, and she can see he’s near his edge. It isn’t kind to tease him, but her partner is nothing if not stubborn.

He lifts his head, blindfolded eyes tilting toward her voice. “W…welcome—” The rest catches in his throat. “Home.”

“It’s good to be home.” She lets her tone soften. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

“Hun…gry.” The word breaks, a ghost of sound more than speech.

“I brought what you asked for. You can eat,” she murmurs, “if you give me another show.”

Even through the blindfold she senses his hesitation, a flicker of panic. She remembers how composed he’d been on missions—how he never let his voice shake even in battle. The memory twists something tender inside her.

He swallows, the sound raw. “C…close,” he manages. “Can’t…hold.”

“I know, baby.” She threads her fingers through his hair, steady and deliberate. “I’ll help you.” She settles the headphones back over his ears, sealing him in silence and sensation.

Every muscle in his body tightens, breath shallow, waiting.

For a heartbeat she hesitates, her breath catching as she takes him in—the rise and fall of his chest, the trembling strain of control slipping away. It is rare to see him like this, and something inside her tightens with affection as much as desire.

She draws a steadying breath, heart thudding with both anticipation and care. After a moment’s pause, she moves. Her hand finds the base of the machine. A quiet click follows. Then the rhythm surges.

Xavier’s reaction is instant: a broken sound, half cry, half gasp. The calm, unshakable man she knows dissolves into shuddering fragments of breath. Each syllable that escapes him is half-formed, pleading without words. She watches, transfixed, as the proud Hunter yields completely, undone and trembling beneath her touch.

Then she moves, gentle and grounding, placing a hand on his shoulder. Her thumb traces slow circles through the sheen of sweat there. His body quivers under the touch, breath ragged and uneven. The sharpness in the air softens, his breathing finding a steadier rhythm.

Her voice drops to a whisper he cannot hear, a soft promise meant only for him. “I'm here now, I’ve got you. You can let go. Just for me.”

The tension breaks. He gasps once, sharp and unsteady, then exhales slower, like a tide retreating. Relief ripples through him in waves, from shoulders to fingertips, until his whole frame slackens. The silence that follows feels sacred, broken only by the soft hum of the machine winding down.

She waits until his body stills before switching it off. Her movements are careful, deliberate. When she removes the headphones and blindfold, dim light spills over his face. He blinks, unfocused at first, then exhales a low, shaky sigh that sounds like gratitude.

She brushes damp strands of silver hair from his forehead. His glassy eyes find her and hold. For a moment, he seems afraid to breathe, as though any motion might break the fragile peace. Then he lets out a faint, breathless laugh caught between disbelief and relief.

“That was mean,” he rasps, corners of his mouth twitching upwards despite his words.

“Maybe,” she murmurs, leaning close until her forehead nearly touches his. “But you know I take good care of you.” Her hand lingers on his cheek, thumb sweeping gently across warm skin. He tilts slightly into the touch, chasing it like someone starved for light.

For a breath she simply holds him, struck by how completely he trusts her. The weight of his surrender feels fragile and precious in her arms. She can almost hear his heartbeat slowing against her chest, a quiet rhythm of safety and need.

The closeness steadies him—the scent of her, the rhythm of her breathing, the reassurance that he isn’t alone. After hours in darkness and silence, every small sound and touch feels like air returning to his lungs.

“Want a bath,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, the faintest trace of humor flickering through.

She huffs a quiet laugh, half amusement, half tenderness. “No baths right now. Not after last time.”

He makes a puzzled sound, eyes narrowing faintly. “Didn’t drown.”

“You nearly did,” she reminds him, guiding him to his feet. “You’ll fall asleep again. Shower first. Bath later, after you eat and rest.”

He grumbles but doesn’t resist, letting her lead him down the hall. The bedroom light fades behind them, replaced by the steady glow of the bathroom. She turns on the water, tests it with her wrist, then helps him beneath the spray.

Steam curls between them, carrying away the weight of the night. She stays close, one hand steady on his back as he leans against the wall, eyes closed. When the tremors fade and his breathing evens, she smiles and brushes his damp hair aside.

“Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s get you clean. Then we’ll eat fried chicken, just like you asked.”

He opens his eyes long enough to meet hers, a faint, drowsy smile ghosting over his lips. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

He exhales, content. The quiet that follows feels softer than before, no longer empty but filled with warmth and the faint soothing hums of his lover's voice. The steady rush of water wraps around them, washing away everything sharp and restless. For the first time in hours, his face is unguarded—his usual composure dissolved into something open and human.

She stays close, patient and proud, her hand still resting against his heart. With slow, steady care, she helps him ease the small toy from his body, her movements gentle and deliberate. He flinches at first, then relaxes with a low relieved sigh. She doesn’t care that her clothes are getting soaked as she rinses him clean, the warmth of the water running over both of them like a balm.

Together they linger in the hush, the sound of the shower mingling with their breath until peace, pure and steady, is all that remains.

⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐⛓️⭐

Caleb’s jaw was throbbing, his lips numb, the hard floor grinding grit into his knees until they burned and cramped, but he’d long since lost track of how long he’d been there — minutes, hours, it didn’t matter — his tongue still buried deep inside her.

None of the pain could reach him; it all blurred into background noise beneath the intoxication of her taste and scent. Her slick drenched his face, spit dripping down his chin as he lapped with sloppy, feral hunger, panting between strokes. Heat radiated from her thighs bracketing his head, muscles twitching and tightening each time his tongue dragged across her. He nuzzled deeper whenever she tried to shift away, savoring the way her body quivered around his mouth.

The faint jingle of the leash against his collar filled his ears, punctuating every desperate motion like a reminder of who he belonged to.

"Caleb."

The sound of his name tore through him like a command, shattering his focus. 

Caleb jolted as if struck, his whole frame locking tight for an instant before shuddering with need. A violent jerk of his cock in his soaked briefs nearly undid him, a raw whimper clawing up his throat. 

God, her moans alone could have finished him, each sound sinking into his skin, making his cock twitch and his stomach clench as if her voice alone could drag him to the edge. 

“Caleb—!” she gasped again, sharper this time, body edging backward as if to escape the relentless strokes of his tongue.

Instinct drove him forward, unwilling to surrender even an inch of her. Messy and intoxicating, she left him drunk on her—the lapping of his tongue, the greedy swallowing of her slick, the ragged panting between each desperate stroke binding him tighter to her.

A sharp tug on his leash yanked him back, snapping the fog in his mind. The collar bit against his throat, the chain rattling with authority. Blinking up at her from between her thighs, shame flushed hot across his cheeks.

She tutted, eyes narrowed in playful reprimand, her breath coming fast and uneven above him. Her grip tightened deliberately on the leash, holding him taut long enough for him to squirm while she watched in silence, savoring his struggle before finally easing the pressure. Caleb squirmed subtly, thighs shifting, chest heaving with pent‑up need until she finally eased the pressure.

“Did you forget yourself, puppy?”

The word pierced him. 

A whine spilled high from his throat before he could catch it, desperate and pleading, his whole body trembling with restraint, cock aching against the confines of his briefs, muscles clenching as if to hold himself together. Normally he would swallow noises like that, never let them leave his chest. But for her, he knew she wanted to hear everything. 

There wasn’t a thing in this world he would deny her.

His cock throbbed, precum soaking through the front of his underwear. Her scent clung to him, thick in his lungs, making his head swim. A shiver coursed down his arms as he pressed his palms flat against the floor, every nerve begging to lunge back to her. 

She leaned forward slightly, the rustle of her movement carrying her scent stronger into his lungs. The warmth of her breath brushed his cheek, close enough to make his skin prickle, sharpening his ache. Then she paused, deliberately waiting, watching him strain. Caleb held his breath, shoulders rigid, eyes wide and pleading until she finally rewarded him with her touch.

Her thumb descended, brushing across the wetness slicking his lips. Caleb shuddered, eyes fluttering shut when she pushed the errant drop back into his mouth. He eagerly chased her thumb, trying to suck it fully between his lips, but she pulled it away too quickly. A groan of protest slipped free, his gaze lifting to hers, begging for reassurance.

Her thighs trembled. That meant he’d done well. She lingered a moment, watching him with calculated silence, her breathing measured as though savoring the control she had over him. The command in her eyes told him she wasn’t finished.

“Sit pretty,” she ordered, voice sharp and low.

He obeyed instantly, folding his legs tighter beneath him, spine straightening as if her voice alone controlled him. Shoulders taut with need, he forced himself still, chest heaving with ragged breaths. The leash jingled softly with each movement, the sound setting his nerves alight.

“You did so good, puppy,” she murmured, fingers stroking along his jaw before curling under his chin to tilt his head up. He leaned shamelessly into her touch.

Her voice shifted, low and firm, the praise cutting to steel in an instant. “But you still need more practice obeying.” 

A pitiful whine escaped as he ducked his head, pressing his face into her thigh like an apology. The leash tugged, forcing his gaze back up. Her smile was indulgent, her tone still firm as she let the silence linger just long enough to make him squirm. 

Then she softened: “Hey, shhh, it’s okay. You’re still a good boy.”

The praise cracked something open inside him. 

A helpless, needy sound broke free, almost a sob, his hips jerking forward against nothing. The desperation of it embarrassed him—thrusting at the air like an animal—and he froze, cheeks blazing with humiliation.

“Impatient, are we?” she drawled, her breath brushing hot across his face.

“Please—” The leash snapped taut again, silencing him before the word could fully form. He flinched at once, head bowing, alarm already shooting through him.

“I didn’t ask you to speak.” Her bare foot slid over the bulge in his briefs, pressing down firmly on his cock to drive the point home.

Caleb's body stiffened at the sudden contact, a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain shooting through him as the pressure bore down. His hips twitched helplessly, fighting to stay still under her foot even as instinct begged him to grind against it. Distress bled into his whine—aching, denied, and still without permission. He bowed his head at once, a broken sound slipping free, surrender tightening in his chest.

She brushed her thumb across his lower lip, lingering for a beat before speaking.

“You’re a messy eater, pup,” she whispered with deliberate sweetness.

Caleb whimpered, tongue darting out to taste her finger as she pressed it into his mouth again. He sucked hungrily, eyes fixed on hers, desperate for the approval that set his whole body alight.

Her other hand drifted lower, trailing across his chest, his stomach, until her fingers hooked into the band of his briefs. Caleb quivered, anticipation sharp and painful. 

Reflex betrayed him, his hands twitched up to touch hers before he caught himself. 

Her steady gaze pinned him completely still, shame flushed hot in his chest.

She lingered with her hand at his waistband, leash firm in her other hand, deliberately stalling. Her eyes studied him in silence, savoring the desperation in his gaze. His breath hitched painfully, the seconds stretching agonizingly until he finally broke, looking up with eyes glossy and yearning, craving her approval.

“Show me you can behave, puppy,” she murmured, giving the leash a firm tug and brushing her thumb across his jaw as if to mark him. “Paws to yourself.” The leash tightened in her grip as she spoke, the tug punctuating her direction.

The command jolted through him, and he obeyed without hesitation, locking his hands to his sides. His cock ached at the helplessness. It pulsed in the soaked front of his underwear beneath her foot. He rocked forward once before freezing at her warning hum. The collar pressed firmly into his throat as he held himself in place, the constant pressure feeding his need and the gnawing ache of anticipation.

Her thumb lingered at his lips a beat longer, the faint warmth imprinting against his skin. A whine slipped free at the loss when she finally pulled back. The leash settled with a soft clink, the sound hanging in the stillness as her presence loomed over him, heat rolling down to wrap around his trembling frame. The promise of something more hovered in the air, unspoken yet palpable. He begged silently for the reward just out of reach; he would do anything to prove himself.

She pulled away from him entirely, and he felt her warmth vanish. The sudden emptiness nearly made him want to cry out, but he bit down on the impulse, terrified of ruining everything. He knew the reward was close. He only had to be good a little longer, though the waiting clawed at him. Every second stretched sharp and unbearable. He steeled himself for her next command, forcing stillness into his shaking limbs.

She rose with a laugh that made his stomach flip, walking away from the armchair and tugging his leash along with her. The sound of it was playful, almost careless, and yet it left him raw inside, desperate not to disappoint. He managed not to stumble, crawling to kneel at her feet. The leash clinked softly with each movement, the collar tugging against his throat as a constant reminder of his place.

She smiled down at him. “Show me how a puppy stands.”

His heart lurched, panic spiking—what if he got it wrong? What if he messed up and made her mad?

He stifled a sigh and dropped into a tabletop position, Fingers folded under his palms. Knees spread wide. Back arched. Head lowered. He presented himself with as much obedience as he could manage. His breath caught until he heard her response.

The laugh she let out was giddy, bubbling, and he couldn’t deny the way it left him warm and melting inside. Relief flooded him, loosening his chest as he realized he had pleased her.

“You have no idea how proud I am of you, Caleb.”

The words struck deep, leaving him dizzy. His hips jolted involuntarily, cock twitching hard against the soaked fabric of his briefs, as if her praise alone could drag him closer to release.

The praise made it hard to think straight, his head buzzing as though every nerve in his body strained toward her approval. She bent over him, running a single finger down his damp back, tracing terribly slow along his spine. He flinched at the first contact, back arching as she drifted lower, the touch both soothing and unbearable. But she didn’t stop. Her finger slid down the crack of his ass over his underwear, lingering past his perineum until it pressed over his hole.

The noise he made didn’t even sound human, low and ragged, torn from him by the effort not to spill from oversensitivity. He bit down hard, panic flaring that he might lose control before she allowed it. She hummed, rubbing loose circles before trailing lower to his balls and cupping them fully in her hand, feeling the heavy weight shift as her palm closed warm and deliberate around him. His breath turned quick and harsh, each inhale rasping like sandpaper, teetering on the edge of panic. His chest heaved in shallow bursts, the air catching as if it couldn’t fill him fast enough. Sweat broke fresh across his skin and trickled down his temples, his whole body trembling under the strain of her touch.

He clung to the silence, mind racing—had he been good enough? Had he done everything she wanted? The thought nearly unraveled him before her voice cut in. 

“Do you think you deserve a reward?” she asked, her tone deceptively soft, her breath a warm ghost at his ear.

The question sank into him like a hook, twisting in the tension between hope and fear. He could barely form words, his body quaking under the weight of anticipation.

He hesitated, throat working, not daring to answer without permission. She made a small noise of understanding. “Speak.”

“No,” he whispered shakily, though his heart screamed for release. Fear kept his answer small, safe.

Her hands didn’t leave him. Instead they slid further under, inching up to cup his length in her palm, the warmth of her skin seeping through thin fabric, every brush of her knuckles dragging against the damp cotton clinging to him. He keened high, every muscle trembling as he fought not to curl inward.

“Oh? Really?” she murmured, rubbing him in motions that should have soothed but only made his pulse spike. “Well, I think you deserve a reward. You’ve been such a good boy... doesn’t my puppy want one?”

The words made his ears ring. She thought he had done well. She was happy with him. The realization had him bucking helplessly into her hand. This time she didn’t reprimand, didn’t tug on his leash. Only silence—she was still waiting for his response.

“Please,” he begged, the only word he could manage. The word hung between them, swallowed by a beat of silence as her gaze lingered heavy on him, drawing out the tension until his lungs burned with waiting.

She chuckled softly, giving his cock one last rub before pulling her hand away. Fingers hooked into his briefs, tugging them down to his knees. He shifted his legs to help until she stripped them off completely. They lay discarded on the floor, leaving him bare, his cock exposed to the cold air, the ache sharp and unrelenting.

“Do you want the ring?” she asked.

He shook his head hard and fast. He didn’t want to come too early, didn’t want to waste his reward.

She said nothing, only tugged on his leash. He crawled beside her, each movement making him sway with aching need. She led him to the bed.

“Up.”

He scrambled onto the mattress. Just as his last leg cleared the edge, her palm cracked across his ass. He yelped, shock and heat flaring through him, confusion knotting in his chest. Hadn't he been good? For a split second he worried he had failed her, but the smile on her lips steadied him, a reminder that he was still hers to do whatever she wanted with.

“Place.”

He obeyed, giving her an extra glare, but she abided by it. He lowered his head and raised his ass, presenting himself fully, everything he had to offer on display.

He heard her rifling through his bedside table, the sound of drawers shifting. When she returned, her hands worked to fasten a cock ring around him. Panic fluttered in his chest at the thought of being bound tighter, the edges of dread and desire blurring until he could hardly breathe. It was difficult with how swollen he was, each stretch almost too much, but once it settled the discomfort ebbed under a rush of sharp anticipation.

Another slap landed, lighter this time, her palm rubbing the curve of his ass where it met his thigh. “Okay, puppy. It’s time for your treat.”

She crawled onto the bed beside him, stretching out lazily.

Caleb sat up quickly, a rush of need making his head spin. For a heartbeat he hesitated, savoring the ache, before his hand slipped down to stroke himself as the other caught her thigh. In the same hungry motion, he pulled her diagonally across the bed to face him better, actions flowing together as if he couldn’t hold back another second.

She made a startled sound, not expecting to be handled so roughly, but her smile was soft, overflowing with affection.

He settled between her legs, crowding her close as his mouth crashed against hers in a messy, consuming kiss. His tongue pushed into her with unrestrained hunger, overwhelming her with the same need that had kept him kneeling for hours. Her taste coated his tongue, her warmth flooding his senses until the world spun.

His cock slid against her slit, still wet and dripping from his attention earlier. The blunt head caught and slipped—rubbing, pressing, missing again with maddening friction. He groaned into her mouth as the slick heat smeared over his length, each failed push sending sparks through his body. She whimpered at the pressure, little pained noises that he swallowed down, greedy for every sound she made.

Her hands clutched at him, fingers tangling in his leash and hooking into the collar around his neck. The tug tightened the band snug against his throat, pressure biting down with each pull as she drew him closer, every breath sharpened by the collar’s grip. Soft hips shifted beneath him, thighs clenching around his waist as if her body wanted him as much as it denied him. Caleb barely noticed, too far gone. Only the friction mattered, the way her body seemed to welcome him even as it kept him out.

He rutted like that for what felt like forever, grinding in frantic bursts that melted into slow, dragging slides, the change in rhythm making him shake with need. His whole body quivered with strain, nerves aflame, cock throbbing with urgency. Her cries spurred him on, each gasp feeding his frenzy, desperate to breach, chasing the pleasure between them.

Finally, one wild thrust landed true. His cock drove into her, sudden and overwhelming, slick walls yielding as he sank deep. Awe and relief flooded him, edged with fear it might end too quickly even as his body sang at being inside her at last. She gasped into his mouth, sharp and breathless, her heat enveloping him in wet velvet and clenching tighter with every inch.

Awe flooded him—as close to her as he could ever be, like a dream made reality.

The molten pressure dragged shudders from his chest, each twitch met by the grip of her body. Her fingers tightened on his collar, nails grazing his skin, her thighs trembling around his waist, every shiver urging him deeper. The sweetness of her response nearly undid him, her body seizing around him, pulling him further in, consuming him whole.

It was devotion and reward made flesh, her body a gift he worshipped with every thrust. He groaned against her lips, giving her a true, reverent kiss before pulling back and driving into her harder. She cried out beneath him, the sound high and broken, her breath catching on every thrust. Each cry mingled with his groans until the room was thick with their voices.

Every stroke tore through him—tight, hot, overwhelming—everything he had begged for, everything he had been denied until now. Gratitude pulsed through him as fiercely as the pleasure, each thrust both thank you and plea.

Yet even in the haze of bliss, fear licked at the edges—fear of spilling too soon, of failing her, of not living up to the chance she had given him. Joy tangled with that dread inside him, each plunge tightening his chest even as elation broke through in waves that she had chosen to give him this. The collision of dread and bliss built unbearably as he lost himself in her heat, the bed creaking beneath them, leash rattling softly with each thrust.

The orgasm snuck up on him despite the punishing restraint of the ring, each spasm caught and blocked by the unyielding band until his cock throbbed with aching pressure. His whole body quaked with the strain, every pulse forced sharp and cruel through the tight hold. When it finally broke, it ripped through him sudden and unstoppable. His muscles locked as he buried himself as deep as he could go, desperate to be as close to her as possible.

She locked her legs around him, holding him there, taking every trembling inch. Her body clenched hard around him, rippling as her own climax tore through. Her back arched off the bed, nails biting deeper into his shoulders. Her cries broke against his lips, breathless and unrestrained. She shuddered violently beneath him, her chest pressed tight to his, every ragged breath mingling with his own until she was shaking with the force of it.

His world fractured in a flood of heat and release, the ring making every pulse sharper, crueler. It was a struggle to focus on anything but the violent rush inside him, but the sound of her ragged cries, her nails biting his skin, cutting through the haze like sunlight—proof that he was pleasing her. The realization made his heart lurch even as he whimpered into her mouth.

Her hands slid up his neck, threading into his damp hair. She stroked and petted him through the storm, her voice breaking through the haze in soft, steady praise.

“Good boy… my sweet, sweet boy… so good for me.” The words wrapped around him like balm, grounding him even as he came undone inside her, both of them shuddering together, bodies clutched tight, bound by devotion and relief.

Slowly their bodies slackened, breaths ragged before softening into quiet. The leash settled with a faint clink, a final reminder of the bond between them as they lay trembling in the afterglow.

Caleb’s body was still shuddering, every nerve raw and oversensitive, leaving him vulnerable in her arms. She reached between them with gentle care, fingers working to ease the ring from his swollen length. He whimpered at the touch, but didn’t resist, trusting her completely. When the pressure finally eased, he sagged against her chest, breath shaky.

Her hand stroked soothingly through his hair, her murmured praise soft as a lullaby, holding him close in tender quiet while his body calmed in her keeping. In her arms, the tension finally drained from him.

Vulnerability no longer felt like failure but safety, as if every shiver and sigh was permitted here. Sheltered by her warmth and words, Caleb let himself believe he was exactly where he belonged. Her heartbeat thudded steady against his chest, their sweat cooling on tangled skin, the small details of closeness grounding him as surely as her praise.

And in that quiet, wrapped in her arms and her words, he finally believed it—he was good, because she had said so, because she had made him feel it.

🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎🐶🍎

The penthouse lights were low, the city glittering beyond glass walls. 

Sylus lounged on the sofa, blazer hanging from one armrest, his long frame stretched with casual confidence. A crow-shaped shadow perched in the corner, Mephisto watching as always. His eyes followed his kitten as she approached with a neatly wrapped box in her hands, tied with a deep crimson ribbon.

He had lost a bet to her earlier in the week, for the first time in a long time. True to his word, he promised she could have whatever she wanted from him tonight.

Not that he planned on making it easy. 

Sylus never did. He was used to dictating the terms, to bending every situation back into his control. He intended to give her a hard time, to make her work for his surrender, even though she’d technically won fair and square. But what kept him simmering with anticipation was the secrecy she maintained. 

Usually, he knew everything she did the moment she did it; he’d insisted she use only his card for any of her needs. Yet no suspicious transactions had ever touched his account.

Smugly, he’d run through the possibilities a dozen times. Perhaps restraints he could turn back on her, a blade he could guide to see her hesitate, or some elaborate toy she imagined would make him yield—only for him to twist it into her begging instead. 

Every scenario ended with him twisting it back in his favor. He even pictured her shocked face when his control snapped shut again. Imagined the way she’d whimper under him, breathless from thinking she could win. The more he thought about it, the more the edge of arrogance curled through his veins, sharpening the hunger he never bothered to hide.

She’d even managed to keep Mephisto and his troublesome underlings, Luke and Keiran, from snooping out any packages. Whatever she was plotting, she clearly didn’t want him finding out early. But now she was finally home with her surprise.

He smirked now, voice low, teasing. 

"I hope you didn’t waste too much effort hiding this from me. You know I always find out eventually.

"Not this time, though, huh?" she said, secretive, setting the box in his lap.

His pulse picked up, heat stirring. 

Was it sex toys? Weapons? Restraints? Something sharp, dangerous? Maybe a new game of control. 

Whatever it was, he was already imagining how he’d twist it back in his favor, how he’d make her beg.

Outwardly, his expression remained cool, the curve of a predator’s smile never wavering. But the smile held just a fraction too long, his fingers flexing once against the ribbon as though to ground himself.

Inwardly, the smallest thread of excitement tightened, coiling low in his chest. He could almost feel the moment of her submission, taste it on his tongue before he even knew what was inside.

He tugged the ribbon loose with a flick of his fingers, opened the lid, and stilled. 

For an instant he was frozen, all his breath leaving him, a flicker of genuine confusion pressing sharp behind his ribs. His fingers twitched against the box lid, betraying the jolt that shot through him. 

His smirk faltered for a heartbeat, eyes narrowing before softening with a moment’s hesitation. 

He forced his jaw to set, a mask of arrogance sliding easily back into place, though inside his composure trembled.

Inside lay a wine-red evening gown, silk gleaming in the dim light. His fingers brushed over it and caught the texture, cool and liquid-smooth, a richness that seemed to promise the way it would drape across skin, whispering over every contour. The fabric almost slid through his fingertips like water, leaving a ghost of heat behind.

For a moment he only stared. Then his mouth curved in a smug smile, voice steady even as his thoughts reeled. 

"If you thought buying yourself a gift would punish me, then you don’t know me very well."

He expected her to roll her eyes, maybe strip into it and make him tear it off later. But silence stretched instead, heavy and deliberate, forcing him to sit with the weight of the gift. 

The pause sharpened his awareness of her closeness, of his own restlessness. Then she slipped behind him, arms circling his torso, chin brushing his shoulder.

"This isn’t for me.” Her voice was soft, certain. “It’s for you."

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the box. 

Nestled beside the dress were a pair of suede heels, their velvet touch decadent and sure, along with a ruby necklace and earrings, each piece delicate and well crafted. The gems promised to rest heavy and intimate against a throat, to glint like blood caught in crystal.

He refused to name the unease curling through him, refused to admit that the blood-red silk and jewels suggested submission rather than dominance.

Outwardly, he smoothed his expression into indifference, but the thought of stepping into them lodged sharp in his chest, unsettling in ways he would not voice.

He let out a low chuckle, tilting his head toward her touch. Surely she was teasing.

"You’re full of surprises, kitten, but you’re terrible at bluffing." He turned, catching her against him, grin indulging.

She tugged him down by his collar and pressed a consuming kiss to his mouth. He let her take it. When she pulled back, her gaze burned into his, steady and intent.

"Can’t you see what I want?"

Her words struck him as both a challenge and invitation. His smile stayed, but inside he faltered. A muscle jumped in his jaw, tension tightening the line of it. He narrowed his eyes; his right one glowed, a slow burn lighting the air. His Evol unfurled deliberately, shimmer touching his gaze.

He narrowed his eyes; his right one glowed, a slow burn lighting the air. His Evol unfurled deliberately, shimmer touching his gaze.

What he saw stole his breath. No rope. No weapons. No tricks.

She wanted him in the gown, jewels glinting on his skin. She wanted power turned into beauty, control remade into surrender. She wanted him as the treasure—him.

The glow faded. His weapon, usually his advantage, left him exposed. His pulse hammered in his throat, a betraying rhythm he couldn’t slow. The atmosphere thickened, desire revealed like flame.

Heat rattled his confidence. He shifted his stance, shoulders tightening as if to ward off the pull of her demand.

A quiet laugh escaped, too sharp, masking the quake beneath. "…So this is your punishment."

She held his gaze, fingers tightening on his collar. "No. This is my desire."

His instinct screamed to resist. His hand flexed over the box, knuckles whitening before smoothing into a careful caress—tracing silk, weighing jewelry, lifting a heel too large for her.

Clearly chosen for him.

The thought of surrendering, adorned and claimed, burned through him.

At last, after hesitation, his grin returned, crooked. "Then you’d better help me put it on." His voice carried its usual confidence, but a faint shift in his stance betrayed him.

The way she looked at him—bright-eyed, genuinely eager—unsettled something deep inside.

How had he never noticed this desire before?

He rolled his shoulders back, projecting ease, yet his fingers twitched against his thigh as if anchoring him.

Her smile was slow, luminous. She plucked the gown, fabric spilling like a crimson waterfall. The hem brushed his legs as she held it to his chest, her delight unmistakable.

"I knew it," she murmured, gaze drinking him in. "It suits you already."

His breath caught when her hands slid over his shoulders, guiding the fabric into place. The cool silk whispered against his skin, alien and electric.

She lifted the necklace next, cool metal grazing his throat before settling above his collarbones. The weight was unmistakable.

Claiming.

His throat worked once in a hard swallow. Her fingertips lingered, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, "Beautiful."

He almost laughed, but the word rooted in him, disarming. For once, he couldn’t get out a retort.

Her gaze caught his again, a dare and a promise both. "Will you let me finish?"

Sylus’s jaw flexed, pride straining against desire. Then, with a low hum that sounded almost like surrender, he inclined his head. "Carry on, then."

His own hands rose as if to undo his buttons. The soft, disapproving sound she made stopped him short. He almost laughed at himself—caught between the urge to mock and the pull to yield. Instead, he let his palms rest over her wrists. Not restraining. Just a quiet show of closeness.

He could stop her easily, yet he found himself savoring the slow, measured glide of her hands.

She slipped the blazer from his shoulders. Heat from her touch contrasted the cooler air. One button slid free with a faint pop, then another. Each release let air brush his skin, sharp against the growing warmth beneath.

Sylus’s anticipation tightened as the shirt gaped. Her fingers smoothed along the line of his chest, leaving a trail of sensation that made him stand rigid. He wanted to scoff; to warn her she was playing with fire. Instead, he burned in silence.

Her fingers drifted lower, finding his belt. The metal clinked softly, his hands stiffening at the sound. She pushed past the resistance, eyes flicking up with a glint of challenge.

Daring him to speak.

His pride bristled, but he let his hands slide from her wrists down to her arms, then to her ribs. Her heartbeat pulsed beneath his palms—steady, assured, dominant. The reversal shook him more than he would admit, his own pulse hammering harder in answer.

Leather slid free with a whisper. A shiver climbed his spine as the belt left him. She tugged, fabric rasping down his thighs, cool air rushing against the heat of his skin. His cock thickened, the mix of exposure and her steady gaze unraveling his composure. She crouched, unhurried, sliding trousers and underwear away together. Fingers traced his hips as she bared him completely. Certain. Leading where he was used to being followed.

Bare. Vulnerable. Exposed.

Silence pressed, filled with the scrape of fabric leaving his skin and the sound of his own breath.

She eased the gown open and guided his arms through. Silk glided over his chest, cool at first then warming, sparking a shiver he couldn’t suppress. She tugged the fabric across his shoulders and he stiffened. Her eyes flicked up, lips curving. "Don’t tell me you’re hesitating now," she breathed.

His pride said he should put a stop to this now.

But desire screamed loudly above the rest.

He let the shirt fall away, cool air sweeping over him just before the dress replaced it, wine-red silk clinging where it fell.

Her hands smoothed the fabric down his chest, over his stomach, along his hips. Each pass slow and firm, a wordless claim.

She stepped back, and for the first time he saw himself through her eyes. Wine-red silk draped his body, jewels waiting to weigh his throat, the predator’s frame transformed into something on display. The sight jolted him—alien, unsettling, and yet undeniably striking. He held his breath, caught between shame and a strange flicker of pride that she would want him like this.

She watched him with open satisfaction, lips parted, gaze unflinching.

"Perfect," she whispered.

The word landed heavy. He felt her gaze rake over him, assessing, savoring. It was more than touch now—it was being seen. A flash of humiliation flared, hot in his chest, chased quickly by pride that she wanted him displayed this way. Arousal threaded through it all, sharper for the reversal, leaving him raw in her eyes.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "You’re enjoying this far too much."

"I am," she admitted without shame, reaching for the earrings next.

She brushed his hair back, silver strands falling between her fingers as she fixed the jewels in place. The delicate weight tugged at his lobes, and her satisfied hum sank deep into him. A tremor ran through him, breath catching as the simple act unsettled him more than he expected. Excitement and disquiet blurred together in his chest.

Her hands pressed to his shoulders, guiding him down to sit at the edge of their bed.

Finally, she crouched to take up the heels. He watched her in silence, the grin wiped from his face as she held them out. The implication was clear.

When he didn’t move, she tilted her head, her smile unwavering. "For me."

Sylus inhaled sharply, the moment stretching long and taut. His teeth ground together, the urge to seize control knotting through his muscles. Pride told him he was merely indulging her whim. His body's yearning betrayed him, blood hot and insistent, desire clawing at him.

There was a pause.

Then, with a deliberate slowness that carried both defiance and surrender, he extended his foot. Her fingers caught his ankle, guiding him in, steady and sure. The supple leather was cool at first, then closed snug around his skin. Pressure firmed against his arch.

Intimate. Symbolic.

Each movement a quiet claim she made without faltering. She’s put lots of thought into this.

To him it felt foreign, final—like crossing a threshold he could never fully step back from.

She guided his other foot next, slipping it into the second heel with the same careful precision. When both shoes were in place, she reached out and offered him her hand. For a moment he only stared, bemused, until it dawned on him—she was helping him stand.

Such chivalry. He stifled a laugh as he took her hand and rose, looming over her once more.

She didn’t falter. Holding him at arm’s length, she tipped her head and directed him to turn.

A slow spin. Deliberate. The faint creak of the floorboards and the whisper of silk filled the silence. Her eyes roamed down every inch of him.

He obliged, trying to project the same confidence he wore in every negotiation. But the fabric clung differently. The jewelry tugged at his skin. Heat coiled low in his belly. Each step made the silk pull tighter across his cock. The press constant. Maddening.

He felt exposed. Vulnerable. Desired. His arousal betrayed by the fabric that concealed nothing.

She stepped back, putting distance between them so she could take him in. Her gaze lingered, sharp and thorough. He shifted, and with a rush of mortification realized his cock strained against the front of the dress, the silk stretched taut around him.

Doubt pricked at him—was he unsightly like this?

Weak?

But then he caught her expression—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes welling at the sight of him. Even the faint trace of her perfume drifted between them, grounding him—and the doubt withered away. Whatever he saw in her face burned hotter than shame.

She turned, picked up the blazer discarded on the edge of the bed, and slipped it on over her shirt.

The sight struck him heavily.

Moments ago she had been guiding, dressing, claiming him. Now as she wore his garment, the balance shifted again, a reminder that she could take his place as easily as she had reversed his role between them. The weight of the blazer on her shoulders mirrored the silk clinging to him, both of them marked by the other’s choice.

When she looked back at him, it was with a weighty, grounding intensity that left no room for uncertainty.

She liked what she saw.

More than liked it.

His mouth curved, bravado slipping back into place even as his pulse raced.

"Careful, sweetie," he drawled, voice low and taunting. "Stare any harder and I’ll think you have a crush on me."

The words were mockery, but the heat beneath them betrayed how badly he wanted her to take the bait. And he saw it—her chest flushed up to her neck, her breath quickening, desire written plainly across her body.

His love, undone at the mere sight of him, stoked his own hunger, a dangerous feedback loop that left him weak to her whims, craving her just as she craved him.

He stepped closer, closing the distance she had left between them. His voice dropped lower, almost a growl against the tension strung tight between them.

"If you want me submissive," he murmured, eyes glinting with challenge, "then you’d better start giving orders."

The fabric shifted with his movement, tightening across his cock, the heat beneath maddening. Every breath made the gown cling, each subtle motion a torment that aroused him as much as it unsettled him. He had never felt so on display, every line of his arousal traced by the dress she had chosen for him.

Her answer came without words.

She patted her lap, a silent command that needed no explanation.

For a heartbeat he stared, then a laugh rumbled out of him at the absurdity of their size difference. Yet he decided to obey, hiking the dress up around his thighs to make room as he settled onto her lap. His weight pressed into her, precarious yet intimate, the balance forcing them chest to chest.

The press of fabric against him was constant, every movement a reminder of how exposed he was, straddling her as she had intended. Even in banter, he followed her lead.

When he finally settled, he tilted his head and taunted, "What’s got you so quiet? Cat got your tongue?"

His own ears caught the husky edge in his voice, surprise flickering through him at how much arousal had bled into his bravado. He leaned in for a kiss, but she pulled back just enough to hold his gaze.

Heat. Want. Undeniable. But beneath it something else—love, deep and unguarded. She looked so happy.

And strangely… proud.

The realization struck hard, leaving him breathless, achingly aroused.

At last, she closed her eyes and leaned up to kiss him, her hands low on his waist. Sylus wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her close as their mouths met.

Her lips were hot. Her breath tasted faintly of wine. Something sweeter lingered there too, sinking into him, leaving him dizzy.

His arousal spiked. Heat rolled through him until sweat dampened his skin. Her palms roamed his back and waist. Each glide caught on the gown as it dampened under their heat.

The slide of fabric on overheated skin had him reeling. It set her alight too. Her hands shifted from gliding to grasping.

His body answered before thought—sharp gasp, hips jerking, grinding closer into her. Each reaction betrayed how completely she unraveled his control. Each pass pulled him tighter against her. The seams strained.

Sylus was deeply aware he was putting on a show for her, and she was watching every second of it.

He broke the kiss, pulling back just enough to let her see him clearly. His smirk held, but behind it lay a flicker of genuine uncertainty. Vulnerability felt alien, the very idea of asking for reassurance clawing at his pride.

For a moment he wrestled with himself—urge to jeer, urge to demand, urge to hide—until all that remained was the need pressing harder than his ego. The clash of bravado and want coiled tight in his chest, sharper than any blade.

“Tell me,” he drawled, voice low, “am I pretty like this?”

The words came out as a tease, but the question carried a raw undercurrent he couldn’t quite disguise. His heart pounded, his throat tight, his usual composure slipping into an uncharacteristic stillness as he waited for her reply.

Her eyes widened, surprise flickering before softening into a tender smile. One of her hands lifted, fingertips brushing the ruby earring dangling from his ear. She touched it delicately, then slid her palm to frame the side of his neck.

Warm against his skin. Her thumb brushed slowly along the sharp line of his jaw. The intimate pressure grounded him, coaxing him closer. Sylus leaned into her touch, resting his face in her hand without hesitation, savoring the heat of her palm.

“You’re the prettiest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on,” she whispered. Her lips brushed his, soft. Then her voice dropped hotter. “And you’ve got me so wet right now.”

She sealed the words with a messy, consuming kiss. The sound of it filled the space between them. When they broke for breath, both were panting.

Her touch and confession tore a groan from him. His hips pressed harder against her stomach. His breath stuttered. One hand clutched at her side as though to steady himself. The other tightened on her shoulder, fingers digging into the blazer she wore. His cock strained between them, each throb magnified by the silk.

Fuck.

Impatience rose raw and uncharacteristic. A curse dragged from him as surely as the groan. The slow teasing of their foreplay made him ache with need. Especially after that kiss. He broke away, breath rough, eyes locked on hers.

“How do you want me?”

Her answer came with a smirk. Lips curved in wicked amusement. Her eyes glinted like she held every advantage. The sight irritated him as much as it aroused.

“Why?” she teased, voice dripping with amusement. “Are you getting impatient?”

Sylus huffed a laugh, low and rough. His forehead pressed briefly to hers. “You’re going to make me beg, aren’t you?”

The word beg came out like a growl—torn between mockery and sincerity. He rocked his hips again, deliberate this time. He made sure she felt every inch of his arousal beneath the silk.

“Careful,” he murmured, lips brushing her ear. “I might actually do it.”

Her answering hum was smug. Her hands slid lower to squeeze his ass through the fabric. The touch jolted through him. His composure unraveled another notch.

She leaned back slightly, studying him, savoring his impatience like fine wine. “Maybe I like the thought of you begging.”

His jaw clenched, pride sparking in his chest. His cock twitched, betraying him. He wanted to laugh it off, twist her words, reclaim control. But gods, the idea of it—the idea of begging her—made his blood run hot.

“Then you should make me,” he said, voice ragged. The challenge trembled on the edge of surrender.

She only smiled. Then she denied him. Just as he rocked in closer, she pulled her body back. He chased the heat she stole away. Her nails grazed over the chain of the necklace he wore, dragging slowly down until they skimmed the low neckline of the dress. Scratching lightly along exposed skin. Not once did she give him her touch where he needed it most.

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” she murmured. “You’re going to obey me all on your own… because you want to. Don’t you?”

The words had him gritting his teeth. Pride lashed back, screaming for him to sneer, to pin her down, to remind her who held control.

For an instant he nearly did.

The thought burned, heavy and tempting. But the heat between them pressed harder, drowning resistance in want. A growl vibrated in his chest, irritation and arousal tangling into one. He bowed his head against her shoulder, leaning in closer, rejecting the distance she tried to create.

His body betrayed his earlier intention, shuddering at the graze of her nails.

Her tactics shifted with his change of heart. Her mouth tipped to his ear, breath warm and ragged, whispering filth in a tone that dripped like honey. Each word ghosted hot across his skin, making his pulse stumble.

“I know where you really want it. But do you think you’ve earned it?”

She rolled her hips against him. The silk strained, seams groaning softly in protest. Her breath fanned at his jaw, mingling with the rasp of fabric and the low sound in her throat. Each movement slow. Maddening. Deliberate torment.

Her hands roamed everywhere but his cock—down his ribs, across his waist, over his thighs. Never once giving him the contact he needed. The denial tore rough sounds from him. Every stroke and press wound him tighter toward the edge, until all that was left was the rising urge to beg for her touch.

When his restraint frayed to a thread, she pushed. A firm hand to his chest. A sudden shift of her weight. He was pressed back onto the bed.

The mattress caught him, the gown spilling around him in folds of crimson silk. His legs spread beneath her straddle. She pinned him there with nothing but her weight. The image obscene and perfect—crime lord turned captive under her mere gaze. Power and helplessness twisted together, making his cock throb painfully against the dress.

She leaned forward, bracing her palms to either side of his head.

“Look at you,” she whispered, eyes bright with triumph. “Baby, you look so sexy like this. Your eyes are practically begging me to fuck you.”

His pride snapped at the words, his jaw clenching. But his hips lifted of their own accord, grinding desperately up into her. The heat of her body above him. The denial of her touch. It left him teetering on the edge. Every nerve screamed for release. Every thought narrowed to her weight on him.

Her control.

The desire to beg built hot at the back of his throat, threatening to spill free with his next breath.

When she shifted suddenly, like she was about to rise off him, a jolt shot through him. He didn’t register it as fear at first—only an intense, desperate need to keep her close. Pride told him to let her move, to stay composed, but vulnerability clawed beneath the surface, raw and insistent. His hands locked tight around her thighs, fingers digging into the fabric of her slacks, the gesture more plea than command.

“Don’t,” he bit out.

Hurt and confusion flashed in his eyes as he looked up at her. Whatever she saw there had her melting.

She cooed softly, leaning down to press a string of quick kisses against his mouth. “Shh… I’m not going anywhere. Just taking these off.”

Realization hit, and he felt ridiculous.

He let go, though not without reluctance. He watched as she stood on the bed with him between her legs. Carefully, she peeled her slacks down, then her underwear. A full view for him alone, sprawled beneath her. It was agony to keep still. His body restless. Practically writhing as he drank in the sight of her.

When she began to settle back down over him, his voice cracked rough. “Top off,” he rasped. His hands slid up, tugging at the hem of her shirt and the lapels of his blazer she still wore.

Her smirk was devastating. “No. I want to fuck you in this pretty dress with your blazer on.”

The words made his cock twitch hard. A sharp groan tore from his throat before he could stop it. His body betrayed just how much the thought wrecked him.

Then she lowered herself, her bare pussy pressing over the silk of his dress, right where his cock wept against the fabric. The sensation was incendiary. Heat seeped through. Dampness soaked in until the gown clung dark and wet. Each drag of her hips tortured him, silk tugging tight with every shift.

Sweat clung sharp in the air, mingling with her perfume and the faint musk of arousal. Her breath fell heavy against his ear, hot and uneven, surrounding him in a haze. His mind went dangerously fuzzy. Thoughts scattered by the mix of humiliation and unbearable pleasure. Every motion pressed the fabric tighter against his cock. Slick spread. Friction burned and thrilled all at once.

Sylus groaned, head falling back, clutching at her hips like she was the only thing tethering him to reality.

Despite her words, she teased him for a long while. Their movements ground together, frotting, chasing that exquisite high without ever tipping into release. Her body rolled against his, wetness spreading until the front of his gown clung indecently. She leaned forward, palms roaming his chest, caressing and squeezing the muscle and fat there.

Each touch forced noises out of him he could no longer suppress—moans, curses, raw groans spilling without restraint. He was a mess beneath her. Sweat beaded along his temple. His chest heaved with every ragged breath. The bed shifted under them with each restless grind. Still she gave him no end. Already he felt dangerously close, the tension coiling sharp and relentless low in his belly, making the inevitability of his surrender plain.

He couldn’t take it anymore. The pressure was unbearable. His cock ached against the barrier of silk. Pride fractured. Scattered under the weight of need.

He tipped his head back, eyes squeezed shut. Breath tore from him in ragged bursts.

“Sweetheart,” he gasped, voice breaking. “Please. Don’t keep me out anymore.”

The words scorched his pride. His face flushed hot, teeth gritting as shame warred with hunger. Humiliation cut sharp, even as desire made his blood sing. It was intoxicating—the way she held him, the way surrender felt like drowning and breathing all at once.

His grip tightened at her waist. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

The plea shuddered out of him. His body betrayed him with a twitch of his cock, a tremor that left him gasping.

She saw it, and her expression softened into something almost unbearably sweet.

“Oh baby...” she cooed, her voice low and molten. “I love hearing you ask for me.” Her lips brushed his ear. “So eager.” Another pause, her breath hot. “Maybe I prefer you like this.”

Her words burned through him, praise and provocation entwined. His chest seized. His pelvis jerked helplessly beneath her. The teasing edge in her tone sharpened the sweetness. It left him wrecked by the contrast.

At last, her touch slid lower, bunching the gown and tugging it up to his stomach. His cock jolted free, flushed and leaking, the sudden cool air making him shiver. The moment she wrapped her fingers around him and pumped, a loud gasp ripped from his throat. His nails dug into her bare thighs, leaving crescent marks, but he didn’t dare stop her. He only looked up pleadingly, hoping she would read the message in his eyes: he needed to finish inside her.

She played with him for a moment or two, pumping, stroking, teasing until his body bucked into her hand. Then, with a slow, deliberate shift, she positioned herself and finally began to mount him.

As she sank down, she leaned close, voice a purr of filth and devotion. “Fuck, Sy. You look so good in red.” Each word fractured by a moan. “My favorite color on you.” She moved against him, swallowing him deeper. Her eyes glittered. “I want you in jewelry like this more often. Onyx. Rubies. Diamonds. I want you covered in them.”

She squeezed around him, savoring every inch. “I want you like this more often. My beautiful. Perfect treasure—,”

His breath hitched, chest arching as if the words themselves pierced heart. The overwhelmed sound broke between them, raw and helpless.

She smiled at the effect, voice dropping lower. “Spread out just for me—fuck.”

Sylus could only groan beneath her, every thrust pulling him further apart. He melted under her handling, sweat slicking his chest, his head tipping back as she rode him. And yet, even while she took the lead, he matched her, thrust for thrust, driving into her just as eagerly. Their bodies moved in rhythm, the room filled with the echo of wet, obscene sounds. His grip anchored at her hips, guiding, grounding, even as he yielded to her pace.

They fucked like that for what felt like forever, his mind clouding with every grind and squeeze. At last, she leaned forward, draping herself over his chest, her breasts pressed against him, her hands framing his face. Her hips never slowed. His breath hitched, ragged moans spilling as he gazed up at her wicked delight.

“Open your mouth,” she whispered, voice giddy.

Obedient, dazed, he parted his lips, expecting her kiss.

Instead, she let spit gather on her tongue and drip into his waiting mouth. The hot slickness landed on his tongue and he shuddered, eyes wide before fluttering closed.

A guttural moan escaped him, raw and helpless. The act shoved him headlong into a haze close to worship, his pride crumbling beneath the weight of approval.

Heat flared in his belly, his cock twitching, desperate for release. Another broken sound tore from him, hips snapping up as though that alone had stripped him bare. He could taste her on his tongue, slick and intimate, his senses drowning in it.

Even through the bliss, a sharp awareness pulsed at the edges—how close he was to falling, how raw and fragile he would be when this high broke, how he might crave her touch just to hold himself together.

It built fast. A flood he couldn’t hold back. Panic tangled with the thrill. The sharp realization that she had undone him completely—that nothing could stop what was coming. Too much.

His orgasm seized him. His body locked. His chest arched as though he might break apart. Heat surged outward in fierce, pulsing waves. His cock throbbed hard, spilling hot release that stained the silk between them. Breath tore ragged from his throat. Every nerve lit as pleasure crashed through him, raw and merciless.

She milked him through it, riding him until he writhed beneath her, overstimulated and messy. His nails raked down her thighs, his gasps breaking as his body gave in.

But she wasn't stopping.

When he could take no more, instinct seized him. Muscles screaming with effort, he strained through the haze, arms trembling as he gathered her up. With a guttural groan he lifted her, desperate strength breaking through, and threw her off his cock. She landed laughing, giggles bright and unperturbed, sprawled beside him as though she had planned it all along.

Sylus was left a shuddering mess, oversensitive and gasping. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat, his skin flushed deep red, hands shaking where they gripped the sheets. The silk gown hung on him in debauched disarray, soiled with come and sweat, jewels glinting obscenely against his flushed skin. His chest heaved, his head swimming, every nerve raw and aflame.

Beside him, she was the opposite—calm, composed, satisfaction glowing in her eyes. Her laughter had softened into an easy smile, her breathing steady where his came ragged. The contrast was stark, her poise set against his wreckage.

Then she leaned over him sweetly, brushing damp hair from his temple, her voice soft and encouraging. “That was so good, Sy. You were so pretty and perfect for me.”

Her words cradled him as much as her touch, soothing even as he lay undone in her hands. Then, with a sly smile, she added playfully, “And you begged so sweetly. I think I’ll remember that most of all.”

The words meant to cut, but they only made him melt against her side.

She may be right... they would have to do this again sometime.

🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛🌹🐦‍⬛

The late afternoon light streamed through the studio windows, gilding the brushes, the fabric draped across the sofa, and her.

Rafayel watched with painter’s precision, how the glow turned her shirt from white to cream, how her hair caught fire at the edges. Each subtle shift of tone drew his attention, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He was tuned to color and movement the way others were to sound—unable to ignore it, unable to stop seeing. The sight stirred something softer, a pulse beneath his ribs he pretended was only appreciation for form.

Charcoal whispered against paper in a steady rhythm—stroke, pause, shade, breathe. The ocean breeze carried salt and pigment through the air, stirring the edges of his concentration. Her soft hum rippled through the quiet, and he looked up long enough to see the curve of her mouth, that fleeting half-smile he always tried to capture. He felt the shift in the room. How the golden light seemed thicker, warmer, how the air itself felt small between them.

“Hold still,” he said softly, his voice colored with quiet amusement.

“I’m trying,” she replied, laughter warming the words.

He bent back over his page, steadying his breath, but the energy between them had changed.

The space seemed to pulse with sound, the brush of her sleeve, the faint bounce of her legs.

Then something brushed his shin—a fleeting contact, light as a shadow. Her foot.

His pulse jumped.

He told himself it was nothing, just simple accidental contact. The sofa was small, their legs loosely tangled; accidents happened. But the next touch came slower, warmth slipping beneath the cuff of his trousers until soft skin met his own.

His pencil faltered. The contrast between her warmth and the cool air was too sharp, too real. Maybe she hadn’t noticed. Maybe she had. His body didn’t care either way.

“You’re moving again,” he said, tone rougher than he intended.

“So are you,” she teased, light as rain.

He tried to ignore the quick beat of his heart. “I’m the artist. I’m allowed.”

“Hmm.” Her toes pressed deeper up the sleeve of his pants.

Rafayel went still, caught between amusement and something heavier. For a heartbeat, shame mixed with desire—he hadn’t realized how such simple contact like that would make him feel until that moment.

“Was that intentional?”

She blinked at him. “What was?”

He gave a low, uneven chuckle. “Nothing. You’re distracting.”

“Distracting?” she teased. “I thought I was your inspiration.”

“You are,” he murmured, but the line beneath his hand wavered, his focus unspooling. The light on her skin seemed too vivid, her nearness too much.

He told himself it was only touch—simple, harmless.

Yet it didn’t feel that way.

His logic tangled with sensation, the argument already lost. Perhaps it was the newness of the human body—the strange responsiveness of skin that once belonged to something made for water. He had traded scales for flesh, and the novelty of human feet was not lost on him.

Each brush of her warm feet felt deeply personal when it should have been simple, edging him into dangerous territory.

He paused, breath caught halfway, realizing the line between observation and reaction had vanished. The waves inside him beat faster, echoing his pulse. He drew a slow breath, willing his heart to quiet, but the rhythm only grew louder—like surf breaking too close to shore.

He felt exposed, human in ways that terrified him, longing for touch he knew would undo him. It wasn’t just art anymore. It was her.

“If you keep moving,” he said, “the portrait will look nothing like you.” He tried to sound light, but there was a tremor beneath the words—a nervous edge he hoped she wouldn’t notice. The faint warmth of the room pressed around them, the air alive with the quiet rhythm of their breathing.

“Maybe I want to see how you fix mistakes.” She tilted her head slightly, a teasing spark in her eyes.

Her playfulness hit deeper than he expected. His pulse jumped as her toes brushed his skin again—deliberate this time.

He was frozen in place. The touch was electric and tender all at once. Unsure whether to pull away or stay still, he managed only a slow, shaky inhale, the sound breaking the hush between them. Such an innocent touch left him unmoored, caught between confusion, restraint, and a sharp awareness that she knew exactly what she was doing.

He swallowed hard, pulse quickening. “You’re dangerous when you’re bored,” he murmured.

She smirked faintly. “Am I?”

“Yes,” he said after a beat, voice quieter. “And I should know better than to underestimate you.”

He tried to resume his sketch, but the precision was gone. Each movement of her foot sent ripples through his composure. How could something so small, so human, command his focus?

He’d studied anatomy and motion all his life, but he’d never understood how art could touch back until now.

Her touch traced lazy, meandering lines up the inside of his calf. He steadied his breathing, though the pencil hovered uselessly.

Maybe it was nothing—simple chaste closeness. She was unguarded when comfortable. Still, each brush of skin sent warmth climbing higher, blurring the line between innocent and intimate. The faint rustle of fabric, the whisper of her movement, the scent of salt and graphite—all of it filled the quiet; the studio itself seemed to listen.

He looked up. Her sketchpad lay forgotten. “You’re awfully quiet,” he said, trying for playful, but his voice came out rougher than he intended.

“I’m concentrating,” she replied, still moving.

“On what?”

“On staying still, like you asked.” She grinned as if daring him to correct her.

He laughed softly, his shoulders loosening despite the tension coiling low in his stomach. “You’ve got a unique interpretation of stillness.” He was aware of every inch of himself, every breath too loud. His skin felt fevered under her lazy, tracing touch.

The air thickened. Her foot slipped higher—unhurried, deceptively innocent. His hand twitched, smudging a line. He stared at the mark as if that imperfection might steady him. “You’ll ruin the study,” he murmured.

“Maybe,” she said, voice soft, “just consider it a challenge.”

He tried to laugh, but the sound caught when the warmth shifted again. Was this still innocent? Was he indecent for noticing the heat of it, for feeling it so sharply? He wished he could hide the flush creeping up his throat, the ache that came from wanting to be touched and fearing what wanting such things meant.

“Careful,” he warned quietly.

“Am I bothering you?” she asked.

He hesitated. “I—no… yes. I can’t tell.” His laugh broke unevenly, half confession, half defense. He was painfully aware of how close her foot was to crossing a line, and of how much he wanted her to.

Her eyes glinted. “Then maybe you should decide.”

The studio had closed in around them—the muted ocean outside, the heavy scent of salt and charcoal in the air. She shifted again, her foot brushing just above his knee before pausing. The jolt scattered his thoughts, every sense sharpening.

She smiled, sweet and innocent, as if unaware of the quiet storm she’d stirred. And Rafayel realized, with a sinking ache, that what truly unsettled him wasn’t her touch at all—it was how much he wanted to believe it meant exactly what it felt like, the way a painter aches for the truth behind his own creation.

The warmth of her lingered in the air—sweat, skin, and something impossibly human—marking the space between them like a secret only the two of them could understand.

His gaze, disobedient and heavy with curiosity, drifted downward. Her foot slipped free of the loose fabric of her trousers’ hem, the lamplight catching on smooth skin and the glint of coral polish. She always kept them painted—soft pastels when she was playful, deep blues when her heart was heavy. Tonight, the color burned against the muted blues and golds of the studio, bold and alive.

She seemed to know he was looking; her knee bent ever so slightly, a wordless invitation.

Her feet weren’t delicate, and that fascinated him. They were strong and sure, wide yet gracefully curved, marked by balance and quiet confidence. They anchored her while he, eternally restless, drifted toward whatever beauty caught his eye. He could have drawn them endlessly—each tendon and hollow, the faint gleam where polish met skin.

The air between them shifted once more, carrying the faint warmth of her body and the scent of oil paint. The sight stirred something that wasn’t quite artistic. His heart thudded, his mouth went dry, and warmth coiled low in his stomach.

Then her foot moved again. Slow at first, then bolder. The air seemed to hum with silent challenge he wasn't sure if she was aware of sending. Each small shift sent a sharper pulse through him, his awareness narrowing until there was nothing but motion and heat.

He hesitated, wondering if she knew what she was doing—if this was accidental or something far more deliberate. It brushed along the inside of his knee, tracing a deliberate path that left fire in its wake. The contact was barely there, just warmth and suggestion—but it made his core grow hot.

His pulse hammered so hard he felt it in his fingertips. Heat crawled over his skin, each heartbeat sharper than the last, until thought dissolved entirely. His body reacted before reason could interfere, his breath shivering as his thighs tensed beneath the growing ache.

He clutched the sketchbook closer to his chest, a flimsy shield against the surge of heat. His chest rose and fell too fast, breath catching on every exhale. He tried not to look again, but his gaze betrayed him, flicking toward her feet—the curve of her arch, the flex of her ankle as she stretched lazily, unaware of the storm she’d summoned in him.

The movement sent a tremor through him, his muscles drawn tight with the restraint it took not to take her leg in his hands. The echo of her touch lingered, warm as the heartbeat beneath his skin. Rafayel dared not meet her eyes, afraid she’d seen the hunger glinting there.

His fingers tightened around the charcoal, but they refused to obey him. The portrait blurred—the delicate lines of her figure melting into light and shadow. He swallowed, the sound stark in the hush, the air thick with salt and things he wasn't sure he should say.

His thoughts tumbled between guilt and longing, each chasing the other.

A single brush of her toes shouldn’t have left him undone, but it had.

Every nerve seemed tuned to her, his body betraying the calm his mind fought to keep.

He knew he shouldn’t be having such indecent feelings about something as simple as her feet, but he did, and he couldn’t control how his thoughts ran away from him. His imagination slipped its leash, filling with images he couldn’t quite bear to name—her stepping on him, pressing her feet to his face, the curve of her toes against his lips.

He found himself wanting to smell her, to feel the faint trace of sea air and pigment that clung to her skin, to press his mouth to her until reason fractured completely. The realization made his chest tighten, shame and want crashing together in dizzying waves.

He tried to crush the image, but she shifted again, and her faint movement felt like a knowing answer. She would surely recoil if she knew the depth of his thoughts. Yet the wanting remained, quiet and persistent, like flame he couldn’t put out.

Rafayel’s breath wavered, heavy with need, and his pulse drummed a wild, helpless rhythm that felt like both fear and surrender.

He dragged in a breath, his chest aching. Heat pressed close beneath his skin, spreading through every inch of him. Each light touch of her toes against his thigh made his muscles tense, his self control peeling away in thin, trembling layers. His heartbeat thrummed even faster, the rhythm syncing unconsciously with the slow drag of her movements.

He tried to force a laugh, to deflect away from the vulnerable feeling, but his throat caught on the sound.

The silence swelled until he felt it in his bones. He could hear the rise and fall of her breath, the soft shift of fabric, the faint scrape of his own pencil rolling across the floor. The sound broke the spell—small, harmless, and yet it struck him like thunder.

“It seems you’ve dropped your pencil,” she said lightly.

Rafayel dared a glance up, willing his blush to fade and failing miserably. Her expression was composed, curious, her tone innocent enough to make him question if she’d truly not noticed the effect she had on him.

To his great relief, she seemed to have mercy on him and didn’t call attention to the color in his cheeks.

“It does seem that way, doesn’t it,” he managed, his voice softer than he intended.

He leaned forward to reach for it, but the pencil had rolled just out of reach—mockingly close to the sofa’s edge. He shifted to stand, but before he could move, she extended her leg past his. The smooth length of it crossed into his space, her toes curling delicately around the pencil. She lifted it with ease, the motion so casual and unhurried it left him breathless.

Then, with precise grace, she dropped it into his lap.

He froze, staring down at it, unable to form words. The shock of the moment robbed him of thought. When he finally dared to look up, she was already laughing, her voice bright and warm in the quiet studio.

He couldn’t help himself; the sound was contagious. He found his lips curving into a shaky laugh, the tension breaking like a wave. The sound grounded him, cutting through the tension just enough for him to breathe again. "You keep rescuing me."

Her laughter softened into a knowing smile. “Someone has to.”

Before he could reply, she shifted again, her movements unhurried but deliberate. The foot between his thighs pressed closer, heat radiating through the fabric until his muscles went taut. Then, her other foot began to wander too, trailing up the top of his knee to his thigh. Her toes angled just so, as if presenting themselves for his attention.

“Do you like this color on me?” she asked, voice a quiet murmur that somehow filled the space between them.

Ordinarily, he would have met that teasing tone with one of his own—would have had a clever remark ready, some easy charm to hide behind. But he couldn’t muster any of that now. For someone so composed, he was rarely caught off guard—and yet in this moment he felt completely off-kilter, his mind a haze of heat and pulse.

“It suits you well,” he managed, trying to keep his voice steady, though it came out softer, breathier than he intended.

She hummed in satisfaction, lifting her foot ever so slightly, as if offering it to him.

The gesture was small, but it hit him with staggering clarity.

She wanted him to take it.

And as realization sank in, so did the truth that she knew—she’d known—the flavor of his thoughts all along.

She was doing all of this on purpose.

The flush that had lingered on his cheeks spread down his neck, his pulse thudding loud and uneven.

Without thinking a second longer, he tossed the sketchbook to the floor and reached for her. His hands nearly trembled as they found her foot, cupping it gently, reverently, as though afraid she might pull away.

Her skin was smooth beneath his fingers, cool from being exposed to the air but warming quickly in his grasp. The texture of her skin and the faint ripple of muscle and tendons under his fingertips made his breath hitch.

He traced the curve of her arch, the soft pad beneath her toes, touching her as if committing every shape to memory. A shiver of awareness rolled through him; he knew this was the point of no return. The tentativeness faded with each second she allowed him to keep holding her, studying her.

For once, he didn’t worry about seeming strange to her—only about what might happen next.

His breath grew shallow.

He looked down at her foot resting in his hands, a strange mix of awe and disbelief tightening his chest. That she was even allowing this was a gift itself. The skin beneath his fingers was soft and warm, the faint scent of salt and paint clinging to her. His heartbeat quickened until it seemed to sync with the pulse at her ankle.

Then she moved—pressing forward, digging her heel slightly as the sole of her foot slid between his legs.

The contact was sudden, searing, the friction low and deliberate. He exhaled sharply, a sound halfway between a gasp and a groan, his body betraying the depth of his want.

Rafayel looked up, unable to stop himself. Their eyes met and held, neither of them speaking. The laughter from before had vanished, replaced by something hotter, deeper, undeniably real. The understanding between them was unspoken but absolute—an admission of everything he had both been too careful to say aloud. The air between them pulsed, heavy with shared awareness.

Now that he knew—knew she had been teasing him, knew she wanted him to react—something inside him shifted. The nervousness that had held him still bled away, replaced by something darker, steadier, uncoiling low in his gut.

If she wanted to play, he could play too.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

He sat up on the sofa, leaning forward to reach her more closely. The movement pressed her heel harder against him, and the sound that escaped him was a low, guttural groan that vibrated between them. His composure fractured, yet he found he didn’t care. Her eyes widened slightly at the noise, a flicker of surprise breaking through her calm façade, the smallest crack in her confidence that he found unbearably enticing.

He caught her foot again, drawing it closer to his face. The warmth of her skin against his palms steadied him even as his thoughts scattered. His gaze lingered on her toes—the coral polish glinting softly in the lamplight—and before she could speak, he brought his lips to meet them. His breath brushed over her skin, warm and trembling, before he pressed a kiss to the tip of her biggest toe.

She gasped, her whole body flinching at the contact. Her foot jerked once, knocking clumsily against his lip, but he only tightened his grip around her ankle—steady and firm, not enough to hurt, just enough to keep her from slipping away. The texture of her skin against his mouth was almost too much—smooth and cool, giving beneath his lips like silk.

He kissed her again. And again. Each painted toe received the same reverent attention, his mouth tracing them with tender precision. Her breath hitched with each one, her composure unraveling by degrees. The heat between them deepened, shifting from teasing to something almost sacred in its intensity.

Finally, he looked up at her through his lashes, his mouth still close to her skin. To his satisfaction, she was the one blushing now—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief and want. For once, she couldn’t hide behind laughter or teasing. He had taken control of the moment, and for the first time, she was the one left speechless.

For a moment, the air between them hung thick and silent. Rafayel’s breath came slow and deliberate, his heartbeat loud in his ears. He reached out again, catching her foot and drawing it even closer to his face. The quiet stretched, charged with the awareness of what he was about to do.

Rafayel paused, breath catching as he looked up at her through his lashes. His mouth lingered close to her skin, and to his satisfaction, she was the one blushing now—cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes wide with disbelief and want.

A thrill of surprise ran through him at his own boldness, matched by a flicker of awe at how easily she let him lead. For once, she couldn’t hide behind laughter or deflection. He had taken control, and now, she was the one at a loss for words.

He wanted to see more of that look—the open vulnerability, the shock that had replaced her teasing smile. Leaning in, he pressed the flat of her foot to his cheek. The soft texture of her skin grazed his stubble, and he inhaled the faint scent of salt and warmth. Her sharp intake of breath only urged him on.

A flicker of thought passed through him—how strange it felt, this mix of reverence and hunger, the way he wanted to her more of her sweet voice.

He wanted to take it further.

His tongue flicked out, tasting her; the act was instinctive, reverent. Slowly, he drew one of her toes into his mouth. Her reflexive jerk met the firm steadiness of his hold.

She made a sound that was half his name, half disbelief—meant to scold, but it crumbled into a low, helpless moan that sent a pulse of satisfaction through him.

A grin tugged at his lips. He looked up at her, eyes gleaming with mischief, and began to lap and suck softly at her toes. His movements were deliberate—short, rhythmic strokes like brushwork, each one layered with care.

Her breathing quickened, sounds of surprise melting into soft sighs. Her eyes fluttered shut, her head tipping back as her fingers loosened on the sofa.

She didn’t stop him—didn’t want him to.

The mere thought lit a fire low in his stomach, his desire echoing hers in the charged silence that filled the room.

Rafayel took his time, tasting, teasing, learning the language of her reactions. The sound of her breathing mingled with the quiet rustle of fabric and the faint hum of the sea outside. The wet warmth of his breath brushed her skin, her soft sighs trembling in the air between them.

The moment pulsed with a slow rhythm that felt both sacred and wild. It was overwhelming—the intimacy, the power, the way she looked at him now. He felt the same awe he did standing before a finished painting, when creation and desire blurred, when beauty stopped being something he merely observed and became something he could feel.

She reached for him then, fingers grasping and pulling at his trousers, grounding herself in the moment. The gentle tug drew him forward, breaking the rhythm of his kisses. Her touch wasn’t meant to stop him—it was an answer, a wordless confession that she wanted to be part of this, not just the subject of it.

Rafayel lifted his gaze, his breath brushing her skin. The teasing light in her eyes had softened into something intent and tender. She drew him closer, her hand reaching for his jaw, her thumb lingering at the corner of his mouth where warmth still clung.

The simplicity of gesture undid him more than any words could have.

He pulled her foot close to kiss her ankle, then the inside of her calf, slow and reverent. Each touch carried less restraint, the control that defined him beginning to fray.

Her free foot pressed against his thigh, gliding upward in unspoken invitation. It was no longer teasing—it was an answer, a reflection of his own need.

The air grew heavier, thick with heat and scent, the feel of the sofa’s fabric grounding him as his hands slid higher. Their breaths came unevenly, the sound of skin meeting skin blending with the faint hum of the sea beyond the studio walls.

As he kissed higher, Rafayel began to move—crawling his way along the sofa toward her. The shift brought him closer, his knees sinking into the cushion, his chest brushing her leg as he made his slow approach.

When he reached her knee, she leaned forward, cupping his face in her hand, her fingers trembling slightly as their eyes met again. The moment hung between curiosity and hunger, between control and surrender.

He rose up on his knees, positioning himself between her legs as if drawn there by instinct. The laughter from before had melted into quiet devotion. For a heartbeat, he hesitated, realizing just how much control he was losing—how completely he wanted to be hers.

Then he let go of all the useless things holding his affection back.

They moved together with the same rhythm that guided his brush across canvas—tentative, then sure, every touch deliberate, every breath shared. Creation and passion had become the same motion, each feeding the other.

She brushed his cheek with her thumb, whispering, “You’re trembling.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, voice rough. “So are you.”

Her smile wavered, her next breath catching. “Then stop holding back.”

So he did.

Their mouths met—slow, uncertain for only a moment before heat replaced hesitation. Her taste was salt and warmth, her breath quick and uneven. The sofa creaked beneath their shifting weight as they pulled each other closer, a tangle of limbs, of need.

His hands traced her sides, her fingers tangled in his hair, and the line between art and abandon vanished. Every sound, every breath, every heartbeat felt like part of a single composition they were creating together.

Somewhere in the haze of motion and touch, she whispered his name—half prayer, half sigh. He answered it not with words but with a low sound that carried every ounce of longing he’d once tried to stifle.

The studio filled with the rhythm of their closeness—the soft scrape of fabric, the hush of skin meeting skin, the whisper of the sea through the open window. When at last he looked at her again, her expression was the same mix of wonder and surrender he’d felt painting her. Only this time, the masterpiece they were creating was alive.

He pressed his forehead to hers, their breaths mingling, feeling her heartbeat race against his chest, the scent of paint and skin clinging to the warm air. “You’ve ruined me for anything else,” he murmured.

Her answering smile was faint, trembling, utterly real. “Good,” she whispered. “Then we’re even.”

🐟👣🐟👣🐟👣🐟👣🐟👣🐟👣🐟👣🐟👣🐟👣