#matorin

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The key turned in the lock with a muted click, you stepped inside, silent. Focused. Every sense tuned to the stillness. Something was off. The lights were out. No hum from the appliances. No distant drone of traffic through your usual sealed windows. But a faint whisper of cold air brushed your cheek. Your gaze darted toward the living room, one of the windows was open. Slightly aja, just enough to let in the night chill. Just enough to signal that you weren’t alone. Yur spine straightened, you set your bag down slowly and reached under your coat—fingers brushing metal. Blade, not gun. You wanted to feel the fight if this all about, so you moved through the apartment like smoke—quiet, fast, precise. The hallway stretched long and dark, your footsteps padded against the wooden floor. Your pulse steady. Suddenly...a breath behind you. Too close.

You turned, fast, striking on instinct. He caught your wrist mid-air. Solid grip. Inhuman strength. The man was all in black, a smooth and faceless helmet. His body tall, wrapped in matte tactical gear, every muscle concealed yet obvious by the way he moved—efficient, ruthless, silent.

Matorin, you knew that presence, that menace, they’d sent him to kill you. Of course they had. So you didn’t hesitate.

The first hit was hard. Palm to chin, deflected. You ducked low, kicked toward his knee—he sidestepped and struck downward, his arm grazing your shoulder. You rolled back and caught him in the ribs with your heel, but didn’t flinch. He absorbed the hit and kept coming instead. You backed toward the bedroom, trying to force him into narrower quarters. He didn’t lunge—he stalked. Like he knew you’d try to run. Like he wanted it. So you ran, fast. Sharp turn around the couch, vaulted over the low table, landed hard on your feet—and darted toward the kitchen. He followed you. No wasted movement. No noise. Just intent.

You glanced back—he was right behind you... You reached for the hallway, but your foot caught on the corner of a fallen chair—just slightly. Your balance slipped, you crashed forward into the edge of the counter, catching yourself on your palms with a hiss of breath, he was there, his hand grabbed the back of your collar and jerked.

Your body flew backward into him. His arm wrapped tight around your waist, the other around your chest. He lifted you slightly off the ground, turned, and slammed you forward. Your cheek hit the marble counter. Cool. Hard. Jarring. You exhaled sharply—but froze. His body pressed against yours, locking you in place. His chest against your back. His hips flush with your ass.

And that’s when it hit you. The heat. The mass. The unmistakable outline of his body—firm, thick, too close. His hand at the back of your neck. The other on your hip, holding you still like prey caught in a snare, but his hold wasn’t frantic. It was measured. Controlled, professional.

A tight smirk curled your lips even with your face pinned to the stone.

“Took them long enough to send you,”your voice was low, breathy, and laced with a taunt. “I was starting to miss you, Matorin.” You could almost feel his reaction—not in words, but in tension. A subtle pause. His grip shifting slightly, thumb dragging slow over your pulse. His breath flared through the mask. A tremor of restraint. Your hips shifted. So did his. A big mistake and a moment too long.

You twisted suddenly, breaking the hold—rammed your elbow back into his ribs, and when he flinched, you spun, aiming a sharp uppercut to his jaw. Your fist connected, his head snapped to the side. This time you didn’t hesitate. Another kick—he dodged. You grabbed the edge of the cabinet and launched yourself sideways, shoulder-first—slammed into him, forced him back The helmet fell to the ground, he caught you, arms like steel. He spun you again—this time pinning you flush against his chest, your back to him, your feet barely on the ground. His forearm locked across your chest. His other arm bent—bicep curling tight under your jaw, forcing your head back against his shoulder. You could feel the muscle flexing against your throat, hard and warm. His chest pressed to your back, every breath sinking into your spine. You struggled, and that made it worse. Your ass pressed directly into his pelvis. His hold tightened reflexively.

The angle of it—his strength, your trapped breath, the heat from his body—it all coiled into something far more dangerous than a fight. You wriggled again, trying to break his grip. Your ribs scraped his forearm. Your breasts pressed against the other arm holding your waist in place. His hand slid just slightly, unintentionally grazing the bottom of your chest. You hissed through clenched teeth, furious at your own body's reaction.

He said nothing, but you felt it, and he clearly noticed it. You used the next second of hesitation. Threw your head back—caught him in the cheek, he grunted—barely—but you were already dropping low, slipping out of his grip and spinning to sweep his legs. He fell. Heavy. Controlled—but you had the advantage now. You lunged, straddling him before he could rise. Your thighs locked over his torso, knees pressed into his arms to try and pin him down. You grabbed a fistful of his shirt and shoved your forearm under his throat, his eyes locked onto yours. Ice and fire, breathing hard. You weren’t much better tho. Your hips ground slightly on instinct—just enough to feel the solid pressure between your legs. You cursed inwardly and tried to shift your weight forward, but he used that moment to buck his hips up—your balance shook— His hands gripped your hips.

Tighter this time.

Matorin’s eyes locked with yours, a blue steel gaze that didn’t waver. Deliberate. You tried to ignore how good it felt.You leaned back, drawing your fist — but he moved first. One of his hands slid down from your hip, catching your thigh.

And then...

You barely had time to curse before he flipped you.

You hit the floor with a grunt, back pressed flat, legs caught around his hips again as he pinned you, his knees braced wide. His palm came up, cupping your jaw, your throat, firm enough to make you hold still. His other hand gripped under your thigh, too high to be accidental.

“Still think you can win?” His voice was low, almost amused.

You arched against him, trying to throw him off.But every twist made you more aware of him. His hips between yours. The way your bodies aligned. The friction. The heat. Your breath stuttered an involuntary noise slipped past your lips. A soft gasp. His grip on your thigh tightened. You hated that you felt it, that he noticed. And then he moved. Lifted you. Again. But this time—his hands slid under your ass, gripping hard as he stood with you half-wrapped around him. Your thighs locked on instinct. Your hands hit his chest, trying to push away. But your core—your pelvis—rubbed against him as he turned, walking you into the nearest wall. You hit it with a dull thud, back arching from the force. His body slammed flush into yours.

“You really think I wouldn’t come for you eventually?” His voice was a rasp now, close to your ear. “You think they’d send someone else? You think I’d let them?” His hand moved—from your thigh to your ass again, holding you up with one strong arm while the other came to your throat, thumb brushing the line of your jaw.

You shuddered“You took your time,” you murmured, breathless, voice edged with defiance. “I was starting to miss you too" That earned you a smirk. A cruel one. But there was something else behind it. You rocked your hips again, desperate to break free. But the friction made you both freeze. His jaw clenched. You could feel him. Hard. Your own body betrayed you with a soft, choked sound — a breathy moan you hadn’t meant to let slip. His eyes dropped to your mouth. But he didn’t kiss you, he shifted you like nothing.

You barely had time to process how his body felt behind you. You were breathless against the wall. His chest pressed into your back, one hand at your throat, choking, his thumb brushed up, slow, deliberate, resting right over your pulse. It was racing. And he knew it. His body was flush against yours, that delicious pressure, the unmistakable hardness at your lower back—all of it threatened to shatter whatever restraint was left between you.

“Still want to fight?” he murmured again, quieter this time.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. You hated how your body arched into his, how you pushed back just enough for him to feel it again—your hips aligning, friction building. He growled low in his throat. Then he dipped his head to your neck. It wasn’t a kiss. It was an attack—hungry, hot, open-mouthed. His lips brushed your skin before his teeth dragged along it, just enough to make your knees buckle.

You gasped, your hands reached back, gripping his forearm, trying to keep yourself upright. Instead, you pulled him closer, fingers digging into muscle, asking for more. His mouth moved up, trailing fire along the column of your throat. You turned your head just enough to give him space, and he took it. His lips found your jaw, kissing harder now. Slow, rough, possessive. You moaned. A sound he drank in like a command. When he finally reached your mouth, it wasn’t tentative.It was deep. Fierce.

A kiss born of withheld violence, of tension too long ignored. Tongues sliding, breaths stolen, your bodies locked so tightly you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. Your hand shot up behind his neck, fingers tangling in his short hair, tugging him deeper. He groaned—then shifted.

Still kissing you, still holding your throat with one hand and your waist with the other, he lifted you. You barely had time to gasp before your legs wrapped around his hips on instinct. He turned from the wall, walking with precision through the apartment like he knew the place—like he belonged there. You broke the kiss just long enough to catch your breath. His mouth didn’t stray far—he kissed your jaw again, your cheek, your temple, his breathing just as uneven. Then he lowered you. Onto the bed. Your back hit the mattress with a bounce, hair fanned over the pillow, lips parted, chest rising with each heavy inhale. He stood over you for a second—just one.

You could see his face. The cut of his jaw. The shadows beneath his cheekbones. His lips—wet from your kiss, parted with hunger. Eyes locked to yours, Matorin tugged off his gloves, tossing them aside. Then he climbed over you. Knees planting to either side of your thighs. Hands pressing to the mattress, caging you in. He dipped again. His mouth returned to your neck, but slower this time... Less violent but deliberate.

He kissed the hollow of your throat. The line of your collarbone. The top of your chest. And all the while, his hands moved. One gripped your thigh, sliding under it, spreading your legs wider around him. The other trailed up your ribs, brushing the edge of your shirt. Testing your reaction. You writhed beneath him—because of his weight, because of the heat, because of what it was doing to you.

“You’ve been thinking about this, haven't you" he murmured against your skin. His voice was low and rough against your skin, and it lit something inside you that burned brighter than the need to fight back.

You didn’t answer. You just kissed him again—harder this time, your hands clawing up the fabric of his black sweater, needing more skin. Needing all of him. He groaned when you tugged it up, exposing the carved lines of his abs, the broad chest, the muscle-packed arms that until now had only threatened violence. Now, they promised something else.You yanked the sweater over his head, breath catching as your eyes devoured him. He was all harsh angles and tension, with old scars tracing paths over hard muscle—lethal and beautiful, both.

“This fucking sweater…” you murmured, half breathless, fingers dragging over his ribs. “Always made your arms look too good.”

He smirked—barely—but didn’t have time to answer. Because you lunged forward, catching him off guard, attacking his neck the same way he had done to yours moments ago. You kissed beneath his jaw, licked over his pulse, bit into his shoulder just enough to make him grunt. Your teeth grazed his collarbone. Your lips followed, dragging over the tight muscle of his shoulder, across his throat. The taste of sweat and heat and adrenaline filled your mouth. His breath stuttered. His hands were already at your waist, gripping your shirt, tugging it up. You arched to help him—barely pausing before lifting your arms and letting him pull it off. You weren’t wearing a bra, and the moment his eyes landed on you, something in him broke.

He didn’t speak, he just lowered his head, slowly, deliberately, and took your breast into his mouth. You gasped—sharp and immediate—one hand flying to the back of his neck as his tongue circled your nipple, teeth grazing softly, lips sucking hard enough to make your back bow off the bed.

“Fuck—Matorin—”

He switched to the other, his hand cupping the one he’d just abandoned, squeezing gently as his mouth worked its way over the soft, sensitive skin. You were aching now. Pulse pounding between your thighs. You could feel him against you—hard, heavy, pressing through his pants against the heat between your legs. Still clothed. But not for long. His mouth left your chest, trailing down the line of your ribs, across your stomach. One hand slid up your thigh, fingers pushing under the hem of your skirt. The moment his palm found bare skin, he groaned like it hurt.

“You’re killing me,” he rasped, biting softly at your hipbone,

“Wearing this fucking skirt... you’re the one who came to kill me, remember?”

you smirked, but the sound caught as his fingers slipped higher, his hand found your center. Warm. Wet. Waiting. You gasped as he cupped you, fingers pressing over the thin barrier of your panties. He didn’t rush. He took his time—just like you wanted. Two fingers began rubbing slowly, spreading the heat, teasing your clit through the damp fabric. Not fast. Not enough. Just… maddening. You writhed under him, hips lifting, searching for more.

“Mmm...” he murmured, lips brushing your belly as he moved, “You’re soaked.” His voice was pure gravel now—rough with need, with control he was barely holding on to.

His other hand reached beneath your thigh, gripping the underside, pulling your leg up and open, spreading you wider. You moaned. The pressure of his palm grew. He rubbed harder now, more focused. More intent. Your back arched. Your lips parted with soft, uncontrolled whimpers.

“Matorin—” you moaned.

He growled again and kissed you—messy, deep, swallowing the sounds you made as he continued to stroke you. His palm pressed tight. His fingers slid lower, tracing the edge of your panties. Still not inside. Just... driving you insane. You ground against his hand, your hips chasing him now. He let you. He kissed down your neck again, voice thick:

“Tell me you want more.” His fingers hovered just there — so close your whole body tensed in anticipation. Your hips pressed up involuntarily, searching for contact, but he still wouldn’t give it to you. The heat of his palm, his parted lips on your neck… everything demanded an answer. Your breath trembled against his ear as your fingers dug into the back of his neck.

“I want all of you,” you whispered, barely a breath, “So stop teasing.”... That was all he needed. Matorin straightened over you, and with a speed that bordered on desperate, he stripped off what remained of his clothes. His belt hit the floor with a sharp thud, followed by the sound of a zipper and the rustle of fabric as he freed himself from the rest. When he returned to you, his body was bare. You were still beneath him, skirt pushed up, your soaked underwear on the verge of tearing with just one more move. He didn’t have to take them off — you slid them down yourself, fast, messy, your eyes fixed on what he now held in one hand. And then you felt it. The first contact — the head of his cock barely brushing your entrance. Just that. He didn’t push in. He didn’t enter.

He only slid against you, slowly, with a soft, torturous rhythm that made you moan with your mouth open. His thickness rubbed right where you needed it, every inch of him slick from you, sliding between your swollen lips.

Matorin growled against your neck, one hand gripping your thigh to keep you open, the other beneath your back, lifting you to meet him.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his voice completely wrecked. “I haven’t even fucked you yet…” The heat of his body surrounded you. The thickness of his cock pressed right at your entrance, just the tip teasing your center, making your muscles tighten instinctively, as if they wanted to pull him in.

“Fuck…” he gasped when he felt your body react,

“You're going to ruin me.” He pushed in just a little — just enough for your body to feel him, for the burn of the stretch to begin — and then he pulled back.

He kept rubbing against you, more insistently now. His base bumped gently against your clit with each slow thrust of his hips, and you moaned, trembling, breathless. Your legs locked around his waist on instinct, squeezing him, like you could force him to give you more.

“Please…” you whispered, “Don’t make me beg.”

Matorin barely smiled, teeth grazing your jaw.He didn’t say a word. His hips pulled back… and this time, they didn’t stop. The slow, deliberate thrust pushed him inside you, inch by inch — and you swore you could feel every line, every ridge of him as your body stretched around him. The sudden fullness made your mouth fall open in a silent gasp, your head tilting back against the pillows. He groaned low in his throat, his face buried at your neck.

“Fuck… you’re tight.”

Your hands clutched at his back, nails dragging down his spine as your legs instinctively wrapped tighter around him, pulling him in even deeper. The burn of it blurred quickly into something hotter, something deeper, and you couldn’t help the trembling moan that broke from your lips.

“Matorin…” Just his name — whispered like a prayer, like a curse.

He pulled back just enough to feel your body clutch at him, and then pushed forward again, harder this time. The rhythm he built was slow at first, deep, each thrust grinding his hips against yours in a way that made your thighs shake. The bed creaked beneath you. Your hands roamed blindly over his back, his arms, down to his hips — desperate for something to hold as he fucked you with steady, unrelenting control. Each thrust hit deeper than the last, dragging the breath from your lungs. He kissed your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, open-mouthed and hot, as if memorizing every piece of you with his mouth.

“You feel so good…” he muttered, voice raw and close to a growl,

“Fuck, I could stay inside you forever.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him to you, kissing him hard, messy, breathless — until your moans melted together. Then he shifted. Just a slight change in angle — and you gasped when he hit that spot. That one perfect spot. Your hands clutched at his shoulders, your back arched. You cried out.

“Right there—don’t stop—”

And he didn’t. He cursed against your skin and pressed you down into the mattress, fucking you harder now, rougher, each thrust slamming into you with a rhythm that stole your thoughts and replaced them with pure heat.

The sound of skin against skin filled the room — wet, desperate, beautiful. You were close. Too close. Your hips rolled up to meet every thrust, your body begging, pleading, for that release. His hands gripped your waist, guiding your movements, grounding you to him.

“Come for me,” he whispered in your ear, breath ragged. “Let me feel it.”

And when you did — when the pleasure exploded behind your eyes and your whole body clenched around him — he followed with a low, broken sound, burying himself deep inside you as he came with a sharp thrust and a groan torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He held you like that, still trembling against him, your bodies pressed tight together, sweat-slicked and shaking, breathless and dazed.

Then he pulled you closer, fingers trailing slowly up your spine like a man memorizing something he was never meant to keep. You didn’t stop him. Not this time.

Your fingers moved lazily across his skin—along the curve of his shoulder, tracing the muscle, the line of his collarbone, then lower, across his chest. You mapped him in slow motion, like you were trying to make the moment last longer than it should. Your pelvis was still pressed flush against his, legs tangled with his like neither of you could accept the idea of distance yet.

His hand skimmed up your thigh again, then down to the dip of your waist, settling there possessively. His other palm moved to cup the back of your neck, his thumb stroking the soft spot just behind your ear. You kissed the hollow of his throat.

“They sent you because they thought you’d be the one to do it, didn’t they?" You said...

He didn’t answer immediately. You felt his body still under your touch. You didn’t wait.

“They thought you’d kill me.” your voice was quieter now, breath ghosting against his skin. “They were probably right.”

His jaw flexed under your hand. Your fingers traced it anyway—softly. Then higher, across his cheekbone, into his hair.

"I didn’t run because I was scared of dying. You know?". A beat of silence. His thumb had stopped moving. “I ran because I didn’t want to be used anymore. Because I knew what they were turning me into.” You looked deeply at him. "Being a woman in their eyes means much more than being a man, not in a good way so I decided to be free… even if it meant becoming a target.”

That’s when he spoke “I told them I’d handle it.” his voice was rough, quiet, like it scratched at something too deep. “I didn’t tell them how.”

You looked at him. His gaze was already on you—intense, unreadable, but there was something else there now. Something fragile.

“You knew.” you said almost smiling.

“I suspected,” he admitted. “But I told myself it didn’t matter. That if I ever found you again…” He trailed off, eyes flickering down to your mouth. “I’d do what I was trained to do.”

You smirked, brushing your nose against his. “Mm. Pretty sure this isn’t in the manual

“No,” he said, a faint breath of something like a laugh against your lips.

“But I thought about it. More times than I should’ve.”

That made your breath catch.

“You imagined this?”

“I didn’t want to,” he said honestly. “But you… were never easy to forget.”

Your hand slid into his hair. He leaned into the touch.

“I thought about it too,” you whispered. “About what it’d feel like to have you like this.” You pressed your forehead to his, your pelvis curling instinctively into his hips, not out of lust—though it was still there—but need. Connection.

He groaned, low in his throat, and his hand moved down to cup your ass, pulling you tighter to him. His touch was firm but reverent, like he wasn’t sure whether to devour you again or just hold you there until the world stopped spinning.

“I’m still a target tho” you said softly.

“Not to me,” he murmured. He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, lips lingering. “Not anymore.”

You smiled against his skin and whispered “So what now, Matorin? We run? You betray your orders and we disappear like ghosts?”

“If that’s what it takes.” He looked at you, deadly serious.

“I’d rather disappear with you… than live in a world where I have to pretend I don’t want this.” You closed your eyes. And kissed him again—slow, aching, full of all the confessions that didn’t need words anymore.

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Doneeeee!!!