#xftmreadersmut

Matt Murdock’s problem had a rhythm. It was a specific cadence of a heartbeat—one he’d first picked up in a cramped Columbia dorm room, tucked between the scent of Foggy’s cheap cologne and the stale air of law school textbooks.

​Back then, you were a ghost. You were quieter, reserved, sunken so far into yourself that Matt sometimes had to strain to hear the blood moving through your veins. You were just another body in the sea of frantic, ambitious students, always hovering in the corner of the room like a secret. You only seemed to anchor yourself to the earth when Foggy was there to hold the line.

​Matt would find you slumped on Foggy’s bed, the rustle of heavy pages the only sign of your presence. But there was always that subtle shift—the way your heart would skip a beat, then settle into a faster, more insistent thrum the moment Matt stepped through the door. He couldn't see the way you looked away, but he felt the heat of your gaze, a gravitational pull he couldn’t quite categorize.

​It was Foggy who finally broke the seal one night, long after you’d retreated to your own room. The air in the dorm was heavy with the smell of old coffee and high-stakes anxiety.

​“He’s trans,” Foggy muttered into the dark. He didn't sound defensive—just honest.

​Matt, lying on his own twin bed, felt the word settle over him like a missing puzzle piece. It explained the guardedness, the way you seemed to be holding your breath for years at a time. “What?”

​Foggy shifted, the springs of his mattress creaking. “My brother. He’s transgender. He told me it was okay if I told you.”

​Matt nodded slowly, a small, thoughtful hum vibrating in his throat. He felt a strange surge of warmth—not pity, but a sudden, sharp clarity. “Is he handsome?” Matt teased, trying to keep his voice light even as his own heart gave a traitorous kick.

​A notebook caught him square in the chest. “Wouldn't you like to know, Murdock,” Foggy scoffed, though the smile was evident in his voice. “Keep your hands off the merchandise.”

​Knowing hadn’t made Matt less nervous; it had made him hyper-aware. He wasn’t just crushing on his best friend’s brother; he was falling for the quietest man in the room, terrified that his "senses" were overstepping boundaries he didn't yet understand.

​Matt rubbed a hand down his face now, the present-day reality of Nelson and Murdock pressing in on him. The office was too quiet without Foggy’s frantic typing. The files under his fingers were a mess of complex litigation, and his brain was fried.

​You weren't a ghost anymore. Over the last decade, you had bloomed. Foggy had described the changes to him over drinks—the way your jawline had sharpened, the newfound breadth of your shoulders, the way you finally smiled with your teeth. But Matt didn’t need eyes to know you were different. Your voice had dropped into a rich, resonant baritone that vibrated in Matt’s very marrow. You moved with a heavier, more confident gait. You sounded…solid. Whole.

​His fingers brushed the Braille labels on his phone as he dialed. It rang three times—the third ring cutting off as you picked up.

​“Matthew?” Your voice was thick with sleep, a low, grainy sound that made his stomach flip. “It’s nearly eleven. Please tell me you aren't still at the office.”

​“I’m still at the office,” Matt admitted, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He loved the way the syllables of his name sounded coming from you—the 'th' soft, the 'm' a lingering vibration. “I’m hitting a wall on the Dorsey filings. I…I was wondering if you’d be willing to give me a second pair of eyes? If you aren't too tired.”

​He heard the tell-tale sounds of your life on the other end: the soft thump of your cat jumping off the duvet, the rustle of a discarded blanket, the sharp click of a lamp being switched on.

​“You’re a menace, Murdock,” you sighed, but there was no bite in it. Just a warm, familiar affection that made the cold office feel a little smaller. “Fine. But I’m not putting on a suit and tie for some late-night call. You get me in a hoodie or you don't get me at all.”

​Matt smiled, a genuine one that reached his eyes. “I think I can live with that. See you soon.”

The silence of the office wasn't truly silent; to Matt, it was a hum of flickering fluorescent lights and the distant, muffled roar of Hell’s Kitchen. But then, a new sound cut through the static.

​He heard the heavy clack of the street-level door, followed by footsteps on the stairs. They were firm, purposeful—the gait of a man who knew exactly where he was going. Then came the soft thud of the office door closing and the familiar, melodic jingle of keys being dropped into a pocket.

​Matt sat up straight, swiveling his chair toward the door. He didn't need to see you to know the exact moment you entered the room. Your heartbeat was a song he’d memorized over a decade ago. In college, it had been a frantic, staccato thing, hidden behind layers of uncertainty. Now, it was a steady, resonant bass line—confident, grounded, and unmistakably yours. It was the most comforting sound in the city.

​"You look like you're drowning in paper, Matt," you said, your voice warm and slightly gravelly from the late hour.

​Matt leaned back, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Only up to my chin. I figured if I went under, I should at least have good company."

​He tracked your movement as you walked toward his desk. You set a paper cup down, the scent of dark roast and a hint of cinnamon swirling into his senses. Then, you reached down. Your fingers brushed his as you guided his hand to the cup—a lingering, grounding contact. He didn’t need the help—his spatial awareness was better than anyone’s—but he never pulled away. He lived in a world of ghosts and echoes; your touch was one of the few things that felt solid.

​"Foggy actually left you alone in this mess?" you hummed, pulling out Foggy’s squeaky desk chair.

​Matt took a grateful sip of the coffee, feeling the heat bloom in his chest. "He claimed he had a date. Something about a guy from the DA’s office, though I suspect he just wanted to avoid these filings." He paused, tilting his head slightly. "But it worked out. Now I have my favorite Nelson with me."

​You chuckled, the sound vibrating low in your chest—a sound Matt felt more than he heard. "Right. Foggy on a date? I’ll believe that when he stops talking about work for more than five minutes."

​You reached across the desk, your sleeve brushing against his arm as you gathered a stack of files. Matt heard the rustle of you rummaging through Foggy’s drawer, the click of a pen, and the cap being pulled off a highlighter.

​"Am I really your favorite?" you asked. Your voice had dropped a fraction, the teasing edge giving way to something softer, more genuine.

​Matt leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, moving into your space just enough to hear the slight hitch in your breathing. "Don't tell Foggy," he whispered, his tone conspiratorial and dangerously fond. "He’s got the heart, but you...you've got the brains. And better taste in coffee.”

The office settled into a heavy, comfortable rhythm. It was the language of two people who had spent a decade in each other’s orbits: the rhythmic click-clack of your pen, the dry rustle of paper, and the low, melodic vibration of Matt’s voice as he muttered legal jargon under his breath.

​At one point, Matt slid a manila folder toward you. As you reached for it, your fingers grazed the back of his hand. The contact was brief, but to Matt, it felt like a lightning strike. He heard your heart skip—a sudden, sharp hitch in the beat—before it accelerated into a frantic, driving tempo. He didn’t say anything, but his head tilted just a fraction of a millimeter.

​He caught the sound of your fingernails scratching against the coarse stubble on your jaw—a habit you’d picked up since the testosterone had thickened the hair there. It was a sound he’d grown to love; it meant you were focused, grounded, and entirely present.

​Exhaustion finally started to win. Matt let out a long sigh, his shoulders dropping as he reached up to his throat. He caught the silk of his dark red tie, tugging it loose with a practiced flick of his wrist. His fingers moved to the top button of his shirt, undoing it to let the cool office air hit his skin.

​The room went still. He could feel your gaze—not just a glance, but a heavy, lingering weight that tracked the movement of his hands. He felt the air shift as you licked your lips, the faint sound of your breath hitching.

​"You were staring," Matt whispered. His voice was low, vibrating through the mahogany desk.

​"No," you blurted out, the word coming out a little too fast, a little too defensive. You scrambled for an out, your mind racing. "How can you even tell? Maybe I was...staring at the man in the doorway?"

​It was a terrible excuse. There was no one in the doorway; the hallway was a vacuum of silence.

​Matt leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. He crossed his arms over his chest, a gesture that pulled the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. He didn't turn away; he looked directly in your general direction, his sightless eyes hidden behind his glasses, though you felt like he was seeing right through your skin.

​"Uh-huh," he hummed, a playful, private sound. He was fighting back a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching.

​You waved a hand dismissively in the air—a useless gesture for a blind man, but a necessary one for your own sanity—and tried to bury your nose back in the Dorsey file. "What is it?" he pressed, his voice dropping an octave, becoming more intimate. "What were you looking at?"

​How were you supposed to say it? How could you admit that you were transfixed by the dexterity of his fingers? That you were wondering if those same hands would be gentle or firm if they were wrapped around your waist—or your throat?

​Matt’s head tilted further. His nostrils flared, taking in a sharp breath. The scent of the room had changed. The clean, soapy smell of your skin had been overtaken by the saltier, sharper tang of arousal and the spike of pheromones that came with a racing heart.

​"You were looking at me," Matt said. It wasn’t a guess. It was a cold, hard fact delivered with the confidence of a man who could hear your blood rushing to your face.

​"I.." You choked on the words, your throat feeling suddenly tight. "I’m sorry. I just...I got lost in thought."

​It wasn't a lie. You were thinking. You were thinking about how the man across from you had been a constant in your life through every surgery, every transition, and every heartbreak—and how, right now, the only thing you wanted was to bridge the three feet of desk separating you.

Matt didn’t stop at loosening his collar. He ran a hand through his hair, mussing the perfectly groomed strands until they fell over his forehead, then fully unknotted his tie. He tossed the silk strip onto the pile of folders in front of you—a flag of surrender, or perhaps a challenge. He wanted your undivided attention, and he knew exactly how to get it.

​He began rolling up his sleeves, the fabric bunching past his elbows to reveal the corded muscle of his forearms. He undid a second button, leaning back with his legs braced wide, claiming the space between you.

​"And what if I said I think about you, too, Nelson?" he whispered. His hand reached up, fingers hooking around the temples of his tinted glasses. He pulled them off, setting them aside.

​You swallowed hard, the sound loud in the quiet office. In your head, Matt Murdock didn’t think about men like you. He was a man of logic, law, and a very specific kind of Catholic guilt. He was supposed to think about the firm, or the latest beautiful witness, not a trans man who had spent years rebuilding himself into the masculine figure sitting across from him. You were convinced that having something with you would be a one-way ticket to his priest’s confession booth.

​"I’d say you’re sleep-deprived," you managed, your voice a little raspy. "And that you’re probably mistaking me for someone else in the dark."

​Your fingers twitched, brushing the silk of his discarded tie. You leaned back, your chair letting out a sharp, protesting creak that felt like an exclamation point to your nerves.

​Matt let out a long, slow breath, his eyelids fluttering shut as he tilted his head. "I hear your heartbeat every time I’m near you," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a sudden, raw intensity. "I’ve heard it since the day we met in college. It’s a constant. A rhythm I’ve used to find my own way back to center."

​His hand slid up his chest, his palm flattening over his heart. He began to tap a frantic, syncopated rhythm against his sternum—a mirror of the desperate pace your own heart was currently setting.

​"How?" you whispered, your eyes glued to the movement of his hand. "How can you possibly hear that?"

​A small, knowing smile played on his lips—the kind of smile that suggested he had a thousand secrets he was finally ready to share. "There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Nelson." He opened his eyes. Without the glasses, the intensity of his gaze was staggering. Even if he couldn't see you, those vivid, dark brown eyes seemed to anchor you to the spot.

​"I like you," he said simply. The words weren't a question; they were a confession. "I thought it was obvious. I mean, even Foggy figured it out years ago."

​You felt a flush creep up your neck. Foggy had always been the observant one. While you had been trying to shrink, to disappear into the background and draw as little attention as possible during your early transition, Foggy had been watching. He’d seen the way Matt’s head turned when you walked into a room; he’d seen the way Matt lingered on your voice.

​"Foggy was always better with the emotional stuff than I was," you whispered, finally braving a look directly into his eyes. "I was just trying to survive. I didn't think...I didn't think someone like you would ever be looking at someone like me.”

Matt didn’t respond with words. Instead, he rose from his chair with a slow, deliberate grace. He navigated the few feet of space between your desks with his hands held slightly out—not because he was lost, but as an invitation, waiting for you to meet him halfway. He stopped when his legs brushed against your knees, a physical boundary that made the air in the small office feel suddenly scarce.

​His hands found yours, his fingers long and warm as they curled around your palms. With a gentle, insistent tug, he pulled you to your feet until your bodies were mere inches apart. He was close enough that his breath hitched against your skin, carrying the faint, comforting scent of the coffee and cinnamon you’d brought him.

​"Can I kiss you?" Matt whispered. The question was raw, stripped of his usual lawyerly composure. His hands trailed up your arms in a slow, searing path until his palms cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing just below your cheekbones.

​You let out a shaky breath, your mouth opening and closing as you tried to find your footing. "You're...you're seriously asking me that?"

​It wasn't a rejection; it was pure, unadulterated disbelief. You had walked into this office expecting a night of dry legal filings and bad lighting, not a decade’s worth of unspoken longing finally coming to a head.

​Matt let out a soft, huffed chuckle, his forehead leaning down to rest against yours. "Yeah. I thought that was the right way to do this. Usually, I'm better at reading the room, but with you…" He trailed off, his voice cracking slightly. "With you, I just want to be sure."

​You didn’t give him a chance to finish. You cut him off, your lips finding his in a kiss that started out soft and uncertain—a question asked in return. Matt answered it instantly. He groaned low in his throat, a sound of pure relief, and pulled you flush against him. He liked the solid weight of you, the way you fit perfectly into the space he’d been holding open for years. Even with the slight height difference, the way he had to tilt his head felt natural, like two jagged pieces finally clicking into place.

​Without breaking the kiss, Matt began to move. He guided you backward, his boots shuffling against the thin carpet until he felt the edge of his chair. He sat, and in one fluid motion, he pulled you down with him.

​You slowly pulled away, both of you panting for air in the sudden silence of the room. You were straddling his lap, your hands splayed wide against the heat of his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart through the thin cotton of his shirt. Matt’s hands moved from your cheeks, sliding down the curve of your neck—his fingers lingering over your pulse point as if he were savoring the fact that it was racing just for him—before settling firmly at your waist.

​"We aren't going to get any work done, are we?" you sighed, your forehead dropping onto his shoulder as you tried to catch your breath.

​"No," Matt hummed, the vibration of his voice buzzing right through your chest. "Absolutely not."

​He didn't wait for a rebuttal. His lips were already hovering over yours again, closing the distance before the Dorsey files could even cross your mind.

The kiss deepened, turning hungry and urgent. Matt stood, lifting you easily from his lap and pressing your back against the edge of his desk. The wood was cold against your spine, a sharp contrast to the furnace-heat of his body. With a careless sweep of his arm, a stack of Dorsey files slid onto the floor, the paper fluttering like dying birds, but neither of you cared.

​Matt leaned over you, his weight a grounding presence. His fingers hooked under the hem of your hoodie, the fabric bunching up as he slid his hands over your skin. He moved slowly, his fingertips tracing the coarse line of hair that ran past your navel and disappeared into the waistband of your sweatpants.

​A violent shudder ran down your spine when his touch grazed the thin, horizontal lines of your top surgery scars. Even six years later, having his hands there—so gentle, so deliberate—felt like it was altering your DNA. He wasn't just touching you; he was learning you.

​"Foggy never did you justice," Matt hummed against your mouth. He began pressing soft, lingering kisses to your jaw, your neck, the hollow of your throat. "All those stories...they didn't even come close."

​You let out a breathy laugh, your head falling back. "Yeah? Well, maybe that’s what you get for asking my brother for life updates when I was only ever one phone call away."

​You slid your hand up his chest, past the open buttons of his shirt. Your fingertips caught on a ridge of puckered skin—a jagged scar near his ribs you hadn't known was there. It was thick and ropey, a testament to a violence you didn't quite understand yet.

​Matt hummed, his hands continuing their exploration, mapping the curves of your sides and the muscle of your chest. His thumbs hooked into the waistband of your sweats, dipping just low enough to make your breath hitch.

​"Like I said," he whispered, his voice vibrating with a dark, low-frequency heat. "There are a lot of things you don't know about me, Nelson."

​Your other hand came up, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. You gave a sharp, insistent tug, pulling him down until his lips were mere inches from yours, his nose brushing against yours in the dark.

​"Maybe you can tell me all about them over coffee tomorrow?" you hummed, your voice teasing despite the way your heart was thundering.

​Matt’s hands stopped dead at your waist. His fingers dug into your skin, his grip tightening until it was almost bruising—not with malice, but with a sudden, overwhelming surge of want. He let out a ragged, disbelieving breath.

​"I’m standing here thinking about how badly I want to fuck you right now," he breathed, the honesty of it hitting you like a physical weight. "And you’re asking me about coffee?"

​He tilted his head, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that made the room feel like it was losing oxygen. "I don't think you realize how long I've been waiting to have you on this desk.”

Matt didn’t hesitate. He surged forward, pressing you harder against the mahogany desk until the wood bit into your lower back. He was a wall of solid, radiating heat, his breath ghosting over your skin in ragged hitches.

​"What's stopping you?" you challenged, a reckless smirk tugging at your lips. You didn’t wait for an answer, your fingers moving to the remaining buttons of his shirt, popping them free with an urgency that sent a stray button skittering across the floor.

​Matt’s own smirk was dangerous—the look of a man who had just been given permission to stop holding back. His fingers hooked into the hem of your hoodie, and in one fluid motion, he pulled it up and over your head, tossing it blindly onto the pile of discarded files. You helped him shrug out of his shirt, the silk sliding off his shoulders before hitting the floor somewhere in the shadows.

​Then he was on you again, his bare chest slick with the heat of the room as it pressed against yours. He kissed you hard, a bruising, possessive claim that tasted like coffee and desperate longing. One of his hands moved to your throat, not to squeeze, but to rest there—his thumb resting right over your carotid artery so he could feel the frantic, thundering pulse of your arousal. His other hand traveled down, his palm flat against your stomach before hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants.

​He stripped them away with practiced ease, sliding them down past your hips and ankles. At the same time, your hands fumbled with his belt. The leather groaned as you yanked it through the loops, your knuckles grazing the heavy, insistent heat through the fabric of his trousers.

​You pulled back just an inch, your chest heaving as your eyes roamed over him. In the dim light of the desk lamp, his torso was a map of scars and lean muscle, looking like something carved from marble. Your gaze dropped to the prominent bulge straining against his slacks.

​"Mmm," you hummed, a low vibration of approval as you kicked your shoes and sweatpants completely aside. You shifted, the cool air of the office hitting your legs, leaving you in nothing but your boxers. You looked from the evidence of his erection back up to his face, a playful spark in your eyes. "Seems a little unfair, don't you think, Murdock? I'm significantly more exposed than you are."

​Matt leaned in, his lips hovering just a hair’s breadth from your ear. The hand on your throat moved up, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back.

​"I'm a lawyer," he rasped, his voice dropping into that gritty, gravelly tone that made your knees weak. "I'm very good at finding ways to settle the balance. Why don't you let me show you?”

Matt was on his knees now, settled between your legs. His hands—calloused and steady—gripped your thighs, the pressure grounding you as he pulled you toward the edge of the desk. You felt the breadth of his shoulders between your knees, a solid anchor in a world that was quickly turning into nothing but heat and friction.

​One of your hands was tangled deep in his dark hair, your knuckles brushing his scalp; the other gripped the mahogany edge of the desk so hard your fingers went white. Your head rolled back against your shoulder, a shaky breath escaping you as Matt leaned in.

​He started with soft, reverence-filled kisses to your inner thighs, moving higher with agonizing slowness. He wasn't just exploring; he was listening. He could hear the way your blood rushed to the surface of your skin and the precise moment your breath hitched as he neared the center of your heat.

​"Fuck," you rasped, a shudder racking your frame when his hot breath fanned over your bottom growth. The sensitive bud was pulsing, swollen and aching for a touch that Matt seemed determined to delay. He pressed a light, lingering kiss to the very tip of it, his fingers flexing against your thighs to keep you open for him.

​"Relax," Matt whispered, his voice a low vibration that seemed to travel right up your spine. He leaned up just enough to press a firm kiss to the soft skin below your navel, right at the start of your happy trail. "Give in to me. Let me take care of you."

​You let out a jagged exhale when he moved back down. His tongue made a slow, agonizing path from the base of your growth upward, following the new length your transition had given you. It was a targeted, deliberate sensation. One of his hands slid from your thigh, his fingers finding the softer, slicker skin behind the growth, massaging gently as he continued to lick in rhythmic, upward strokes.

​Your thighs instinctively tightened around his head, the muscles in your legs coiling with the need for more. When he finally took the sensitive bud into his mouth, swirling his tongue around it and sucking with a slow, steady pressure, your vision blurred.

​Your hand tightened in his hair, yanking his head back as a low, guttural moan was torn from his throat—a sound of pure, shared hunger.

​"Stop," you huffed, your chest heaving. "Stop teasing me, Matt. Just...please."

​You tried to force your muscles to relax, even as Matt’s thumb began to circle the hood of your growth, his touch light and teasing. He pulled back just an inch, his lips glistening in the low light, a dark, satisfied hum vibrating in the small space between you.

​"You seem to like it," he murmured, his senses fixed on the frantic rhythm of your heart. "And I like the way you sound when you're losing your mind.”

Matt didn’t wait for you to find your words. He leaned back in, his stubble—just starting to roughen his jaw—grazing your sensitive inner skin before his lips sealed around your growth once more. The suction was firm and rhythmic, a direct, pulsing pressure that made your entire body go taut.

​You let out a jagged gasp, your fingers digging into the hair at the base of his skull. The sensation was overwhelming; with the increased sensitivity from your transition, every slide of his tongue felt like an electric current. You couldn't help it—your hips began to roll instinctively, seeking more of that grounding heat, pushing yourself deeper into his reach.

​"Matthew," you gasped, your voice breaking. "Please—"

​He didn't slow down. If anything, he became more insistent. He could hear the way your breath had turned into short, hitching sobs of pleasure, and he used that as his compass. His hands moved from your thighs to grip your hips, his fingers hooking into your skin to anchor you as you rocked against him. He wasn't just taking; he was worshipping, his tongue swirling around the head of your growth before pulling back with a slow, drawing pressure that made your toes curl.

​Your thighs began to tremble, a fine, uncontrollable shaking that signaled you were reaching your limit. The office around you—the cold desk, the smell of old paper, the distant hum of the city—all of it bled into the background. There was only the wet, sliding heat of his mouth and the low, vibration of the hum he made against you when you bucked your hips upward.

​He felt the shift in your muscles, the way your heart rate spiked into a frantic, staccato rhythm. He knew you were right on the edge. He transitioned from slow licks to a fast, fluttering motion of his tongue right against the most sensitive point, while his thumb maintained a steady, circular pressure at the base.

​"Matt—I'm—" You couldn't even finish the sentence. Your head thudded back against your shoulder, your eyes fluttering shut as a wave of heat started at your core and radiated outward.

​He didn't let go. He kept up the pace, his mouth a hot, insistent vacuum that pulled the climax right out of you. You cried out his name, a raw, vocal sound that echoed off the glass walls of the office, your fingers clutching at his shoulders as your body was racked by a long, shuddering release.

You lay back against the desk, the mahogany cool against your heated skin as your chest heaved. The high was still humming in your marrow, making your limbs feel heavy and liquid. You watched, mesmerized, as Matt stood up from his knees. Your thighs slid from his shoulders, dropping to drape loosely around his waist as he leaned over you once more.

​He pressed a lingering, reverent kiss to the center of your chest, right over your heart, before trailing a path of fire up to your lips. Your hands climbed his shoulders, nails dragging down the lean muscle of his back before hooking into his skin to pull him closer.

​"I'm not done with you," he whispered against your mouth, his voice a low, rough promise. He pulled back just enough for you to see his eyes—dark, unfocused, and radiating a raw hunger.

​You let out a shaky breath, watching as he reached for his own waistband. He undid the button of his slacks with a practiced flick of his thumb, pushing them down along with his boxers until they joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. You sat up on the desk, your eyes tracking the lines of his body, landing on the heavy, insistent length of him.

​"You're staring again," he chuckled. Even without his sight, he seemed to feel the weight of your gaze like a physical touch. He reached blindly but accurately into his top desk drawer.

​You bit your lip, watching him pull a small square foil packet from the stash. "How could I not?" you hummed, your voice dropping into a suggestive purr. "Always prepared, aren't you, Mr. Murdock?"

​You reached out, taking the condom from his hand. Matt’s smile was sharp and knowing as he leaned forward to steal one more quick, searing kiss. He let out a sharp intake of breath when you began to roll the latex over the hot, aching length of him, your fingers steady despite the adrenaline.

​You didn't stay on the desk. You stood, your bare body flushing against his before you placed your hands on his chest and pushed. He went back willingly, his office chair catching him with a soft creak of leather. You moved instantly to straddle his lap, your knees bracketing his hips.

​One hand rested on his shoulder for balance; the other wrapped around his cock, your fingertips grazing the tip. Even through the condom, Matt seemed to feel every ounce of your heat as you began a slow, deliberate stroke. His head tilted back against the headrest, a low, guttural moan vibrating through his chest as you lifted yourself and sank down onto him in one smooth, agonizingly perfect motion.

​Matt’s hands snapped into action. One gripped your waist, fingers digging into your skin to anchor you, while the other found purchase around the curve of your throat. He didn't squeeze, but the weight of his palm—firm and possessive—sent a fresh jolt of electricity through you.

​"There," Matt rasped, his head rolling to the side as he felt you settle against him. "Now we’re even.”

Matt’s grip on your waist was white-knuckled, his fingers digging into the dip of your hips to anchor you. Every time you sank down, the contact was a revelation—the heavy, insistent heat of him filling you, the subtle friction of the latex, and the grounding, possessive weight of his hand at your throat.

​His head was thrown back against the leather headrest, his jaw tight as he tracked the symphony of your body. To Matt, you weren’t just a person; you were a masterpiece of sound and vibration. He could hear the way your joints shifted, the slick slide of skin against skin, and the frantic, beautiful mess of your heartbeat thundering against your ribs. It was a sensory overload that would usually drive him to distraction, but with you, it just felt like finally coming home.

​"Don't stop," he rasped, his voice a jagged edge in the quiet office. His thumb brushed over your windpipe—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch and your moan resonate deeper in your chest. "I’ve spent...God, I've spent years wondering what you’d sound like like this."

​You leaned forward, your chest brushing against his bare skin, your hands finding the back of his neck to steady yourself. Your fingers tangled in his hair, the strands soft against your knuckles as you settled fully against him, your hips rolling in an agonizingly slow, grinding circle.

​"Is it everything you imagined, Matthew?" You managed a breathy, teasing laugh, though it was cut short by a sharp moan when Matt bucked his hips upward, meeting your depth with a forceful, desperate hunger.

​He squeezed your throat softly—a silent command for your attention—and pulled your face down until your lips were a hair’s breadth from his.

​"Better," he whispered, the word vibrating against your mouth. "Infinitely better than the version in my head."

​He shifted his grip, his hands moving to your backside to pull you even tighter against him, his movements turning more urgent as he began to lose the battle for his own composure. The office chair creaked under the weight of your shared rhythm, the sound lost in the rush of your breathing.

Matt’s thrusts grew sloppy, the measured precision of a lawyer replaced by the raw, uncoordinated hunger of a man who had reached his limit. His hand slid from your throat, trailing a path of fire down your chest to join his other hand at your hips. He braced his forehead against yours, his breath coming in hot, jagged hitches as he lifted you slightly and brought you back down to meet him in a slow, agonizing grind.

​You leaned forward, your lips brushing his, eyes half-lidded as you whispered his name like a prayer. The office around you seemed to dissolve, leaving nothing but the friction of skin and the heat of the moment.

​"I’m," he breathed, the word breaking into a ragged gasp. "I’m close. Please."

​He bridged the gap, his kiss deepening into something deep and possessive as he anchored you against him. His hips rolled into yours one last time, his body taut as you squeezed him, feeling the frantic pulse of his release. Your thighs trembled, hands tangling in his hair as the world fell away, leaving you both suspended in a long, shuddering climax that seemed to echo in the silence of the office.

​For a long time, neither of you moved. You sat there, hearts hammering in sync, sweat mixing where your chests pressed together. Matt finally broke the kiss, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder as he let out a long, shaky exhale. His grip on your hips loosened, his trembling hands beginning a slow, reverent path up and down your spine. He wasn't just touching you; he was listening—tracking the way your heartbeat gradually slowed, mapping the lingering tremors in your muscles.

​Reluctantly, you pulled away. Your legs felt like water as you stood up, crossing the small distance to his desk to grab a box of tissues. The sound of the tissue rustling and the soft slide of fabric as you pulled your clothes back on seemed loud in the quiet room. Matt stayed in the chair, his head tilted as he listened to your heart settle.

​When you stepped back in front of him, holding out his boxers, he didn't take them immediately. Instead, he reached out, his hand lingering near your hip as if he were considering pulling you right back down.

​"Please," he whispered, his voice still thick with sleep and satisfaction. "Tell me we can do this again. Tell me this wasn't just a side effect of the late night."

​You let out a soft laugh, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to his lips. "You think you’re getting rid of me that easily, Matthew? I’ve been pining for a decade; you’re stuck with me now."

​Matt’s face broke into a genuine, brilliant smile—the kind he only ever saved for those he truly trusted. He took the boxers from you, his fingers brushing yours. "I’m counting on it," he said, standing up to pull his slacks on. "Though I’m hoping for my bed next time. Or yours. Anywhere but these squeaky office chairs."

​He walked up to you as you started gathering the scattered files from the floor. His hands found your waist, a few fingers dipping back under the hem of your hoodie to find that patch of warm skin he’d claimed earlier.

​You opened your mouth to reply, but the sharp click of the front door lock froze the air in the room. The office door swung open, and there stood Foggy, eyes wide and jaw practically hitting his chest.

​"Oh...wow," Foggy deadpanned, his gaze darting between your flushed face and a very shirtless, very 'sex-drunk' Matt Murdock. "Okay. That happened."

​"Foggy," Matt started, turning toward the sound of his partner, though he made no move to actually move his hands away from you.

​"Don't," Foggy held up a hand, looking like he wanted to turn around and walk right back out. He was clutching a few manila folders like a shield. "I don't need the legal opening statement. I have eyes. And ears. And a very strong sense of 'I should have knocked.'"

​You walked over, taking the folders from his hand just to give your own hands something to do. "I thought you had a date," you muttered, rocking back and forth on your heels.

​"Yeah, well, he rescheduled," Foggy cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact with the shirtless man behind you. "And I realized I left these on my kitchen table. I thought I'd be in and out in thirty seconds." He paused, looking at you, then at Matt. "Was it—"

​"I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon, Foggy," you cut him off, pressing a hand to his face and gently steering him back toward the door. "Go home.”

You stood by the door for a moment after the lock clicked, listening to the fading rhythm of Foggy’s footsteps as he practically sprinted down the hallway to avoid further awkwardness. Turning back toward the room, you found Matt in the center of the office. He looked significantly more "Murdock" than he had ten minutes ago, though his hair was still a mess and his eyes held a lingering, soft glow. He was currently plucking his silk tie off the corner of Foggy’s desk with the precision of a man who could feel the exact texture of the fabric.

​You walked over to him, your bare feet silent on the carpet. You picked up the manila folders Foggy had brought and stacked them into a somewhat organized pile—a futile effort given the chaos of the rest of the room—before leaning back against the edge of the desk.

​"I’m never living this down," Matt hummed. He sounded remarkably sheepish. He stepped into your space, his hands instinctively finding their home at your waist again. "I’m going to hear about this at every brunch, every firm meeting, and probably in the middle of our next opening statement."

​You smiled, reaching out to straighten the collar of his shirt. Your fingers brushed against the warm skin of his neck, and you felt his pulse jump under your touch.

​"No, you’re definitely not," you murmured, smoothing out the fabric. "Foggy has a memory like an elephant for things that embarrass you. It’s his favorite pastime." You paused, looking up at him, your expression softening. "But about that coffee I mentioned earlier...maybe I can finish helping you look over these files over a fresh cup? Someplace with better lighting and significantly less chance of your partner bursting through the door?"

​Matt’s head tilted, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. He leaned down, his face burying in the crook of your neck as he pressed a slow, lingering kiss to your pulse point. The heat of it radiated through your entire body.

The cool, polished concrete of the tower floor was a welcome relief against your bare feet, each step a soft thud in the late-night quiet. Despite the hum of the air conditioning, the summer humidity clung to your skin like a second layer, a fine sheen of sweat glistening under the harsh, overhead lights. You were a walking testament to a grueling workout, your muscles still buzzing with the after-burn. A pair of loose-fitting swim trunks hung low on your hips, and a damp towel was slung over your shoulder, a useless accessory against the persistent stickiness. You needed to cool off, and a quick, cool shower wasn't going to cut it. Not tonight. Not after your weekly testosterone shot, a necessary evil that made even the slightest exertion feel like you were walking on the surface of the sun. The intense heat it generated within your body was something you’d learned to live with, but tonight, it was unbearable.

You decided to take a gamble on the tower's indoor pool, a luxurious amenity that was a surprising perk of your new government-funded position. For once, you were grateful for the tax dollars that had been “wasted” on this extravagant luxury. It was late, well past midnight, and you were sure you’d have the place to yourself. The thought of floating in the cool, chlorinated water was a siren song, luring you in.

But as you pushed open the heavy glass doors to the pool area, a flicker of disappointment went through you. A folded towel rested on one of the lounge chairs, a silent indicator that you weren't alone. You hadn't even set your own towel down before the sound of water breaking the silence reached your ears. A soft splash, a ripple, then a steady drip.

You turned, your gaze drawn to the far end of the pool. John was there, his back to you, his hands gripping the tiled edge of the pool as he slowly pulled himself out of the water. His hair was a sopping mess, water clinging to him like a second skin, a river of droplets cascading down his broad back and over the sharp definition of his shoulders. The soft light from the overhead lamps caught on every droplet, making his body gleam like polished marble. The air suddenly felt charged, thicker than before.

"You alright?" The question was a low whisper, his voice a rumbling murmur as he turned to face you, pulling you abruptly from your thoughts.

You snapped your head back, a bit flustered. "Yeah," you managed, your voice a little rougher than you intended. You walked over to a nearby chair, placing your towel next to his. "Just didn't think anyone would be in here," you murmured, turning back to face him, a slight flush rising on your cheeks.

John now stood mere inches from you, the scent of chlorine mixing with the familiar, earthy cologne he always wore. You couldn't help but notice the way the water droplets ran down the planes of his chest, clinging to the curve of his muscles before disappearing into the waistband of his swim trunks. His body was a masterpiece of strength and grace, and you found yourself momentarily speechless.

He, in turn, was taking you in. The way the sweat still clung to your skin, glistening against the pale scars from your top surgery. The way your "happy trail" was plastered to your abdomen by the dampness, a line of dark hair disappearing beneath the loose waistband of your swim trunks. He noted the way your trunks hung on your hips, the faint stubble on your jawline you hadn't bothered to shave, and the tired but satisfied look in your eyes. It was a look he knew well.

You cleared your throat, trying to break the heavy silence. Your gaze flicked to the shimmering water. "You going to join me, or...?" You questioned, silently cursing yourself for how intensely you wanted to get in that water with him, to feel his body close to yours.

John's lips quirked into a slow, tantalizing smirk, his eyes trailing over your body once more before settling back on yours. His voice dropped to a low, husky whisper, a velvety promise that sent a shiver down your spine. "Only if you can keep up, pretty boy. I know you get a little... overheated."

Your jaw clenched at his comment, a familiar wave of frustration and arousal washing over you. He did this every single time, a maddening, tantalizing dance that left you breathless and wanting. It was as if he was acutely aware of the heightened effect your shot had on you, of how even the slightest bit of teasing could practically bring you to your knees. The smirk on his face was a delicious torment, a challenge you couldn't resist. You rolled your eyes, a weak attempt to feign nonchalance.

"Oh, I'll keep up, alright," you retorted, the words meant to be a smooth comeback, a confident jab. But the slight crack in your voice betrayed you, a tiny hitch that gave away just how much he affected you.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrated through the air, and John's smirk widened into a full-blown grin. "I don't doubt it for a second," he said, his eyes a warm, knowing gaze. He stepped closer from the edge of the pool, taking another step toward you, the water still dripping from his body and creating a small puddle on the tiles. "Just making sure you're ready for a real challenge. You know how I am."

You gulped, your throat constricting with a mixture of annoyance and pure, unadulterated lust. He was still teasing you, of course he was. It was a game he played, and you were always the pawn, your body's arousing reaction his personal entertainment. You could practically feel his smug satisfaction as you fought the urge to squeeze your thighs together. You mumbled something inaudible under your breath, a low grumble of frustration that you knew he could hear. Without another word, you turned away from him and headed for the shallow end of the pool.

The water was a shock to your system, but in the best way possible. It was cool, almost cold, and it enveloped your body in a welcoming embrace, a blissful contrast to the heated skin you'd been trapped in for hours. You slid deeper, letting the water rise to your chest, then your shoulders. The sensation was heavenly. You took a deep breath before dunking your head completely under the surface, your eyes squeezed shut against the chlorine.

When you resurfaced, you let out a soft sigh, running a hand over your face and pushing your damp hair back from your forehead. You shook your head, sending a spray of water droplets into the air. As you opened your eyes, you saw him. John was just resurfacing from his own dive, his hair sticking up in a dozen different directions, water sluicing down his face and neck. And gods, he looked perfect. The way the light caught on the wet strands of his hair, the sharp angles of his face, the casual grace with which he moved through the water—it was all too much.

Your mind, a traitorous thing, immediately went to places it shouldn't. You imagined what his hands would feel like on your body, tracing the lines of your scars, exploring the newfound curves of your chest. You pictured his lips on yours, a slow, deep kiss in the shimmering water. You imagined the feeling of him inside you, the raw intimacy of it, the way you’d probably lose all sense of yourself and devolve into a needy mess, whining and babbling incoherent whispers against his skin.

The fantasy was so vivid, so potent, that you bit your lip to stop a soft gasp from escaping. You couldn't be here, couldn't be thinking this. You quickly turned your head, a phantom heat rising in your cheeks, and cleared your throat, trying to dispel the thick, erotic tension that clung to the air between you.

You could feel his gaze on you, a physical weight in the water. Even with your head turned away, you were hyper-aware of his every movement. The water shifted around you, a gentle ripple that announced his approach. You held your breath, bracing yourself for his next comment, another bit of teasing that would send your already-frayed self-control spiraling.

“Something wrong?” he asked, his voice a low, teasing murmur from just a few feet away. The sound of him moving through the water was a soft, rhythmic caress against the silence of the pool. “You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden.”

You risked a glance over your shoulder. He was treading water, his arms moving in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his body cutting a powerful figure through the shimmering blue. He had a playful glint in his eyes, a challenge that made your stomach clench.

“Just enjoying the water,” you managed, your voice still a little shaky. You turned back around, pretending to be utterly fascinated by the tiles at the bottom of the pool.

But he was persistent. You felt the water shift again, a gentle wave nudging you as he swam closer. He was now just a few feet behind you, and the scent of chlorine and his cologne intensified, a heady mix that made your head spin.

“Are you?” he asked, his voice now a low whisper right by your ear. “Or are you just trying to hide from me?”

You bit your lip, a soft gasp escaping as you felt the light touch of his hand on your back, just above the water line. He wasn't teasing you anymore, not really. This was different. This was a challenge, a question, a plea. It was a test of your resolve, of your ability to resist the magnetic pull between you both.

"I'm not hiding," you whispered, the words a lie you couldn't even sell to yourself. Your voice was barely a breath, a soft, broken sound in the quiet space.

He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your bones. His hand moved from your back to your waist, his thumb stroking a slow, sensual line across your skin. "Good," he murmured, his voice thick with a want you both felt. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

You closed your eyes, a soft gasp escaping your lips. You couldn't take this anymore. You turned around, your body now facing his. His eyes were dark with a desire that mirrored your own, and the smirk was gone from his face, replaced with an intensity that made your heart pound against your ribs.

"What are you doing?" you asked, your voice a desperate plea.

"Taking what I want," he answered, his voice a low growl. And then, he was kissing you. The kiss was a hungry, desperate thing, his lips demanding and yours answering, your hands finding their way to his hair, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left between you, just the cool water and the heated skin and the pounding of your hearts.

The kiss was a desperate, hungry thing, a dam breaking after an eternity of restraint. Your hands, as if they had a mind of their own, found their way into his wet hair, gripping the strands and tugging lightly as he nipped at your bottom lip. A low groan rumbled from deep in his chest, a sound that was pure, unfiltered pleasure, and it sent a fresh jolt of desire straight through you. You answered his groan with a soft gasp as his tongue, a velvet-soft serpent, snaked into your mouth, a bold exploration that ignited every nerve ending.

The water, once a comforting coolness, now felt like a heated embrace, a silent witness to the fire that raged between you. His hands left your waist, traveling up your back to cup the nape of your neck, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin behind your ears. He deepened the kiss, a possessive, all-consuming pressure that left you breathless and wanting more. You were a mess of tangled limbs and desperate breaths, the sound of the water sloshing around you a forgotten symphony. Your fingers tightened in his hair, a silent plea for him to never stop.

A soft moan rumbled in John's throat as you gave a final, desperate tug on his hair, and he reluctantly broke the kiss. The separation was slow and agonizing, a thin string of saliva connecting your lips for a fleeting moment before it snapped, leaving a glistening trail in its wake. You both panted, your chests heaving in unison, the silence of the pool area now punctuated by the ragged rhythm of your breaths. Your hands, trembling slightly, slowly slipped from his hair and came to rest on his shoulders, your thumbs stroking the smooth, wet skin.

His breath, warm and tasting of chlorine, ghosted over your lips as he spoke, his voice a low, gravelly whisper. "You're full of surprises tonight, aren't you?"

Before you could even think of a reply, his hand moved from the nape of your neck, gliding down your chest until his fingers traced the faint, pale lines of your top surgery scars. The touch was feather-light, a tender caress that sent a shiver through your entire body. It was a bold move, an intimate touch. He was teasing you again, but this time, it was a different kind of teasing—a sweet, possessive taunt that made your heart ache with a want so profound it was almost painful. His thumb gently stroked one of the scars, the light pressure a tingle in your chest.

John backed you slowly, inexorably, toward the corner of the shallow end. The cool tile of the pool's edge met your back with a gentle thud, a solid barrier that trapped you between him and the wall. You were a willing captive, your breath still coming in short, ragged pants as his hand trailed from your chest, his fingers splaying across your abdomen just above the loose hem of your swim trunks. His touch was a brand, a possessive heat against your skin.

He lowered his head, his lips trailing a searing path along your jawline. Each kiss was a whisper, a silent question, a bold statement. He moved to your shoulder, his lips lingering on the curve of your muscle before moving to your collarbone, a soft caress that sent shivers of want through you. Then came a new kind of torment: praise.

"God, you're so handsome," he murmured against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. A kiss landed just below your collarbone. "So good for me." Another kiss, this one over your heart. "Such a good boy."

His lips found the frantic pulse point at the base of your throat, his breath hot against your skin. He kissed it, a slow, tender press of his mouth that made your knees weak and your head swim. "So fucking handsome," he whispered again, the words a gentle breeze against your sensitive skin. He moved back to your mouth, his eyes searching yours for an answer, a confirmation, a plea. "Tell me you want this."

You nodded, a shaky, breathless movement. Your nails dug into the firm muscle of his shoulders, your grip tightening as he pressed his body more fully against yours in the water. The contact was electric, a searing line of heat that made your head spin.

"I want to hear you say it," he mumbled, his voice a low, demanding growl. His lips brushed against yours, a feather-light touch that was somehow more potent than a full-on kiss. "Tell me you want it."

You gulped, your throat constricting with a mix of need and desperation. Your lips parted, a silent invitation, your eyes locked onto his, the deep pools of his desire mirroring your own. All the teasing, all the yearning, all the unspoken tension between you had led to this one moment, this single word.

"Yes," you murmured, the word barely audible, a fragile whisper that held the weight of all your desire. "I want it."

"Good boy," John mumbled, the words a raw, possessive rumble against your lips. The praise was a bolt of pure electricity, and you moaned, your body arching into his as his mouth finally claimed yours again. This kiss was different. It was a hungry, no-holds-barred consumption, a desperate feast after a long, agonizing famine.

His lips were a brand against yours, firm and demanding. He devoured your mouth, his tongue a bold explorer that mapped every curve and crevice, every taste and texture. You met his fervor with equal intensity, your own tongue tangling with his in a frantic, needy dance. Your hands, still on his shoulders, began to slide, your fingers digging into the wet, warm skin of his back as you pulled him impossibly closer.

He responded with a low, guttural groan, his hand abandoning your abdomen to travel back up your body, his fingers lacing through your damp hair at the nape of your neck. He held you firm, tilting your head back to deepen the angle of the kiss, his thumb stroking a slow, sensual rhythm against your skin. You were a whirlwind of sensation, of desire, of a need so profound it consumed you whole. The water around you was forgotten, a mere backdrop to the inferno of your shared passion.

His lips left yours for a moment, tracing a searing line of kisses down your throat, over your collarbone, and back up to your jaw. "I've been wanting to do this since the moment you walked in here," he breathed, his voice a ragged whisper against your skin.

You whimpered, a soft, pathetic sound, as his mouth returned to yours. This time, the kiss was softer, slower, a teasing prelude to the promise of more. He pulled away just enough to look into your eyes, his dark with an emotion that mirrored your own, a mix of triumph and raw, unfiltered lust.

John's hand, a warm and heavy presence, found the hem of your swim trunks. He pulled, slowly and teasingly, the material inching down your hips. You whimpered, your body arching into his as he completely stripped them from your body before tossing them in the general direction of the lounge chairs. He pecked your lips, a quick, chaste kiss that was in direct contrast to the heat of the moment, before his arms wrapped around your waist, his muscles bunching as he lifted you completely out of the water.

You let out a soft gasp as he settled you on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling in the cool water. He stood between your thighs, a triumphant smirk on his face as his hands came to rest on your upper thighs, his thumbs rubbing slow, deliberate circles on your skin. The touch was a new kind of torture, a sweet agony that made your core clench with a desperate need.

You couldn't take it anymore. Your hands, once again finding their way into his wet hair, tugged. "John," you breathed, the word a plea and a demand all at once.

He chuckled, a low, sexy sound that vibrated through your bones. He lowered his head, his hot breath ghosting over your clit and sending a shiver of pure pleasure down your spine. Those damned blue eyes, dark with desire, stared up at you as he held your thighs apart, a silent question in their depths.

He peppered the inside of your thighs with hot, wet kisses, each one a spark that ignited a new fire within you. He occasionally bit and sucked at the soft skin, the gentle nips sending tremors through your body, a silent promise of what was to come. You were a mess, a panting, needy mess, and you didn't care. You wanted this, you wanted him, and you wanted it now.

John pressed a hot kiss just below your navel, a gentle press of his lips that sent a jolt of heat through your core. You instinctively arched your back, a silent plea for more. He continued his descent, his tongue trailing a slow, teasing path down your abdomen until it found its target. The first lick was a lazy, languid stroke over your clit, a single, deliberate movement that made you gasp.

You couldn't help it. Your hands, still tangled in his hair, subconsciously tugged, a desperate pull that brought his face closer to you, a wordless demand for more. His hands, now on your inner thighs, began to move, his nails lightly scraping against your skin, a tantalizing torment that made you squirm on the edge of the pool.

He began his work in earnest, his mouth a hot, wet vortex of pleasure. His tongue was a masterful instrument, flicking and swirling, circling and pressing, a relentless rhythm that built a sweet, unbearable pressure deep inside you. You were a symphony of moans and whimpers, your body a taut bowstring ready to snap.

"So handsome," he murmured against your skin, his voice muffled but his praise clear. "You're so fucking handsome, good boy."

He would pull back for a moment, his eyes, dark and intense, staring up at you. The look on his face was one of pure devotion, and it was almost as intoxicating as the pleasure he was giving you. He'd lick you again, a slow, deep stroke that made your hips buck. "Such a good boy," he'd praise, his words a melody that only fueled your need.

His fingers would occasionally press into your thighs, his nails a gentle, delicious scrape that made you writhe. The sensation was a glorious mix of pain and pleasure, a delicious ache that made you want to claw at his shoulders. You were on the edge, teetering on the brink of an orgasm, your mind a foggy mess of need and want.

"So good," he'd whisper against you, his voice thick with a desire that mirrored your own. "So, so good."

You were a mess, a panting, moaning, needy mess. His praise, his touch, his worshipful kisses—it was all too much, and yet it wasn't enough. You wanted more, needed more, needed him.

John slowly pulled away, a soft, wet sound as his mouth left your skin. He rose to a crouch, his hands leaving your thighs and moving to the waistband of his own swim trunks. He shucked them off with a practiced ease, tossing them to land in a heap next to yours. He moved between your thighs once more, his arms wrapping around your waist, his grip firm and possessive. With a smooth motion, he pulled you back down into the water with him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, your body settling perfectly against his.

He pressed your back against the tiled wall, the cool, solid surface a new kind of anchor. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath a hot, ragged rush against your skin. Your hands, once again, found purchase in his wet hair, your fingers tangling in the dark strands. You began to tug, a light, teasing pull, and kissed and nipped at his jawline.

With each gentle tug, John let out a small whimper, a broken sound of pure need that sent a thrill through you. His hands gripped your hips, his knuckles white with the force of his hold, his lips brushing against your neck as he begged. He became more whiny with each tug, the cool, confident demeanor from before completely gone.

"Please, baby," he groaned, his voice raw and desperate. "Please, I need you. God, you're driving me crazy. Let me, please, let me fuck you."

You moved to kiss the soft skin under his jaw and above his Adam's apple, feeling it bob against your lips with each desperate plea. You nipped at the spot, a sharp, teasing bite, and then, you whispered the words he was begging to hear. "Yes," you breathed against his skin. "Yes, please."

With a ragged exhale, he slowly pushed into you. The water sloshed around the two of you, a gentle wave that rippled outward from the point of your connection. Your grip on his hair tightened, a low whimper escaping your lips as the fullness of him filled you. He began to move, a slow, deliberate thrust in and out, the pleasure building with each stroke.

He was all a mess of words now, his control completely gone. "You're so good, baby," he rasped, his voice thick and strained. "So perfect, so fucking handsome." He thrust again, a little deeper this time. "God, you feel so good. So good around me. Is it as good for you, baby? Is it as good for you as it is for me?" His words were slurring together, a stream of praise and desperate questions as he worshipped you with his words and his body.

You pulled him into a sloppy, desperate kiss, silencing his praises with your lips. Your hands, still tangled in his hair, pulled him closer, your fingers digging into his scalp as his thrusts grew harsher and faster. He was a man possessed, his whines turning into guttural groans as he slammed into you, his body a relentless piston of heat and desire.

He broke the kiss, his lips a hot, wet line against your neck. "You're so tight, baby," he groaned, his voice a ragged whisper. "So fucking good. I can't... I can't stop." He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in short, harsh pants. "You're perfect. So perfect."

Your moans were a symphony of need and pleasure, your hips bucking to meet his every thrust. The water, a tumultuous sea around you, sloshed and churned with every movement. You were both a mess, a tangle of limbs and desperate pleas, your bodies a perfect fit against the cool tile wall.

"Come for me, baby," he begged, his voice a raw, desperate plea. "Let me feel you come around me."

He thrust one last time, a deep, earth-shattering plunge that made you cry out. Your body clenched around him, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over you. You were a mess, a shaking, panting mess, and you didn't care. You were in heaven, and he was the god who had taken you there.

The world narrowed to the two of you, the cool embrace of the water and the scorching heat of your joined bodies. You came undone, a shuddering, breathless wreck as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure crashed over you. Your climax was a deep, guttural moan that echoed off the tiled walls, your nails digging into John's shoulders, a desperate anchor in the storm.

He groaned into the crook of your neck, his own body convulsing with a raw, powerful release. His thrusts became a frantic, desperate rhythm, his voice a broken litany of your name, of praises, of "Good boy," and "Perfect." He shuddered around you, his body a taut bowstring that finally snapped, his final thrusts a deep, consuming plunge that left you both breathless and spent.

The aftermath was a beautiful, chaotic mess. Your bodies, slick with sweat and water, were a tangled knot of limbs. John’s head was still buried in your neck, his ragged breaths hot against your skin as he slowly began to withdraw. You whimpered at the loss, a soft, needy sound that had him pressing his forehead against your own, his arms tightening around your waist.

"God, you're so good for me," he whispered, his voice still hoarse with spent passion. He peppered your face with soft, lingering kisses, his thumb stroking your cheek.