#wweuniverse

The hotel room was dimly lit, a soft amber glow spilling from the bedside lamp, casting long shadows against the walls. Outside, the city buzzed — neon lights flickering like fireflies, horns blaring somewhere in the distance — but inside, it was just you and him, the rest of the world falling away in slow, hushed beats.

Jey stood a few feet away, his heavy eyes drinking you in. His broad shoulders rose and fell with deep, deliberate breaths, and when he reached for the hem of his T-shirt, time seemed to slow. The muscles in his arms flexed, tattoos shifting like living art as he pulled the fabric over his head and tossed it aside.

The sight of him — skin warm and golden under the light, tattoos curling over every inch of his chest, arms, ribs — hit you square in the chest. He was devastatingly beautiful in a way that wasn’t polished or perfect; he was raw, like something carved out of fire and bone, meant to be touched, worshiped.

Your feet moved before your mind caught up, carrying you closer, the hem of his shirt (the one you wore) brushing against your bare thighs. You caught the slow, wolfish curve of his mouth before his hands caught your waist, pulling you into him with a surety that left no room for doubt.

“You look good like this,” he murmured, voice low, roughened with something feral. His fingers toyed with the hem of the shirt, teasing the bare skin underneath. “In my shit. My girl.”

The words made your stomach twist, heat flooding you faster than you could catch it. You barely managed a gasp before he was moving, lifting you into his arms with a fluid, practiced strength that made your heart pound. He carried you to the bed and tossed you onto it with a playful growl, the mattress dipping under you, sheets whispering against your skin.

Jey followed you down, crawling over you like a predator, caging you beneath him. His hand planted by your head, the other gripping your hip, his body fitting between your thighs with devastating precision.

“You trust me, baby?” he asked, forehead resting against yours, the air between you heavy and charged.

Your fingers found the nape of his neck, curling into the soft hair there. “Always.”

He kissed you then — a kiss that stole the air from your lungs, that said all the things words couldn’t. His mouth moved over yours with hunger, tongue sliding against yours in a rhythm that was all-consuming, each brush and press deeper, needier. His hand roamed your body, mapping every inch like he had all night to learn it.

When he tugged the shirt over your head and tossed it aside, he pulled back just enough to look at you — all of you. The reverence in his eyes made your breath hitch, your chest tight with emotion.

“Goddamn…” he whispered, voice cracked with awe. His fingers skimmed the soft curve of your waist, the dip of your stomach, the swell of your thighs. “You so damn beautiful, baby.”

Heat bloomed across your chest, your cheeks, but before you could say anything, his mouth was on your skin — kissing a path down your neck, your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. His tongue flicked against your nipple, drawing it into his mouth, sucking slow and deep while his hand kneaded the other.

A broken moan fell from your lips, your back arching off the bed, desperate for more of him.

He moved lower, worshipping every inch of you, leaving a trail of kisses and soft bites across your stomach, your hips, the sensitive crease of your thigh. His breath was hot against your core, and when he finally pressed his mouth there, you nearly sobbed.

He licked a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, groaning against you like you were the sweetest thing he’d ever tasted. His hands gripped your thighs, holding you open, holding you down, while his tongue worked you apart piece by piece — slow, steady, patient.

“That’s it,” he murmured between strokes, voice thick. “Let go for me, baby.”

You came undone under his mouth, your hips bucking, thighs trembling, his name falling from your lips in broken cries. He held you through it, never letting up until you were panting, limp, blinking up at him through dazed, glassy eyes.

Jey climbed back over you, his mouth slick with you, and kissed you deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His body was hard and heavy against yours, and you wrapped your legs around his hips, pulling him closer, needing him inside you like you needed air.

He didn’t tease you. He lined himself up, the thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance, and pushed in slow — so slow you felt every aching, delicious inch of him stretch you, fill you.

You gasped, clinging to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

“Look at me,” he whispered against your lips, voice shaking. “I wanna see you when I make you mine.”

You opened your eyes, locking onto his. The raw emotion there — want, love, possession — punched the air from your lungs.

He moved inside you, slow at first, deep and controlled, every thrust hitting that perfect spot that made your toes curl and your breath catch. His forehead pressed to yours, his nose brushing yours, bodies slick with sweat as he rocked into you like he was trying to brand himself into your soul.

“You feel so good, baby…so fuckin’ good,” he panted, his voice broken, reverent.

Your hands found his face, cradling it, thumbs brushing over his sharp cheekbones, memorizing every line, every shudder, every whispered curse.

The tension coiled between you again, tighter, hotter, until you were trembling, legs locking around his waist.

“Come for me,” he urged, his thrusts growing erratic, desperate. “Come wit’ me, baby.”

You shattered around him, a cry tearing from your throat as your orgasm ripped through you, your body clenching around him, dragging him over the edge with you. He cursed low, thrusting once, twice more before he came, spilling into you with a deep, shuddering groan, his face buried in your neck.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of your breathing, your racing hearts, your bodies tangled together like the world outside didn’t exist.

Jey didn’t pull away. He kissed your jaw, your temple, your shoulder, murmuring soft, sweet nothings against your skin — promises of forever, of always, of home.

When he finally rolled to the side, he kept you anchored against him, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your spine.

“You good, baby?” he asked after a while, voice rough, sleepy.

You smiled against his skin, pressing a kiss over his heart. “Better than good.”

He chuckled, the sound rumbling deep in his chest, and pulled you closer. “Might fuck around and do that again,” he teased, kissing your forehead.

You tilted your head up, meeting his lazy, half-lidded gaze. “Yeah?” you challenged, a slow grin spreading across your face.

He rolled you beneath him again with a growl, the spark reigniting in his eyes, hotter, hungrier.

“Yeah,” he said, voice dark and thick with promise. “Ain’t done wit’ you yet.”