#noriwroteit

In the camera lights, his golden hair glows like a halo, but the bags under his eyes betray a sadness that makes the back of your throat tingle. No wife to anchor him, just a child who barely sees him. That sorrow calls to you. He is perfect prey for something like you.

You glide through the crowd, a shadow among the living, charming your way into his company. The long years of your life have sculpted you into a mistress of deception, and the role of a mysterious, alluring woman is one you wear effortlessly.

Each of your honeyed words drips like poison, infecting Art’s thoughts, dulling his reason. But it is not merely his desire for you that renders him vulnerable; it is the abyss of his emptiness, the lack of love and connection inside him.

He inquires about your level of interest in tennis.

You respond that you are a blank canvas for him to paint upon, a lump of clay for his hands to mold. If he is willing, you would be grateful for his guidance and instruction.

As the night wears on, you veil yourself in a false mantle of compassion, offering generous sums of money to the promising young athletes. Humans, with auras as haunted as Art's, crave compassion, yearning for it to be poured out upon them.

He watches you, and you watch his smile grow, the corners of his lips curling upward in an unnatural, mechanical way. It gives you pause. He is a walking corpse, just as you were before receiving this gift.

And that makes this all the more satisfying.

You may not play tennis, but you do enjoy playing with your food.

As you press yourself against him, cold, wet flesh tightening around his empty warmth, Art whispers, "Oh God."

Your voice oozes with a sultry purr, correcting him with a sharpness that sends shivers down his spine. "No, not God," you sneer, your hips swaying with each move as you ride him like a puppet on strings.

Your fingers wrap around his neck, tightening like a vise as you take from him both physically and spiritually, draining him of all control and power.

The look in his eyes is a mix of desire and resignation, as if he believes you will drain him completely.

A wicked grin spreads across your face as you taunt in his ear, reveling in the intoxicating, raw power that courses through your veins. "I am of her shadow," you declare, claiming your place as a creature mirroring the twisted and destructive forces that wove your existence. "I bask in the shade of her love."

He pants like a wild animal, his once-blue eyes now rolled back to white as he succumbs to your relentless pace. And as you fuck him mercilessly, you bend down to his lips, slipping past them to sink your teeth into his tongue and drink deeply from his life force.

As he weakens and fades beneath you, you only grow stronger and more vibrant. And as you claim him fully with a kiss that tastes like death, it is in this moment that you are truly alive. For in this union of pleasure and pain, dominance and submission, you have transcended into a being akin to humanity.

You blinked, caught off guard. “I’m not—”

“You don’t get it, do you?” he cut in, his voice sharp as a knife. “Jumping into Art’s arms like a goddamn bitch in heat. Do you have any idea how that looked?”

His words sliced through the glow of your win. “Rafe, I was excited. You know how hard coach and I have worked for this. It wasn’t about—”

“Not about me?” he interrupted, his tone bitter. “It’s never about me, is it? Not with Art breathing down my neck, not with Tashi looking at me like I’m some charity case, and definitely not with you parading around like any-fucking-body can just touch you.”

His voice dripped with bitterness, leaving you momentarily speechless. "That's not fair," you responded, your tone softer now. "We’ve all been by your side this whole time—especially me." It was true; you were a media darling, and Tashi had strategically sacrificed some of that adoration to clean up after Rafe and his wild, drug-induced behavior on multiple occasions.

“Have you?” he challenged, stepping closer until the space between you felt suffocating. “Because it sure as hell didn’t feel that way when you ran past me to hug Art after your win—like I was nothing. Just another loser in your storybook ending.”

“Rafe, stop,” you said firmly, though your voice wavered. “You’re twisting a simple hug into something it’s not.”

He didn’t stop. Instead, he closed the distance, his eyes locking onto yours with an ferocity that made your pulse quicken. “You don’t get it, do you?” he murmured, his voice dropping to something darker, quieter.

Before you could react, he moved. His hands gripped your waist, and in one swift motion, he pushed you onto the bed.

The world tilted as your back hit the mattress, the bounce jarring you. You barely had time to catch your breath before he loomed over you, his jaw clenched, his stormy eyes drilling into yours.

“You really didn’t think, did you?” he was simmering with anger.

“Rafe—” you started, but he cut you off, his hand pressing into the bed beside you, caging you in.

“Don’t,” he snapped, his face so close you could feel the heat of his breath. “Don’t say my name like that. Like you didn’t spend the whole night pretending I don’t exist.”

“That’s not what I was doing,” you said quickly, your chest tightening. “I see you, Rafe. More than you realize.”

“Then why the fuck do you make me feel like this?” he demanded, his voice raw and breaking.

He pulled back slightly, his hand brushing over your waist as if searching for control. “You let Art touch you,” he muttered, his voice trembling with restrained fury. “You let him claim you in front of everyone.”

Your stomach soured. “Art is my coach, Rafe. He’s like a father to me.”

“I don’t care,” he snapped, his voice cracking. “He looks at you like you belong to him. And you let him.”

You stared up at him, trying to keep irritation from bleeding into your tone. “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” he shot back, his eyes blazing. “Because I want to kill him for touching what’s mine.”

The intensity of his words sent a shiver down your spine. You weren’t naive, nor were you the ‘good girl’ Art Donaldson thought you were. You’d been recruited onto his team by Tashi, who saw you for who you really were—her protégé. You, your little skirt and your overwhelming talent, were as much there to breathe life into Art Donaldson’s ego as you were for Tashi to watch you play some damn good tennis.

What’s more, you knew how Art felt about you.

Rafe wasn’t crazy—at least not about this. But you couldn’t let him have control. You couldn’t let Tashi, the reason you’d even picked up this sport in the first place, and her preaching about men being tools to wield, down. So, as much as Rafe’s emotions and obsession weighed on you, a strange joy stirred inside you from knowing you held the power to provoke his protective nature.

“Let me make it up to you,” you said softly, your voice smooth and placating. You were frustrated that he hadn’t brought home a trophy today, but with a little encouragement, he might still find his way. He might not land a career Grand Slam, but Tashi had once told you that, in the long run, if he were your husband, it was better for him to be a champion than not. “Let me make you feel good. I’m yours, Rafe. No one else can claim that.”

He froze, his gaze mellowing just slightly before the anger surged again. “Prove it,” he murmured, stepping back to gather the things he was going to use to torment you.

Terror and arousal coiled together in your stomach as you waited, your pulse thundering in your ears.

"Close your eyes," he commanded, and you snapped them shut, hearing him approach.

With expert hands, Rafe pulled you by the legs towards the edge of the bed and hiked up your cocktail dress. His fingers, adorned with his signature rings, trailed along your inner thigh, sending shivers down your spine as goosebumps rose on your heated skin. He parted your legs and settled between them, his broad shoulders forcing them open even wider.

His fingers brushed over your lace panties, the delicate material already damp with your arousal. He traced the lacy edge, teasing, before hooking a finger under and pulling the flimsy barrier aside. Cool air kissed your exposed flesh and you whimpered, squirming against the rumpled sheets.

"Stay still," Rafe commanded.

You froze, breath catching as he explored your body, gliding through the evidence of your desire. Slowly and torturously, he circled your entrance with a thick digit, teasing and drawing out the aching need within you before finally pushing deep inside. His mouth descended on you, tongue swirling around your sensitive bud as he sucked it between his lips.

Your back arched off the bed as he hummed low in his throat, sending vibrations rippling through you.

A second finger joined the first, stretching you deliciously as his tongue continued to flick relentlessly over your clit, grazing it lightly with his teeth before circling it with the tip of his tongue in electrifying patterns that had you gasping and writhing.

"Rafe," you moaned, hips bucking against his face. In response, his other hand gripped your thigh, holding you still, open and exposed to his hungry mouth.

He worked you mercilessly, fingers pumping, twisting in just the right way to make your thighs quake. His tongue swirled and flicked, alternating between feather-light brushes and firm, focused pressure that had you seeing stars.

The pressure built tighter and tighter in your stomach.

"Oh God, Rafe," you whimpered, hands fisting the bedspread. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth working you over filled the room.

He released your clitoris with a lewd pop. "That's it, baby. Let me hear you, I want the whole fucking hotel to know who's making you feel this good."

You were startled by the sudden sound of a condom being ripped open, and your heart thumped even faster with anticipation. Then, you felt something hard and sleek against your entrance. Bewildered, you opened your eyes and reached out to grab the object—your beloved tennis racket handle covered in a condom.

“Didn’t I explicitly instruct you to stay still?" He pushed your hand away with a swat. "You thought you could manipulate me with your sweet words and I would give in, didn't you?” He spat on your entrance for extra lubrication, shaking his head at you. "You're going to take this."

After a moment, you nodded your consent, but the sensations were unlike anything you had ever experienced before.

Rafe took his time, gently working the makeshift dildo in and out. He started slowly, letting you adjust to the unique shape and size, before gradually increasing his speed.

Your body quivered with delight as he angled the handle to stimulate your most sensitive areas. The condom covering the racket provided a smooth glide, allowing Rafe to thrust powerfully while still being careful. His other hand roamed your curves, leaving trails of tingling heat behind each touch

The stretch and fullness was divine. Soft moans escaped your lips with each plunge of the handle. Rafe groaned appreciatively at the erotic sight of the improvised toy disappearing into your depths again and again.

Rafe worked the racket handle further and faster, the ribbed grip plunging in and out of your dripping center, the friction bordering on overwhelming. You gasped and arched your back at the intense stimulation, hands gripping the bedsheets.

"That's it, take it all," he laughed. "Art could never fuck you like this, could he? I bet he fantasizes about pounding your tight little pussy with his wrinkled cock."

You could only moan in response, the vulgar words sending a twisted thrill through you as he violated you with the very tool of your trade. It felt so wrong but so incredibly good at the same time.

He chuckled darkly. "Old man probably can't even get it up anymore."

You shook your head, lost in the forcefulness of the sensations consuming your body. Art was the furthest thing from your mind right now.

"And what about Tashi, huh? You let her touch you like this? She’d love to shove her fingers in your greedy hole, make you her little bitch."

"N-no, only you Rafe," you choked out between moans, the crude language still heightening your arousal.

"Damn right. This pussy belongs to me." To punctuate his point, he bullied the handle in hard, burying it to the hilt.

Filthy wet sounds filled the room as Rafe set a ruthless pace, fucking your tender flesh with brutal thrusts. Your inner walls fluttered and clenched around the hard shaft, drawing it impossibly deeper.

"Shit, look at you, I bet you wish the cameras were here now. Let everyone see the women's champion getting off on her own racket like a desperate whore."

His thumb found your clit, rubbing unforgiving circles as the handle slammed into you.

"Art and Tashi can praise you all they want," he said lowly, possessively. "But never forget that I'm the only one who can wreck you like this."

With a few more well-timed prods, your body was overcome with ecstasy. Tears streamed down your face as you called out Rafe's name, your eyes rolling back in pleasure. He continued to work the tennis racket in and out of you, prolonging your orgasm for his own amusement.

As the aftershocks subsided, you collapsed. Rafe delicately discarded the handle and repositioned you so your head dangled over the edge. The sound of his pants unzipping echoed through the room as he freed himself.

He stroked, once, twice, then tapped his erection on your tear-streaked cheek to get your attention.

You struggled to focus on his expression— that maddening smirk.

“I’m not the one making things complicated,” you say, voice calm, controlled. As the wind stirs your hair, you take a slow, deliberate sip from your glass, your face a mask of indifference. You've heard it all before— the same accusations, the same frustrations. And yet, as soon as the tour picks back up, he'll be gone, proving that he never cared enough to change anything.

“Patrick.” His name is an admonishment as you turn to face him finally, one eyebrow arched, the air of nonchalance you’ve perfected hanging around you like a cloak. Patrick stares back at you like you’re a puzzle he can’t solve, frustration painted on his features.

He remains determined as he moves closer, his hand reaching up to cradle your face and slipping into your hair. “You always shut down. It’s like I’m talking to a wall. I’m here, trying to make sense of this, and you—” He falters for a second, before he steels himself again, voice tight. “You just float through it like none of it matters.”

“You know what you’re here for, what you’re good for, Pat.” It’s a cruel statement, but it is just one of the many hurtful things that have been exchanged between the two. He stares at you as if he can't believe the words coming out of your mouth before his hand in your hair tightens its grip.

You watch as realization dawns on Patrick's face, his features twisting in anguish. "How can you say that?" he spits, his grip on your hair tightening. You feel a sharp pain shoot through your scalp but you refuse to flinch. He can be rough, but you don't mind it, and deep down you know he would never truly harm you physically. He knows that the best way to hurt you is by withholding his affection and attention.

"You know it's true," you respond coolly, meeting his gaze head on. "You come back to me whenever things get tough and then leave when it's convenient for you. It's always been about what I can do for you, never about how I feel."

Patrick's eyes flicker with guilt and something darker. "That's not fair," he says, his voice strained.

You shrug, feeling a numbness settle over you. "Life isn't fair." It's a phrase that has become all too familiar to you over the years.

He knows you're right. He can't outwit you, so he does what he's good at and kisses you roughly, anger evident in the harsh press of his lips against yours. You let him, knowing that this is just another part of the twisted dance you two do. His other hand grips your waist tightly, fingertips digging in like he's trying to leave a mark, to prove that he was here.

When he pulls back, breathing heavily, his eyes are stormy with a mix of lust and resentment. "You think you have me all figured out," he says, voice low and dangerous. "But you don't know anything."

A humorless laugh escapes your lips. "I know enough. I know that by this time next week you'll be gone, off to the next city, the next bed, the next distraction."

Art's eyes, those mesmerizing pools of blue and brown, search your face, seeking a glimmer of the person he once knew. But you avert your gaze, unable to bear the reflection of your broken self in his loving stare.

You limp away from the court, each step a painful reminder of what you've lost. The mangled tennis racket dangles limply from your hand, a useless appendage, a cruel mockery of your former glory. Art follows, his footsteps echoing behind you like a persistent heartbeat, a rhythm you can't seem to escape.

"Please, talk to me," he begs, and it sounds like weeping, his voice laced with desperation. "Let me help you."

But how can he help when he doesn't understand? How can he fathom the depths of your despair when he stands on the precipice of his own success?

You whirl around, your eyes blazing with a fire born of anguish and frustration. "I don't need your pity, Art! You can't fix me!"

The words tear from your throat, raw and bleeding, like shards of glass embedded in your vocal cords. Art flinches, his face contorting with the pain of your rejection. But still, he persists, reaching out to you with an open heart and unwavering devotion.

"I'm not trying to fix you," he says softly, his voice a soothing balm against the ragged edges of your soul. "I just want to be here for you, to love you through this."

But love, you realize, is a double-edged sword. It has the power to heal, but also the capacity to destroy. And right now, with your dreams lying shattered at your feet, you can't bear the thought of dragging Art down into the abyss with you.

You turn away from Art, your shoulders sagging under the weight of your anguish. The sun beats down on your back, its warmth a cruel mockery of the ice that has settled in your veins. You want to run, to hide, to disappear into the shadows and never emerge. But your knee, that traitorous joint, holds you captive, anchoring you to this moment, to this pain.

"I can't do this," you whisper, your voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart. "I can't be the person you need me to be. Not like this."

Art's hand settles on your shoulder, his touch feather-light yet impossibly heavy. "You are exactly the person I need you to be. Broken, whole, it doesn't matter. I love you."

The words hang in the air between you, a lifeline and a condemnation all at once. You want to believe him, to lose yourself in the comfort of his embrace and let his love wash away the stains of your failure. But the voice in your head, that insidious whisper, won't be silenced.

"You say that now," you murmur, your gaze fixed on the horizon, on the future that seems to slip further away with each passing moment. "But what happens when you realize I'm not worth it? When you see that I'm just a shadow of who I used to be?"

Art's fingers tighten on your shoulder, a gentle pressure that draws your attention back to him. His eyes, those captivating pools of blue and brown, bore into yours with an intensity that steals your breath.

"If you are a shadow, then me be swallowed whole by the darkness.” He says, his voice low and fervent. "You mean everything to me - your strength, your passion, your fire - they still exist inside you, even if you cannot see them at this moment. And I will spend every day reminding you of that until you believe it too."

Tears blur your vision, hot and stinging, as the walls around your heart begin to crumble. You want to believe him, to trust in the unwavering faith that shines in his eyes. But the road ahead seems so long, so daunting, and you're not sure you have the strength to walk it.

"I'm scared," you admit, the words tearing from your throat like shards of glass. "I'm scared of failing, of never being the same again. I'm scared of losing you."

Art's arms encircle you, drawing you into the shelter of his embrace. His heartbeat thrums against your cheek, a steady rhythm that anchors you to the present.

"You could never lose me," he whispers, his breath warm against your ear. "I will be here, by your side, every step of the way. We'll face this together, one day at a time. And even if you never set foot on a court again, you will always be a champion in my heart."

Tears well up in your eyes as you hold onto him tightly, as if he might vanish from your embrace. "You're too good to me, Art. I love you."

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

As you stand by the clay courts of Stanford, memories flood back to you. Memories of a time when your name was synonymous with tennis greatness, when you were the future of the sport. But now, even as a New York Times best-selling author and respected ESPN commentator, you felt like a mere spectator in the world you once ruled.

Your attention is immediately drawn to the court on the far left. It was where you and Art spent countless hours, with his arms wrapped around you as the two of you worked through your injury and anger. Even though you had already mastered the basics, you allowed him to guide your hands and correct your form. Your motivation for these lessons went beyond just regaining your abilities; it was also a way to ease Art's worries and show him your love.

In the beginning, you had hoped those lessons would heal you, but after a while, all you longed for was to stand across from Art on the other side of the net and volley with him at full strength once again - not for glory, but for the joy it brought both of you.

"God," a voice calls out, as if that were your name. You turn, already knowing it is your husband who has followed you here. He rarely lets you out of his sight, afraid that you will slip back into your defenses after all the time he spent using love as a Trojan horse to get into your heart. "You shone so brightly on that court."

You wince, realizing that he has spoken your inner thoughts. Art senses your unease and foresees your attempt to escape. Before you can flee, his hand grasps your shoulder, halting your retreat with a firm grip.

You plaster on a smile, your feigned cheer clearly confusing him. He hadn't wanted to come to this event in the first place and seeing how these ghosts still terrorize you, Art is upset.

You allow his touch to anchor you in place. He utters your name like a familiar prayer, drawing you back to the present. You've long accepted that he will always worship at your altar. But the raw sincerity shining in his eyes in this moment feels too genuine, too exposing.

"Are we leaving?" He inquires softly, and his ring on your finger feels like a symbol for safe passage over the river Styx.

"I just wanted to stay for our speeches," you say as he brushes hair away from your face with tenderness. Even in your most tempestuous moments, he shows compassion.

"Baby—"

"I'm sorry for—"

You both start at the same time, but you wave him on benevolently.

"Come back to me," he pleads obediently, "don't go somewhere I can't follow."

His words ignite a fire inside you. No matter what storms may come, he seeks shelter within you and continues to fan your flames. Art's devotion is almost worshipful, comparable to Orpheus' dedication to Eurydice. You can't help but reminisce about moments spent together - showering, Art supporting your injured knee, or him feeding you when your sadness weighed down your hand and you couldn't eat on your own.

He always made sure to remind you that his success was also due to your support. The fruits of his labor - his career - were meant for both of your enjoyment. Without you, he could not thrive.

"I'm here. I'm with you." You say after a moment. Reaching up, you cradle Art's face between your palms, your thumbs gently caressing the smooth planes of his cheeks. His skin is warm beneath your touch, a tangible reminder of the life and love that flows between you. As you trace the contours of his jawline, you marvel at the strength and tenderness that coexist within him, a perfect balance that has sustained you through your darkest hours.

Art leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed as he savors the intimacy of the moment. His golden curls, tousled by the gentle breeze, tickle your fingers, eliciting a soft smile from your lips. In this instant, the world around you fades away, and all that exists is the connection between you, a bond forged in the crucible of adversity and tempered by the power of unconditional love.

"I love you," you whisper, the words a sacred oath, a promise to hold onto the emotions that have rescued you time and time again. Gripping Art closer to you, your fingers entwine in his hair as you bring his mouth to yours.

Art's lips dance against yours with a reverence that takes your breath away, each brush of his tongue a silent prayer, a vow to stand by your side through every trial and triumph.

Today, however, you decided to stay in and relax. That's how he found himself on the opposite end of a luxurious Jean Royère couch, his mother would have loved, pointedly avoiding looking at the monster occupying the other end.

"I'm only here to make sure you don't try to escape again," Patrick explains for what feels like the fourth time. “Your dad needs you to lay low and not cause any trouble.”

“So what you just like to watch little girls?” you taunt, trying to get under his skin.

Patrick doesn't respond immediately, clenching his jaw as he weighs whether or not he wants to engage with your insults. "You're not a little girl," he finally says, tearing his eyes away from the TV. He had already seen you naked and both of you were aware of the intentions behind your actions.

You grin and let your gaze roam over him - from his worn-out shoes to his gym shorts, then up to his Black Keys t-shirt and handsome face. You can't help but think about how much better that nose and those lips would be put to use as a seat.

"But I'll always be my daddy's little girl, won't I? Otherwise, you'd be out of a job." He sighs and your smirk widens, almost sinister. "But you are older than me, right? You seem like someone who has been through a messy divorce and has three kids running around. Where’s your ex-wife?"

“Definitely no ex-wife.” He quirks an eyebrow like he’s thinking about the second half of your statement. “And no kids.”

“Girlfriend?” Patrick shakes his head no, “boyfriend?” Again, no. “Well, what do you have?”

“Tennis,” he replies with a shrug.

“Tennis?” You quirk an eyebrow, confused.

“Like the sport? You hit a ball, someone hits it back?” He says exasperated, looking at you as if you’re the dumbest thing in the world but you don’t miss how his eyes flicker down to your cleavage.

“Like the sport.” You mock him, tits bouncing as you move closer to his end of the couch. “Are you any good at it? I had a tennis coach for a few years when I was younger. Maybe that’s why my dad picked you.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and doesn't give away any information, but you're determined.

“Show me.” That perks his interest.

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷

Patrick chuckles at the racket you hand him from the gear shed by your private court. Your eyes flicker down to the limited edition tour and then back up to the brunette. "Not a fan of Art Donaldson?"

"He's alright, I guess," Patrick responds with a shrug, but there’s a cockier air about him now.

"You guess?" you snort, twirling a second signed Art Donaldson racket in your hand, he’d given both to you personally. Your mom knew Tashi Duncan-Donaldson, and she’d shown you some tricks. You weren’t really big on her husband, but fuck Tashi was a Goddess. "He's won six slams. That's more than 'alright'."

Patrick gives you a curious look, as if questioning whether or not you are actually good at tennis or just a fan of his former best friend. In those short shorts you're wearing, he wouldn't be surprised by either possibility.

"Sure," is all Pat says as he smirks, getting ready to serve.

As the game progresses, you find yourself struggling to keep up with Patrick's power and swift movements. It's clear that he takes his tennis seriously, and you can't help but admire the way he effortlessly dominates the court. It makes your mind drift to how he is in bed, and your game suffers for it.

However, once you focus and despite your initial doubts, it turns out that you're not half bad at tennis either. In fact, you surprise yourself with how well you're able to return some of Patrick's shots.

"Not bad for someone who claimed to have just had a coach when they were younger," Patrick goads as he hits an expertly placed shot that has you scrambling to reach it.

You give him a cheeky glare before returning the ball with as much force as you can muster. The two of you continue, each trying to outwit and outplay the other. He’s mostly toying with you, but you’re in high spirits and that makes it fun.

After what feels like hours, both of you are panting and sweating from the intensity of the game. But there's also a sense of exhilaration and excitement that comes from such a competitive match.

Finally, Patrick hits a shot that is just too fast for you to return. He grins triumphantly as he scores the winning point.

"Well done," he says with genuine respect in his voice as he offers his hand for a high-five.

You gladly accept it, feeling proud of yourself for keeping up with someone like Patrick on the court.

"I have to admit, I was impressed," he says as the two of you make your way to the bench on the side. Him, a few steps behind, eyes glued to your ass. This is like Christmas for him.

"Thanks," you reply with a smile, more authentic than any you’ve given him thus far.

"Just don't let it get to your head," Patrick teases playfully, nudging your shoulder with his own.

You laugh and roll your eyes at his cocky attitude. But deep down, you can't deny that there's something about his confidence that is incredibly attractive.

The sweet scent of freshly cut grass from the nearby gardens intermingles with the musty, earthen aroma of the man next to you. Your hand trembles as you grab your water bottle and take a long swig, savoring the cool liquid rushing down your parched throat.

As you tilt your head back down, your eyes meet Patrick's and you see him watching a bead of sweat tracing its way down your neck, disappearing into the valley of your cleavage. A lump forms in your throat as he licks his lips hungrily, his hot breath sending shivers down your spine.

In a split second, he pulls you close and his tongue dances its way into your mouth, overwhelming you with an intense desire that leaves you gasping for air and unable to form a single thought.