muse

When he asks you where on earth you got that idea, you frowned, tight-lipped. Like you were pondering what to say without hurting his feelings. As if you could hurt his feelings.

“It’s just that…”

“C’mon bunny. You can’t hurt my feelings.”

“We’ve been dating four months, and we haven’t had sex.” He watches you cringe inwardly on yourself, as though willing your body to disappear.

The statement surprises him, because as far as he was concerned, the two of you had been having sex. Objectively great sex. For months.

“We had sex last night,” Titus counters. He watches you process his words. A crease between your neatly manicured brows, pouty full lips, world-wary eyes flitting around in confusion.

“Titus…”

“Baby…” he echoes your tone back at you.

“Last night, I masturbated, and you watched from a chair in the corner of the room occasionally providing commentary. That’s not sex.”

“Then what, pray tell, was it?”

“Touching myself with the ghost of a Victorian stranger in the room?” He laughs, but it’s abrupt and not at all at your words.

“You want to have sex, sweetheart?” He finally asks.

“Please, Titus,” you beg.

He nods, digging the tips of his fingers into your thigh hard enough to bruise.

“Alright, we can have sex.”

“Right now?” You ask, perking up at the prospect of finally getting his cock inside you.

“Tonight, baby. Have some decorum,” he chuckles crudely. You’re too wrapped up in your own excitement to catch the way his eyes have darkened about three shades closer to black.

You thought that illuminated beneath the warm, dim glow of the lamp set on the table beside him, that Titus Danforth was beautiful. Dangerously so.

The shadows dancing across his sharp features created the illusion of an edge, of a darkness simmering just below the surface of his piercing hazel eyes. They were trained viciously on you, commanding only the utmost devotion, a claiming of the soul.

The thought might have been frightening to you a couple of months ago, that one man could demand so much from you with just a gaze. But that was then, and this was now.

Titus’s claim over you was an unspoken thing, a creature with no mouth, but fatal claws. It snuck up on you swiftly in the middle of the night; like soldiers emerging from the trojan horse with nothing save for bloodlust and a primal urge to conquer.

It was lavish gifts with no price tags, the expectation that dates were paid for (he spent a long time training this out of you), that the apartment you lived in was paid for. Christ, he even got you to quit your job, feigned deep offence that you thought for even a second that he couldn’t very easily take care of you.

And there’s the rub.

Because now, your very existence was tied to the strings of his generosity, and his wallet.

You didn’t have much time to think this over though, because he was gesturing vaguely for you to begin, the other hand cradling his cheek as though a bored spectator awaiting their evening’s entertainment.

You leaned the curve of your spine against the plush headboard, the thick support hopefully hiding the tremble currently terrorising your limbs. You weren’t nervous, exactly. It was more trepidation, anticipation.

You’d spent countless nights with your legs spread for Titus, getting yourself off while he watched. It felt almost like prostitution, like you were a camgirl cumming for tips - but there was no camera, just him watching, waiting, assessing you like prey. You couldn’t even know for certain if this was pleasurable for him, didn’t know if his cock throbbed beneath the confines of his pants while you whined his name and begged for him to fuck you just once, please.

Untying the knot of your dress at the base of your neck, you glance at Titus, hoping your expression reads as sultry and ravishing, rather than other unmitigated waters - something like constipated or gassy, annoyed.

When your tits drop, no longer bound by the dress, Titus’s line of sight drops from your eyes to your chest, the ghost of a smile breaking through the corner of his mouth. “Gorgeous,” he comments.

Feeling emboldened by his reaction, you gather spit from underneath your tongue and hold up a hand to your mouth, then stare intently at him as drool the saliva onto the tips of your fingers.

He leans forward a smidge, barely millimetres. If you hadn’t been watching him as closely as you were, you would have missed it.

You lower the spit soaked hand to your chest, and lave it over one nipple, pinching the softened bud till it peaked between your fingers. Once you feel the thread of pleasure connecting your nipple to your cunt pull taut like a guitar string, you drag your fingers to your other breast, repeat the process all over again.

“S’it feel good?” Titus asks, voice hoarse. The evidence of your affect on him causes pride to spread outward from your chest all the way to the tips of your toes. It’s all inexplicable warmth and soft summer smiles, melted ice cream dripping between your toes on the boardwalk.

You nod, rutting your hips against the bed softly while you play with your tits.

“Can’t hear you, bunny. S’it feel good?” Titus asks again.

“It’d feel better if you were the one touching me,” you retort, pleasure making you brave. Titus thought it was cute that you got like this, no holds barred and mouthy while your fingers stroked your flesh, cunt leaking with your slick. You’d soon know better, he would see to that.

“Oh yeah, s’that right, baby?” He coos, leaning almost all the way forward now, elbows resting on his knees.

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered weakly, head feeling a little more soupy than you’d care to admit.

“We’ll see if you deserve it, huh? Get that pretty dress off, bunny. I wanna see your pussy.” Titus leans back, having restored order over the situation.

The bratty behaviour was only a decoy, really, a way for you to deflect how close you are to submitting fully to him. He wonders what would happen if you ever stopped being a mouthy little thing. If you were sweet and pliant in his hold from the get go, rather than pushing back to allow yourself the breathing space. Would he enjoy it even more? Would you?

He watches you shuck your dress off hastily, throwing it with impressive force across the room and watching as it lands atop the lamp. His lamp. When his eyes redirect to your face, the small smirk that curves at the corner of your mouth is distinctly proud, triumphant, and he finds his answer. No, he thinks he enjoys this side of you too much to want it to go away.

“No panties… someone was expecting to get lucky tonight, weren’t they?”

In lieu of replying, you trace a confident finger lewdly through the petals of your labia, gathering the cream that’s accumulated from your hole and dragging it up to wet your clit. You exhale softly at the sensation, your hips jerking in tandem.

“I’m still hoping to get lucky,” you sigh wistfully, tipping your head back against the headboard.

“Oh yeah? Your old man not taking good enough care of you?” Titus mocks, you whine back in protest.

“Take such good care of me,” you whimper, pushing in a finger.

“So what’s the problem?” Titus asks, fighting the urge to stick his hand in his pants and fist his cock.

“Want you to take care of me like this too,” you whine, curling your finger inside your cunt like you’ve got something to prove.

Titus doesn’t reply. He doesn’t need to, already knows he’s given up on this little game and is simply waiting for you to crack; waiting for you to offer up something more of yourself, maybe, so he can take more than he has to give.

“Add another finger,” he instructs, breath ragged.

You do as he says wordlessly, moaning unabashedly at the stretch. It’s still not enough.

“Want you, want you, hnnng,” you repeat the phrase like a mantra, like a prayer. You repeat the two words over and over like salvation.

At the sound of a belt buckle, your eyes flutter open in alert. You look over at Titus, and almost cry in relief, because you had heard correctly. He’s got his belt and pants undone, briefs pulled down just enough to reveal his cock.

You mewl at the sight, mouth watering and hips writhing against nothing. “Please.”

Titus looks at you smugly, taps the thick length against his palm. The sound echoes filthily in the room, only spurring you on. “Please what, baby?”

“Fuck me, please fuck me, daddy,” you cry, too far gone to care, too far gone to realise the power you’ve just handed Titus on a silver platter.

He exhales hard, like the air’s been forced from his lungs.

“Say it again.”

“Wha—?” You ask dumbly.

“Y’want me to fuck you, say it again,” Titus says with impressive restraint. Though he lets you think he’s in charge, he knows that’s not the truth - that he’d follow you to the ends of the earth, would get on bended knee to claim you as his forever, or just as surely disappear from your life if that was what you wanted. Apropos of how he really feels.

“Please fuck me, daddy,” you beg wantonly.

One second he’s sitting in the corner of the room, fisting his cock languidly, the next he’s standing at the edge of the bed, inches from finally giving you what you want.

“Daddy’s gonna give you whatever you want, bunny. But you gotta cum first, okay?” You nod eagerly, thrusting your fingers inside you with renewed fervour.

Titus has a firm hand clasped around your ankle, holding you open so he can watch, but he quickly becomes restless. He’s just so enamoured by you, this sweet little thing in his bed, doing everything you tell him to simply because he said so, and because you want to please him. It’s a heady feeling, having this much sway over a person.

It’s what he tells himself anyway, that he’s doing this for you, not for him, when he climbs onto the bed, urges your legs apart by his broad shoulders until he’s face to… face… with your pussy. Face to… lips. No.

His breathing picks up pace at the sight of your sopping cunt, because it’s finally in front of him, not metres away from his isle of self-imposed exile. He swats your hand away and you grumble at the loss of your fingers inside you. “Wanna see her, stop being a brat.”

He coos at the way your hole flutters around nothing, your cheeks flush with searing heat at the attention he’s finally giving you.

“She’s almost as pretty as you are, huh princess?” He asks softly, his tone almost fuzzy in its enamoured fondness. The way one reserves for speaking exclusively to babies or small animals.

“You think so?” You ask. He shushes you.

“I was talking to her, not you, bunny,” he says exasperatedly, as though you should have known he was talking to your reproductive organ, and not you.

He cajoles you by placing your legs on his shoulders. “Let’s go, bunny, wanna watch you cum.”

You roll your eyes. “You talking to me or her?”

Titus smirks. “You jealous?”

“No.” The smirk grows even more.

“Baby, you don’t need to be jealous of your pussy. M’just a fan of how you have another set of lips that don’t talk back.”

You huff angrily. He pouts mockingly. When you make no move to continue touching yourself, he sighs. You look away, trying to settle your gaze on anything that isn’t him.

He pointedly exhales his hot breath straight on your cunt and you wail, two hands falling to the greying curls on his head.

“Touch yourself.”

You nod now, and press the pads of your fingers to your clit, rubbing circles around the sensitive nub. You exhale shakily, but the sensation isn’t enough anymore, not when Titus is so close now, not with his hot breath fanning over your swollen folds.

“You promised,” you whine.

“I did, didn’t I? Am I being mean, baby?” Titus asks.

You nod at him, eyes teary and red-rimmed.

He hums as if in thought, and then hooks his pinky finger into your hole.

You bite down on your lip hard enough to draw blood, having the older man’s touch finally inside you is dizzying. “I’m— I’m gonna—“ you stutter.

“Gonna cum just from having my pinky inside you? That’s so pathetic, bunny,” Titus tuts in faux disappointment.

“Why’d you do that?” You ask, panting laboured breaths like you’re not embarrassingly close to cumming. He was right, it is pathetic that you’re free-falling over having his thick pinky hooked lazily into your pussy like a tepid, false promise he probably doesn’t intend to keep.

“M’pinky promising, honey,” Titus huffs a laugh.

“So annoying,” you grumble, fingers picking up pace on your ruddy clit.

Titus keeps his pinky inside you as you fuck yourself, adding one of your fingers to the mix while you assault your poor clit.

You’re shaking terribly, your hips rutting against his finger and yours. He knows you’re close, can feel it in the clench of your walls and the way you’ve stopped talking.

“Gonna— m’gonna—“ you whine.

Ever the team player, Titus spits onto your cunt, and you tumble over the edge, headlong into a blinding orgasm. Your nerves are shot, suspended somewhere between heaven and hell as your brain short circuits, whiting out your vision while your back arches off the bed as though possessed.

He watches you rapt, riding out the waves of aftershocks that wrack your body with tortuous pleasure, your pussy pushes out his finger and he mourns the loss, the warmth, the closeness.

“Holy shit,” you finally say, after what feels like an eternity.

“You’re magnetic,” Titus adds uselessly. You huff at him, he makes it up to you by flattening his tongue and licking your cunt from hole to clit. The touch punches the air from your lungs.

He cleans you up with his tongue attentively, almost clinically, and then pats your thigh like he’s wishing you a job well done.

He pulls you into his arms, kisses the top of your head. “Did so good, bunny.”

You yawn. “When are you gonna fuck me?”

“Not tonight, sweetheart. You’re exhausted.”

“But you promised,” another yawn leaves you. You can’t believe your body is betraying you at a time like this, choosing his side over yours, no less.

“And I intend to keep that promise, but you need to rest.”

You fall asleep almost immediately, failing miserably at the old adage about never going to bed angry.

When you wake, it’s to steady threads of sunlight streaming through Titus’s blackout curtains. You wince at the brightness of it all, eyelids flitting restlessly at the onslaught from peaceful dark.

You peer down at the weight covering your entire midsection, bury a hand in the soft curls on the offender’s head, teasing soft shapes along the scalp. Titus grunts sleepily, hikes a leg over yours so that he’s fully cradling you now - head nuzzled into your chest, arm possessively slung over your waist, and now the leg. It made you feel cared for, claimed and cherished, like a well loved teddy bear, or some other play thing.

You dig your nails into his scalp, tugging his hair at the root. He hisses, hips rutting against your thigh in surprise.

“G’morning, sleepyhead,” you coo softly.

He groans dejectedly. “No.”

“No?” You repeat.

He nips the soft tissue of your breast, your breath hitches at the sharp sting. “No.”

You pull his head from where he’s nestled - now contentedly sucking love bites all over your chest - until he’s face to face with you. “You’re behaving like a child, y’know that?”

The left corner of his mouth curves deliciously at your taunt, and despite yourself, you smile. You’d always thought he was devastatingly handsome when he was at his most mischievous. “S’not what you were saying last night, if I recall correctly,” he lilts.

You hum as though trying to recollect the events from the night before. “Wasn’t it? I’m having a hard time remembering.”

Titus huffs, flips the two of you over so you’re on your back, holds your hands above your head with only one of his.

“Ah… it’s starting to come back to me now…” you sigh wistfully.

“Maybe this will jog your memory. Oh please, daddy, fuck me with your huge cock, daddy,” he pitches his voice about three octaves above yours mockingly.

“I did not say that, Titus,” you retort.

“Oh, you didn’t? I must be imagining things,” Titus shakes his head faux-solemnly, hand still gripping your wrists.

“It’s common in men of your age group to become forgetful,” you supply unhelpfully.

Titus pinches your nipple hard enough to draw a sharp yelp from you. “Funny.”

You course-correct the conversation with all the finesse of a baby deer. “Now might be a bad time to point this out, but you promised to fuck me last night, and this morning I’m still markedly un-fucked.”

Titus loosens his grip from your wrists, trails his fingers down the expanse of your arm until he finds purchase around your throat. Your eyes dilate in response.

“Isn’t this fun for you, sweetheart? The thrill of the chase, the suspense building higher till it feels like the bough will burst, the constant rush of just falling short; of not being able to jump off the deep end just yet?” His eyes explore yours for any sign of understanding.

You whimper under the intense scrutiny of his gaze. His fingers close tighten around your throat, restricting your air supply. Your eyes roll back in response, but you offer up no verbal confirmation. He scoffs lightly. “It’s not, is it?”

You shake your head, eyes wide. “No, it is, I just—“

Titus cuts you off abruptly by climbing off the bed and walking out. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving you in the suffocating silence of words unspoken.

He doesn’t return. You wait five minutes, and then ten. Ten turns to twenty, and by then half an hour comes and goes in a flash.

Your tear ducts are waterlogged when you finally reach for your phone, opening your friends group chat and calling an emergency brunch.

“He what?”

You laugh miserably into your glass.

“I don’t know where he went, or what he’s doing. I didn’t even see him when I left this morning,” you explain, champagne sloshing around in your glass as your hand moves animatedly.

“And this is all because he still won’t fuck you, right?” Your friend asks, tone dripping with commiseration.

“Yes,” you whine, not caring how pathetic you sound.

“Has he said why he won’t? I feel like he’s just old and can’t get it up. He’s trying to distract you with these mind games and making you feel like the pervert so you don’t leave his geriatric ass.”

“No, it’s not that, his dick was rock hard last night. You should’ve been there, it was insane,” you muse wistfully.

“I want no part in your sick sex life, but I appreciate the offer,” they huff out a laugh, you giggle wetly.

“So what do I do? I don’t know how much longer I can hold out,” you whinge.

“Play his game, but play it better. Give him no other option but to fuck you till you can’t remember the past four months without him rocking your shit,” your friend explains like the answer was elementary, like you should’ve seen it glaringly with neon lights and flashing arrows.

“What would I do without you?” You cradle your cheek with your hand adoringly.

“Grow your hymen back, I guess.” The four of you drunkenly cackle, drawing the attention of other patrons.

You’re in the uber home when you notice the onslaught of notifications from Titus.

7 missed calls, multiple texts. You exhale what feels like relief off the tip of your tongue.

Baby, where’d you go?

Where are you?

Baby?

Stop ignoring me.

I went looking for you and you’re nowhere on the property…

What the fuck

Sweetheart?

Call me when you get this.

The last text’s time-stamped from about 3 minutes ago. You tap on his contact to call, when the phone starts ringing again, you answer and bring the phone to your ear.

“Hiiiii, Ti,” you slur, giggling down your end of the call.

“Bunny, I’ve been— wait, are you drunk?” Titus asks, tone laced with concern.

“Mhm, y’made me so sad this morning. Had brunch with m’friends, they say hi by the way.”

He blanches a little at your confession. “Baby, where are you? I’m coming to get you.”

“M’already coming home, in the uber,” you reply drily.

“You ubered? Sweetheart, we have drivers for that,” Titus reprimands you gently.

“Didn’t want your drivers, or your money, can do it myself,” you huff, exasperated.

“Get home to me safely, okay?” Titus pleads, feeling like he’s losing an uphill battle with you.

“Uh-huh.” You hang up abruptly, leaving your boyfriend beside himself.

Titus is standing at the front door when you stumble from the uber, watching the ungraceful entrance unfold like a train-wreck.

In spite of your drunkenness, and the sharp way you’d spoken to him on the phone, he still feels a prang of… something, unfurl in his chest at the sight of you; because you came home, because he missed you and he’s sorry for the way he acted. He just needs to tell you that, so everything can get back on track.

You glare miserably at him as you traipse up the stairs, taking two steps per stair, not trusting that you won’t fall on your face if you otherwise took them normally - maybe some part of you also didn’t trust that Titus would catch you if you did happen to fall.

As though sensing your inner turmoil, Titus leaves his post from the doorway and moves fast to steady you, a firm hand wrapping around your elbow. “You doing okay, my love?” He asks, brows furrowed at the state of you.

“M’fine, why’d you come to help me?” You grumble, feeling the wobble in your gait not dissimilarly to sea legs.

“Always wanna help you, sweetheart. What are you talking about?”

He leads you inside now, his arm around your waist, hand gripping the flesh of your hip like it’s grounding him to the present moment.

“So you wanna help me but you don’t wanna fuck me? Figures,” you argue, voice slurred and messy.

Titus huffs a soft laugh.

“Let’s get you to bed, sweetheart,” he offers.

“Yeah I bet you’d like that, you freak,” you bite.

He’s lifted you off your feet and into his arms before you even notice, let alone have time to argue.

He murmurs into your ear, “the only one in a rush to get the other into bed is you, bunny. Watch your tone, yeah?”

Your cheeks flush even pinker, your eyes well with unshed tears. “M’Sorry, daddy. I’ll be good, promise.”

Titus brushes the stray hairs off your face. “Course you are, bunny. I’m going to see to that myself.”

You sputter and sob wetly into his shoulder until you fall asleep in his arms. He tuts adoringly, finally places you into his bed.

He turns to leave, to allow you the rest you clearly need, but he’s stopped by you pawing at his wrist. “Stay, please. Please stay with me.”

He folds instantly. You crawl into his lap on the bed, and fall asleep chest to chest, his steady heart rate slowing your own, your thighs caging him in so he’s trapped.

When you wake again, the sun is starting to set behind the clouds, yellows and oranges and pinks giving way to blues and purples and all-encompassing black.

Titus must have moved while you were asleep, because he’s no longer trapped underneath your body. The lamp flickers on, illuminating the shadows of the man you were just thinking of.

“G’morning, sleepyhead,” he lilts.

“Mmm,” you hum, your throat parched and dry.

“How’re you feeling?”

“Thirsty,” you reply. Titus hums in response.

“I’ve got something for you to drink.” You perk up instantly, moving from lying to sitting attentively.

“Thought you might like the sound of that,” he notes smugly.

“C’mere, bunny. Hop to daddy.”

You crawl off the bed in a rush to make your way to Titus. Once you’re standing on two feet, he stops you.

“Nuh-uh, crawl,” he commands.

You crouch to the floor, feeling disconnected from shame, the emotion flickering somewhere in a box you’ve hidden deep within the recesses of your mind, and crawl to your boyfriend on all fours.

“That’s it, such a good bunny, huh?” He praises.

You cross the floor in seconds, and kneel expectantly before him.

He pets your head earnestly.

“Y’know, I got so horny while you were sleeping,” he starts, the corner of his mouth curving in delight as your eyes glaze over.

“But I couldn’t wake you, y’know? You looked so peaceful. So, I had to take care of myself.” You whimper, devastated, at what he’s just told you.

“Rolled you off me, shoved my hand in my pants, and fisted my cock until I came all over my briefs. And it was so fucking messy, bunny, y’should’ve seen it. Know what I did?” You shook your head, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood.

“Had to take my pants and messy briefs off, clean off my cock, and then put my pants back on. But I thought to myself, why waste a perfectly good load, when my girl’s gonna be so thirsty when she wakes up?” You look at him, waiting.

He pulls the sodden underwear from his pocket, the material soaked through with his cum, and looks at you.

“Open your mouth, bunny.” You follow his orders, and are rewarded with the taste of jizz on your tongue. You moan wholeheartedly.

You lap at the ropes of cum on his underwear with your tongue, savouring the undeniable taste of him. He watches you, eyes glinting with something like delight while you take to being gagged with his soiled underwear like a fucking champ, like you were made for it. It’s sickening what it does to him.

“Come here, bunny. Hump my fuckin’ boot while you gag on my underwear like a good little girl.”

You murmur something that gets lost in translation as it leaves your mouth and enters his eardrums, but it doesn’t really matter because you’re already sliding forward until your tummy hits the lace of his boot.

“That feel okay, bun?” He asks, you hum back at him, wriggling your butt around his boot as you attempt to find the right angle.

He lifts his foot, nestling the boot right between your folds and against your clit. You choke out a whimper beneath the gag. “That’s it right there, huh baby? Just needed your daddy to fix it for you,” he says, the tone swaddling you in warmth.

You rock your hips against his boot, once, twice, then you pause - the friction isn’t right. Titus watches this all unfold and removes his foot from under you.

You argue uselessly at the loss of contact. Titus shushes you. “I’m making it better, gimme a second.”

He spits on the boot with rather little fanfare, your jaw slackens at the drool pooling on the pristine leather. “Go on, get to it.”

You perch yourself back on his boot, and he lifts his foot again, eager enough to not want to waste any more time. The added lubricant on the boot is filthy, has your soaked through panties sliding over the boot as you rock your hips back and forth.

You exhale through your nose as your clit catches on a row of laces, but you’re undeterred, you pick up your pace, focusing on the throb of your clit against Titus’s spit slick boot and the depths of his eyes as he drinks in his fill of you.

“M’gonna—“ you manage to enunciate through the gag. The musky, salty flavour of his cum invades all your senses, trickling down till all you know is his taste and the feel of his boot, ungiving and unmoving to your writhing flesh.

Above you, Titus hisses. You look up from where you’d fixated on his kneecap and the thick bulk of muscle just above it. He’s pulled his cock from his pants at some point, you can’t be sure when, but he’s not letting himself fuck into his fist just yet. His eyes watch you, waiting, imploring you to do something, while he circles his leaky tip with the pad of his thumb and forefinger.

You moan wantonly at the sight of him, so undone and affected by you, so different from his usual masquerade at put-togetherness. He nods at you fervently, like he’s begging you to give in.

You lift your hand to his thigh hesitantly, he jolts at the contact but quickly settles. You trace your fingers slowly up the expanse of his thick thigh, pausing occasionally to gauge his reaction, waiting for him to stop you. But it never comes.

He’s slack-jawed, can only offer dumb, eager nods. If you thought you were unmoored by this whole encounter, you knew that Titus was ten times more affected.

When your fingers finally graze his shaft, he crashes back to reality all at once, slaps your hand away. Outraged, you spit out the gag.

“Wha—“ you start, but are interrupted by Titus surging forward so he’s encroaching on your space. He cups your chin harshly, squashes your cheeks together.

“Did I say you could spit your gag out? Or stop humping my boot?” He asks.

“No, but—“

“No, I asked you a question,” he cuts you off again.

“No, you didn’t,” you answer.

“That’s right. So what gave you the impression that you could do it then?”

Your eyes divert from his piercing stare. “You slapped my hand away, was just trying to make you feel good,” you murmur.

“I never said you could touch,” Titus rebuffs.

“You nodded!”

Titus laughs meanly. “Nodding is not verbal consent, bunny. You should know that.”

Your head drops, you don’t want him to see how crestfallen you probably look right now.

Titus pinches your chin again, lifts your head so you can look at him again.

“This must be so hard for you, baby,” he coos.

You roll your eyes dejectedly. “You want me to fuck you, sweetheart?”

You look away from him again, not meeting his eyes. He places his thumb at your bottom lip, tugs at the flesh softly until you suck the digit into your mouth. “Attagirl.”

“Bet you wish it was my cock, huh?” He asks smugly, though the way you’re suckling his thumb, hollowing your cheeks as you lave your tongue over the pad of it, has him also wishing it was his cock.

He pulls you off of his thumb by tugging your head back with a firm hand. You look up at him, eyes glassy, fully supplicant at his feet.

“Alright, fuck it,” he announces.

“Open up for me,” he adds. You drop your jaw obediently and mewl when he finally slaps his tip on your tongue, the weight of it making you dizzy.

“Look at you, cock drunk and it’s not even fucking inside you yet.” He pushes his tip past your lips and groans.

You push your head down, trying to get more of him in your mouth, but he holds you at the scruff of your neck, clicks his teeth at you.

“Eager, are we?”

You groan frustratedly, suckling on his tip.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I thought,” he replies to your babbling. You pull back just enough to speak.

“Fuck my throat or I’m leaving.”

You dare him to fight you on it. To exert control over you. He simply balks.

“Oh,” is all he can manage before he’s pushing his cock into your mouth, not stopping till it hit the back of your throat. You gag at the fullness.

Titus ignores you pushing and hitting his thigh. You want him to fuck your throat, that’s what he’s going to do.

He sets a brutal pace, thrusting his long girthy cock in and out of your mouth. Tears flow freely down your cheeks, you rut helplessly against his boot, chasing your own release while he builds his in your throat.

“Shit, this is what you wanted, right? Wanted your big, mean daddy to fuck your throat?”

You babble around his cock, soaking his boot with your slick while pleasure glitters up and down your spine, curling your toes. The persistent shlick of his cock as he fucks the walls of your throat echoes around the room, hammers its way between your ears till it makes a home in the darkest corner of your brain, the sound so filthy it only brings you closer to orgasm.

You hollow out your cheeks in an effort not to gag, catching Titus off guard. His clenched fingers tug tighter on the root of your skull and he honest to god whimpers.

“Can’t just do that to me, baby. Fuck, I almost came,” he exhales.

You hollow your cheeks again, flick your tongue against the underside of his shaft. He pitches forward with a garbled yell, bent over you while his thrusts turn short and fast. “Gonna cum.”

He’s leaned over far enough that he can grab your ass from this angle, you shout in surprise when he gifts you with a swift smack.

“C’mon, bunny. Hump my fuckin’ boot, know you can do better that.” He cups the soft plush of your ass in his hand and moves, sets the pace for you to rock your cunt against him.

It’s so much.

He’s evil enough that the rock of your hips matches the thrust of his, taking and giving at twin tempos. You’re brainless in his clutches, a mewling, whining play thing for him to fuck as he wishes, while also letting you use him as a vessel for your own pleasure. It’s all you ever wanted.

Your orgasm surges through you at the realisation, breaks you open and throws you off the cliff violently. You cry out, throat seizing tightly enough that it triggers Titus’s own orgasm, he blabbers praise and whines into your hair as he buries his load in your throat, tacky spend trickling over your tongue like silk.

You tremble in his arms, the aftershocks coursing through your veins and searing your nerves till nothing remained.

Titus drops to his knees, grunting softly as his old bones betray him. He gently tucks your hair behind your ear.

“You’re wonderful, bunny. D’you know that? So perfect and wonderful.” His eyes are glassy as he sings your praise, tone shaky - you attribute it to him still reeling from his orgasm, he knows the truth. A four letter word starting with L knocking him in the teeth.

“Thank you for doing that with me,” you murmur softly, purposely meeting his gaze. Something in him cracks, and he struggles to hold back the sentence he’s dying to say. Three words. Eight letters.

But it’s too soon, so he merely says course, baby, anytime.

“Christ, made a fuckin’ mess of my boot, honey,” he lilts.

You tilt your head at him, assessing, but he can gather where your head is at based on the way your eyes glint with mischief. “Sorry, daddy, I’ll clean it up.”

His cock twitches in interest as you slide off his boot and arch forward, ass pitched in the air while you drop your head to his boot, tongue flattening to lick your juices off the leather.

He’s fucking winded, to tell you the truth.

You find new ways to surprise him every day.

After you lick the boot clean, you right yourself on your knees, grin up at him sweetly, your slick coating your cheeks.

He leans forward and kisses you messily, hands cradling the side of your head and your hip. You sigh dreamily into his mouth as he licks the cream from your cheeks, fucks it back into your mouth with his tongue.

When he pulls back, a string of saliva connects the two of you and you giggle at it.

“You’re so sweet, baby. Guess I just needed to fuck it back into you, huh?”

His eyes glint playfully at you, you respond by licking the tip of his nose and leaving him on the floor. “Good luck getting back up, old man! Those knees aren’t what they used to be.”

He feels like maybe you’re joking, like any second you’ll come back into the room and help him up. Not that he needs it, he’s more than capable of getting himself off the floor, it just takes him a second. But then he hears the shower turn on, and the shower door open and shut. By the time you start humming, he can imagine you washing your hair, a smug smile perched on your soft lips.

Guess I deserve that. He peels himself off the floor with as much dignity as he can handle, and saunters over the bathroom, leaving behind items of clothing as he goes. He’ll pick it up later, or you will, or the maid will. He’s not really fussed about it.

You squeal as he enters the shower behind you, whinging at him to give you some privacy. From outside the door, the sound is soon muffled, fizzled out, as though covered beneath a hand, and then evolves into shameless cries of pleasure.

The shower leaves you covered in more bodily fluids than you entered with, and you resolve that maybe a second shower will solve the problem. With Titus in the picture, and four months of edging now bursting forth from captivity between you two, that was not an option.

He’s got a lot to catch up on.

“Y’know, I was thinking…” You punctuate your sentence by tracing the rim of your wine glass with the tip of your forefinger.

“This can’t be good,” Titus quips.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say,” you bemoan him, he smiles at you in jest.

“No, but I know you, and you thinking has almost always been to my detriment.” Titus takes down a bite of steak in premature triumph, savouring the win before the game’s even begun its fourth quarter. Idiot.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about what you said about the hunt, the chase, and whatnot before you stormed out of the house…” You tepidly throw out the hook, feigning humility, you wait for Titus to take the bait.

“Oh yeah?” He asks hesitantly, careful not to give too much away.

“Mhm.”

“What about it?” He questions further. Got him.

“Well, I figured we could make a little game out of it, just the two of us,” you muse, sugar sweet and innocent enough for him to want to sink his claws into you.

“What are the rules?” His silverware lays abandoned on his dinner plate, his hands white-knuckling the edge of the table. He feels like a dog who’s heard all its favourite words, can only hope he’s hiding it well enough that you don’t scent his excitement.

The small tug of your mouth tells him all he needs to know.

“If I catch you, you have to fuck me,” you explain. Titus perks up in a way you can’t help but be endeared by. His posture straightens, his pupils have dilated, he’s futilely battening down the hatches on the world’s strongest grin. His excitement rolls off of him in waves, it’s fucking contagious.

“Yeah?” He asks, voice straining.

“Yeah, baby.”

He’s at your side in a second, perched against the table. He pushes your dinner plate away, the action reeks of attention-seeking, an insistent and needy look at me, I’m the real main course, please, m’right here.

You’re smug as you take him in, eyeing him up and down hungrily. He’s suddenly bashful at the attention, is fighting the good fight to keep it under control.

“You know, I’m typically the hunter, not the hunted,” Titus notes.

“Yeah, well, I’m in charge this time, champ,” you quip lightly, clapping his bicep firmly.

He tilts his head at you, eyes narrowing to the claiming grip you have on his bicep. “Okay.”

“Okay?” You ask.

“Yeah, but don’t call me champ,” he scoffs.

“I’ll call you whatever I want, sweetness.”

You press your lips to his disarmingly. He’s immediately pliant under your touch, gooey and soft-limbed as you lick into his mouth, digging your fingers hard enough to bruise into the bulk of his bicep and his lower back, just shy of the top of his ass.

He cups your jaw and whimpers into the searing kiss, you freeze. He’s panicking as you huff a laugh into the shared space between your mouths.

“Did you just whimper?” You ask, lips touching his with every syllable uttered.

You pull back when he doesn’t answer, he lets out a frustrated whine as you do, cheeks flushed pink.

“S’okay if you did, I just don’t know if I’ve heard you make that sound before,” you assure him.

He nods quickly. “Sorry.”

You kiss him chastely. “Don’t be, baby. Did such a good job letting me take care of you.”

He buries his head in the crook of your neck so you can’t see him flustered. Ever one to read a room, you acquiesce, allow him a brief respite, play with his curls attentively. He murmurs something into your shoulder.

“What was that?”

He groans, tilts his head so his mouth’s not plastered to your throat. “I said, this is so embarrassing.”

“What is?”

“This. Don’t know why m’being so needy, m’sorry, bunny.” You squeeze his thigh reassuringly.

“You just need someone to take care of you for a bit, honey. Lemme take care of you, okay?” You don’t mean to tell him what he needs, you just know - intimately - what he’s experiencing, and you’re more than capable of doing that for him. You want to help.

You wait for him to meet your gaze, he stalls, having suddenly become very comfortable breathing in the sweet scent of your skin, content even - not at all hiding from you.

You tap his thigh and he retreats, rights himself on the table. He peers down at you, assessing. Finding no judgment, only adoration, he nods.

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Would tonight be too soon?” Titus takes longer than necessary to answer your question, it honestly borders on taking the piss. He scratches his chin ponderingly, furrows his brow in concentration.

When you scoff and unfold your legs as though about to stand, Titus utters a conclusive No.

“I’ll meet you outside in 15, no weapons,” you point an accusing finger at him, he raises his hands in mock innocence, albeit glassy-eyed and a little knock-kneed.

He watches as you leave the dining room, hips swaying exaggeratedly solely for his entertainment. “15 minutes!” You call, before slamming the door shut behind you.

Titus isn’t exactly sure what he was expecting when you proposed a hunt. No weapons, obviously, maybe nothing at all? Can-do attitudes and a team spirit?

He knows for certain that he wasn’t expecting the full kit and caboodle, a table laid out with all the paraphernalia you’d anticipated either of you would need - and you in hunting gear, looking particularly pleased with yourself.

“Am I going to die tonight?” Titus asks, his voice tinged in disbelief.

“What would be my weapon of choice be exactly - the flashlight, the condoms, lube?” You fold your arms.

“Oh, I don’t know, the rope maybe?” Titus retorts.

Okay, maybe you had forgotten about the rope.

“Think I’ll get my own docuseries on Netflix?” You ask, brows raising teasingly.

“I’m pretty sure the lawyers would have it buried before it left pre-production.”

You pout, “you’re no fun.”

Titus looks over the table again, you watch him in earnest. “Swiss army knives? Kinky,” he lilts.

“For the rope,” you supply. He looks at you, a curt brow raised, jaw slack.

“You don’t say!” He quips snarkily. You roll your eyes.

He turns back around, showing you his taut back muscles. As the line of his spine straightens, a bloodhound having caught a scent, you sigh, wondering what he’s stumbled across now.

He unceremoniously flings the box of condoms to the furthest corner of the room, you laugh. “Won’t be needing those.”

“Is that right?” You ask.

“What can I say, m’feeling plucky tonight.”

“You mean lucky?”

“Said what I said,” he tells you, leaving no room for doubt.

“I’m calling time.” Titus backs away from the table, hands raised.

You turn and exit the room, he follows after you like a stray puppy. You lean against the pillar outside, watching as he arrives immediately after you, hands behind his back. “What’d you grab, honey?”

He’s sheepish as he empties out his pockets, showing off his armada of approximately fucking zilch, nada, absolutely nothing.

“Gave you all that time and you grabbed nothing?” You tut softly.

“You’re very distracting,” he bemoans.

“I guess the experience is more authentic this way,” you sigh wistfully, reaching for something at your back.

Titus stands at full alert, eyes wide as he tries to make of what you’ve got hiding back there. He freezes when you reveal a handgun.

“Now… sweetheart…” He starts, feeling very much like he’s negotiating with a terrorist. His hands raised calmly in a defensive stance, attempting to fawn.

“Stand down, Danforth. This is just to… I don’t fucking know, commence the hunt? Is that what y’all call it?” You fuss with the barrel, clicking the safety off.

He sighs in relief, wipes away the beading sweat at his hairline. “This is very immersive.”

“Ten.” You start counting down, but avoid eye contact with Titus, looking instead toward your boot laces.

“Nine.”

“Eight.” Titus internally maps out the grounds, trying to pinpoint a hiding spot.

“Seven.” He can’t fucking think with you counting down the seconds like this is life or death. He’s never been on this end of the stick before. It’s fucking bullshit, he thinks.

“Baby—“ he interjects, like maybe if he plays his cards right, he can take you inside and pretend none of this ever happened if he can flick his tongue just right.

“Too late, six,” you reply monotonously.

“Five.”

Fuck. Titus leans forward, sprint ready.

“Four.”

“Three.”

“Two.”

You raise the gun in the air and shoot.

“What happened to fucking one?” Titus yells.

“You have seven minutes! That’s it!” You yell after him, watching gleefully as he disappears into the darkness.

Seven minutes fly by.

You barely had time to check your phone after running the checks on your buggy before the alarm was going off. All things considered, you felt like you were handling this a little too well. It’s not like hunting your rich boyfriend through his family compound for sex reasons was a certifiable skill, one you can put on your résumé and send in for job applications.

Maybe Titus was rubbing off on you after all. Well… yes, but in more ways than one.

You kickstart the engine, and veer off the golf course in the direction of the woods.

Titus’s legs carried him all the way through to the furthest corner of the woods. If he knew you as well as he thought he did, then there’s no way in hell you’d come looking for him here. It was easy money.

He doesn’t even bother finding a hiding place, because he’s so sure you wouldn’t come looking for him here.

It’s not that he doesn’t wanna fuck, there’s literally nothing else he wants to do, despite past behaviour maybe indicating otherwise. He’s just got a mean competitive streak - doesn’t like losing, not even if it’s you, not even if it’s for sex. He refuses to go down like that.

He lays down on the collapsed trunk of a tree, waiting for day to break. He’s not cocky enough to think he might steal a couple of winks of sleep while he waits.

A light shines through the thicket of trees, you on your buggy, he presumes, but you go straight past him. His heart rate picks up at you being so close. Sucker, he thinks to himself.

Ahead, you pull the buggy off to the side and kill the engine, prepared to make the rest of the trip on foot. You’d spotted a fallen tree as you drove past, back toward the property line. It’s exactly the kind of bullshit hiding spot Titus would be drawn to, thinking you wouldn’t go looking for him there.

You retrace the journey from memory in the complete dark, not being able to use your torch now, lest you reveal yourself to Titus.

You bank right a few hundred feet from the tree, giving yourself the opportunity to sneak up on him from behind. At the sound of obnoxious whistling, you stop. “This motherfucker,” you mutter quietly.

Deciding that he’s close enough to be within earshot, you rid yourself of your boots, you’re not going to sneak up on him if he had heard you clomping around minutes ago and had the wherewithal to run.

You’re not a big fan of your socked feet being exposed to the forest floor, but you’re made of tougher stuff than Titus apparently gives you credit for, so you persevere.

At this point, you aren’t even sure you’re walking in the right direction, when the tree comes into view. Titus is lying on top of the fucking thing, eyes closed with his fingers tapping his belly, still humming some stupid show-tune you’re sure you’ll remember once he’s underneath you.

Knowing you’ll regret this later, you drop to all fours, and crawl the rest of the way to the tree trunk. While the extra limbs might give you away volume wise, you don’t want to be within his line of sight if he were to open his eyes.

He’s literally right in front of you now, and somehow still hasn’t heard you. You stand silently, not allowing yourself a reprieve to stare down at him like you want to.

You raise your dirty hand, silently beg that he’ll forgive you for doing this, and clamp your hand down on his mouth.

His eyes shoot open, darting around until they land on his gagged mouth, and then on you, peering down at him with a soft smile on your face. The one you typically reserve for him on much kinder occasions.

“I win,” you tell him, smile transforming into something cockier.

He nips the flesh of your palm with his teeth. Your smile doesn’t falter, you simply slide your hand from his mouth until it’s wrapped firmly around his neck, careful fingers placing pressure on the sides of this throat.

His eyes dilate in response, breaths coming in heavy pants. “Come claim your prize then,” he quips gruffly.

You hum noncommittally. “Right here?”

“You got anywhere else in mind?” Titus asks, breathless.

You look around as though you have countless options, not just tree number one, number seven, and number 83. “Over there,” you point to a thick oak about ten metres away.

“Kinda far, no?” You tap his thigh.

“I think you’ll make it.” He hops off the tree just in time for you to make a run for it.

He darts behind you, picking up speed to come at you from the side. Just before you reach the tree, he grapples you and forces your back against it. The collision knocks the wind from your lungs.

You bite your lip at him. “Been waiting to do that all night, handsome?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” he groans, leaning forward to nip and suck at the column of your throat.

You curl deceptively light fingers into his hair, digging into the roots and tugging his head back forcefully. He whines, desperate.

“None of that, you’re like a little puppy,” you reprimand.

“Feel like one,” he notes uselessly. You huff a soft laugh.

“Yeah?” You ask, laughter lilting your voice. He nods quickly, eyes staring into yours, pleading.

You turn in his grasp, pressing the line of your ass right against his rigid cock. “So fuck me like it then.”

He’s unbuckling his belt and shucking his pants down when he drops a shaky “don’t have to tell me twice.”

You follow suit, listening to him pant into the base of your skull while he gets himself hard enough to fuck you. “Need a hand?” You offer.

“No,” he throws back defiantly.

You turn around in his hold anyway, batter your eyelashes at him demurely. “No?”

Titus’s cock swells in his fist at the sight of you. “Can do it myself,” he falters, avoiding direct eye contact.

You pinch his chin, force him to look at you. He bites his lip pitifully, perpetually fuzzy from the way you’ve so casually taken to dominating him. Your duality’s fucking intoxicating.

“Titus,” you scold him. He mewls at the tone.

“I know you’re very capable, okay? That’s not what this is. Now be a good boy and let me take care of you.” He almost passes out as you drool a line of spit onto the tip of his fat, swollen cock, flicking your wrist as you spread the mix of your spit and his pre over his tip and shaft - trying to lube him up enough to fuck you, you silently curse him for not having the foresight to take the lube with him.

“Feels… fucking good,” Titus grunts, helplessly thrusting into your hand.

“You wanna fuck me in doggy, puppy? Or missionary?” Your eyes glint mischievously. Titus couldn’t help but notice the way the light of your eyes caught on moonlight, illuminating like you were some lunar goddess sent solely for him.

“Both.”

“And m’not a puppy.” You giggle softly.

“Oh yeah? Then why do you act like one?”

“Do not,” Titus bites. You pinch his cheek with a placating aww, the action is pure malicious intent dressed up as doting affection. It sends shivers down his spine, makes precum dribble heavily from his tip.

“Okay, tough guy,” you reply.

You turn around again, lining your hole up with his cock, and tilt your hips back, filling yourself until he’s at the hilt. You exhale, winded.

“Holy shit.”

You keep him inside you for a minute, unmoving. He thinks you’re being cruel, you’re just trying to get accustomed to being so fucking full.

“Need— need you to—“ Titus stammers.

You shush him. “Just need a second, baby.”

“Oh.” Though you can’t see him, you know he’s smiling, super fucking pleased that you’re so affected by his size.

Not to be one-upped, you clench the walls of your cunt around his cock. He shouts in surprise, thrusts even further into you somehow. You whimper pathetically, not un-noticing of the bulge in your tummy.

“It’s so deep, honey. Can feel you in my fuckin’ guts,” you tell him as you reach for his hand and place it gently against the bulge of his cock inside your belly.

He pushes down on the bulge and gives an aborted thrust, you fall forward, barely avoiding smacking your head against the tree trunk.

Instead, you meet flesh, a soft palm, one you’d spent hours familiarising yourself with. You know, my grandma always used to say soft hands meant you’d never done a hard days work in your life, you told him, tracing shapes into the peachy, unblemished skin. He’d wrenched his hand from yours, faux-pissed but definitely mildly offended. I work, he’d told you, disbelieving. You were grateful for the soft landing now.

“Careful, bunny, can’t have you unconscious now,” he chides.

You scoff. “Okay, m’ready.”

Needing no further warning, he pulls out till only his tip’s inside you, and thrusts forward, spearing you on the first couple inches his cock. “Ju—just like that, baby,” you coo, the short and sharp thrusts hitting the ache between your thighs just right.

He groans, presses in another couple inches. He’s barely halfway, but you’re already keeling over at the length. He knows you can take more, you took him balls deep a couple minutes ago to prove a point - played your cards too fucking early.

“Take it, bunny, know you’re good for it,” he hisses.

“Y’don’t know shit. Take what I fucking give you like a good puppy, huh?” You clench your cunt around him to punctuate your sentence, cutting off his smart mouth like punishment.

He whimpers. “Thank you.”

You reach back and grip his hip. “Lemme set the pace.”

He nods emphatically. “Okay, just— please, move.”

You huff and lower yourself against the tree, creating a better angle and arching your back further. You must elongate your spine further because the movement draws out breathless pants from Titus. “S’perfect right there.”

You steady your hand on the trunk, keep your other hand locked on Titus’s hip, and fuck yourself on his cock. His hands find purchase on the dips at your spine, digs his fingers into the soft flesh. “Feels so good, baby, like you were made for me,” he praises.

You preen under his praise, your hole flutters around his cock in response, swallowing as much of his length as she can. “Y’like when I bounce this ass on you, baby? You gonna cum for me?”

Titus chokes on a moan, his body seemingly content to betray him in more ways than one because his hips jerk against the rhythmic pace you’ve set fucking back on him. “Thought so,” you note cockily.

“You tellin’ me this doesn’t feel as good for you, as it does for me?” Titus asks, barely concealing his hurt.

Your thrusts stop. He groans dejectedly, waits for anything, something. You slip forward, feigning nonchalance as his dick falls from your hole. ET phone home.

You turn to face Titus. “Lift me up?”

He picks you up with ease, rests your back gently against the tree as though he hadn’t tackled you into it moments ago. You trace the shape of his face gently - his hairline down to the apple of his cheeks, his jaw, his lips, up to his hairline again and down the bridge of his nose.

“What was that for?” He asks gruffly.

“Just admiring how pretty you are,” you tell him.

He scoffs. “M’not pretty.”

“Handsome, then. Beautiful,” you concur.

“You don’t need to grease me up, sweetheart, I’m already fucking you.”

You hum. “Seems to me like you’re arguing with me while your dick goes soft, actually.”

Titus’s gaze drops to his dick, fully erect. “I am not— oh, you were fucking with me,” he says flatly.

You take his dick in your hand again. “Want you to cum inside me, honey. Think you can manage?”

His eyes light up. “Really?”

“Really. Limited time offer, subject to change,” you stifle a laugh.

“M’ignoring that, for Christ’ sake,” he murmurs, fists his dick a couple times to ensure he’s still hard enough to fuck, and then pushes in and in and in.

“Feels like a home run everytime, huh?” He asks, more to himself than you.

“I’ve never watched an NFL game before,” you reply shakily; his cock nestled snugly between the walls of your cunt like he belongs there is admittedly throwing you, gives you a myriad of ideas - dangerous ones.

“I’m ignoring that because I feel like it’s going to kill my boner.” His grip on you lifts you higher, spreads your legs a little further. His hips shift in tandem with yours, allowing him a deeper angle.

He rocks his hips forward and you wail, head dropping into his shoulder. “That’s the finisher, yeah?”

He kisses the top of your head, spears his hips into yours in long, languid thrusts. “Need— faster,” you tell him, words muffled by his skin’s hold on your lips.

“I can do faster for you,” Titus nods, holding you tighter against the tree as he thunders his hips, hammering his cock into your pussy.

“Fuck!” You cry. He huffs a satisfied laugh, keeps his brutal pace.

You throw your head back, feeling your core simmering, tipping near to the point of boiling over. “Gonna— fuck— gonna make me cum, baby. Doing so good f’me,” you pant, words pouring out into the night like stardust.

Titus kisses you desperately, tongues clashing and teeth licking against each other hard enough to ache. He slides a hand from around your waist to your pudgy, swollen clit and gives the poor thing some attention. You cry out in relief, overstimulation maybe, he can’t tell which, only that the noises you gift him spur him on even more.

Your legs tremble uncontrollably in his grasp now, the clit rubbing has your nerves working overtime to bring you release. “Shit, need you to cum with me, Titus. Are you close? Need me to do anything for you, baby?”

He whines, his thrusts hiccup at your question. “Can you— can you tell me you love me?” He asks pathetically.

You falter. He catches your expression, and his face falls.

“Even if you don’t mean it, s’okay. It doesn’t matter, forget I said anything.” His eyes are glassy, even more pretty when lit by the moon, though he won’t look you in the eye.

His hand drops from your clit, goes to rest back on your waist to set you down, feeling like the moment is clearly dead.

You wrap your smaller hand around his wrist, bring it to your mouth. He watches, confused, as you suck his fingers between your teeth, licking your slick off the pads of his fingers individually, then suckling and kissing and laving your tongue over them in a way that feels like devotion. Maybe you just like the taste of your cum, Titus can’t really say right now - doesn’t feel very sure of anything.

You guide his hand back to your clit, moving his stiff fingers against the engorged nub until he unfreezes enough to do it himself. Your hand returns to his face, cups his cheek.

“Titus Danforth, I love you terribly. I love you in a way that feels non-conducive to breathing, to eating, to sleeping. I watch you while you sleep and think that I couldn’t feel close enough to you unless I burrowed my way into your skin and lived out the rest of my days there. Do you understand me? I love you, and I’m sorry if I haven’t shown you that every day that we spend together.”

Fat globs of tears streak down your poor boyfriend’s cheeks, he hiccups these awful sobs before he buries his face into your lips, smushing his against yours gracelessly, like he’s trying to transfuse himself to you. His thrusts are messy as he fucks into you. “Can you say it again?” He asks against your lips.

“I love you,” you repeat, your cheeks wet with his tears.

He groans loudly. Your eyes widen in surprise as you feel him fill your cunt, burying his load inside you. “Ti—“

“No.”

He thrusts faster and harder into you, his fingers pinch your clit like he’s on a mission. “Waitwaitwaitwait.”

“No, cum on my cock like you fuckin’ love me,” Titus commands, and you do.

Searing pleasure burns from your core, explodes in your spine like fireworks. His touch is merciless, coaxing you through your orgasm while you jerk and convulse in his arms.

You drop against the tree trunk, spent.

“Holy shit,” you say in unison.

You both giggle, content to stay in this bubble forever, pressing chaste kisses as a reminder, a promise to keep forever, a declaration of… well, love.

“Do you wanna go to a diner?” Titus asks, breaking the calm silence.

“You’re sooo old. You sweet on me or somethin, Danforth? Gonna buy me a milkshake?” You quip, a smirk curling at the corner of your mouth.

“Would you prefer I act like guys your age? Oh, I came, I’m going to sleep now, can you see yourself out?” At his oafy impression of almost of all your exes, you snort.

“Are those my two options? Diner dash with grandpa or avoidant 20-something year old?” You ask brashly.

He squeezes the plush of your ass possessively. “You don’t get any options, bunny. You’re fuckin’ mine forever.” You smile, dazed.

“I’m suddenly craving waffles.”

“Sounds good, we can just swipe your pussy for the syrup,” Titus lilts. You groan, disgusted, and push him away from you so you can pull your pants back up.

“I hate you.”

“Noooo you love me, you said it yourself.”

“I miss when you had erectile dysfunction, all this sex’s got you on some bullshit.”

“What?”

“You heard me. If you win, you go. If I win, you’ll marry me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “We’ll have a small ceremony, move into the house I bought for us—before you decided to be an insolent little bitch and broke up with me—and live there as a couple, as we should. And we’ll have children, to inherit my name, my legacy.”

He’s insane. There is no way he means this, is there? You hesitate before saying anything, staring at him, trying to read his face. But all you see there is… that he means it. He’s set on this.

You’ll have to try to find your way out of this somehow.

“Well, that’s hardly fair, is it?” You question, crossing your arms over your chest, hiding the shaking of your hands. “You know the complex better than I do. How would I be able to hide?”

“I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“But what about the rules?”

“Anything goes. Except killing, of course.”

The more he talks, the more you realize there’s no way out of this. You will have to play.

And yet you hesitate. He’s made it clear he can’t let you go, so even if you win, what’s stopping him from keeping you anyway? What’s stopping the Council from having you quietly disposed of the moment you’re no longer under Titus’ control? In the official games, Le Bail’s rules are absolute. Unbreakable. People explode for breaking them. But this? This is unofficial. There’s no contract, no supernatural enforcement, no consequences for going back on his word.

All you have is his word.

You almost ask. You can feel the question sitting right there —his word, and what it’s actually worth—but you swallow it back down. What would be the point? If he says yes, you have no way of knowing if he means it. If he says no…

Well. You’d rather not find out what comes after no.

So instead you just look at him for a moment, and then nod.

“Fine,” you say. “I’ll play.”

He was gracious enough —if that word can even apply to him— to give you some kind of head start. He let you leave the mansion before he did, which is technically the bare minimum, but in these circumstances is practically generous.

Your headstart is seven minutes. Seven.

You force yourself to think fast, clear and precise, which actually takes a lot of effort when you know your crazy ex boyfriend is literally hunting you down.

The thing about his family’s complex—you think as your feet start moving— is that it’s huge. It has a casino resort, the golf course, stylish lobbies, the kitchen, the laundry room and a gazillion other rooms you’re probably unaware of. The downside? Titus is aware of all of them. And he has eyes and ears everywhere. You can’t assume he’ll play fairly, not when it comes to you and the risk of losing you. The property will be crawling with employees that could, and probably would, report back to him on sight.

So, you choose the most even terrain you could think of under duress.

The forest.

You run straight to it, trying not to be unsettled by how unfamiliar it feels.

Sure, in the two years you were with Titus, you’ve been in the forest a few times, but it was never alone, always with him. Once it was to get to know the terrain when you started dating, the second is when he taught you how to shoot; once he’d revealed enough about his family for you to understand that your life was always at risk simply by being with him. And oh, there was a third time too, but that one was to fuck.

You try not to think much about the latter, instead, you try to focus on the first visit, the tour, trying to recall whatever useful information he’d given about the forest that you can possibly remember right now.

And as it turns out, you can’t remember shit. Not under all this pressure, not when you know he’s following you.

So you run deep into the woods, with no sense of direction or idea about the depths of it, you just run and run, trying to find somewhere with enough coverage to stop and think of something. Of a strategy to win.

Coming up with a strategy is difficult though. You could always just hide, and stay alert for any noises or signs that he’s close by, but then what? You run and confirm that you’re there by making a whole lot of fucking noise in a forest that feels like it’s holding its breath on purpose? You’ve seen that man in action before, he’s strong and unnervingly fast. And you know he’s got stamina. So you stand no chance against him. Not to mention, you have no fucking clue what time it is, and he said you’d win at sunrise. Which is… a lot of time.

Fuck.

The forest swallows you whole.

You find a cluster of trees dense enough to crouch behind, pressing your back against the bark and forcing yourself to go still. To stop breathing so loud. Your heart is doing its best to get you caught, hammering so hard you’re half convinced he could hear it from across the property.

But there’s nothing. Just the wind moving through branches somewhere above you, and the sound of your own pulse.

A minute passes. Maybe two. You don’t know for sure, it’s impossible.

You start to think, stupidly, desperately, that maybe you’re better at this than you thought. Maybe he went to the casino first. Maybe he assumed you’d go somewhere familiar, somewhere with walls and doors, with many rooms and the illusion of safety. Maybe for once in your life, you’ve managed to surprise Titus Danforth.

You almost smile.

“You always did like your trees. Especially when I fucked you against them.”

His voice comes from directly behind you. Not approaching, but already there, already close enough that you could reach back and touch him, and your stomach fucking drops. It was like he’d been standing there the whole time, patient and unhurried, just waiting for you to finish thinking.

You scramble to your feet and spin around. He looks completely unbothered. No sweat, no urgency. He looks like a man who went for a leisurely evening walk and happened to find you along the way.

“How-” you start.

“I know you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

And the worst part is… it does.

You run.

It’s stupid, you know it is. You just mentally calculated your chances and came out in red numbers, you are aware that this is senseless and just prolonging what has always been inevitable. And yet you still try.

You hear him scoff, it echoes with how quiet these woods are, and then his steps begin.

You’ve never felt like this in your life. You had no idea you could even run like this. It’s probably the adrenaline. Your body, ironically, can’t tell the difference between being chased by a wolf and being chased by Titus. Being chased to death or being chased to marriage. There’s probably not a big difference there, to be fair.

Your lungs start to burn before you expect them to.

You push through it. You push through the branches catching on your clothes and the uneven ground trying to twist your ankles and the darkness that’s settling between the trees faster than you’d like.

You can hear him. That’s the worst part. He’s not silent and he’s not trying to be. His footsteps are steady and unhurried, like a metronome, like someone on a morning jog.

Your legs are already protesting, paired with a sharp stitch blooming under your ribs. To be honest… you don’t work out, not really. The only cardio you’ve ever gotten, the only thing that’s ever left you this breathless and aching, is Titus. Nights spent riding him until your thighs shook, mornings bent over whatever surface he wanted, afternoons where he’d fuck you slow and deep just because he could. Your body knows exertion, sure, but it knows it in the shape of him, not this. Not sprinting blind through roots and dirt like prey.

You change direction sharply, cutting left between two trees. Maybe if you’re unpredictable enough, maybe if you zigzag, double back, make it complicated-

His footsteps don’t falter behind you, there is not even a moment of hesitation in his steps, you’re not even making him make an effort or work for it.

The thought makes something cold shoot down your spine. You run faster.

You break into a small clearing and for one stupid, desperate second you think —this is it, this is where you lose him, and then…

…Then your foot catches a fucking root and you stumble, catching yourself on your hands, scrambling back up before you’ve even fully registered falling. Your palms sting. You don’t stop.

Behind you, almost conversationally: “You’re going in circles.”

You don’t answer, because you don’t want to, but also because you don't have the breath for it right now. God, you hate him.

You hate that he’s right. You’ve completely lost all sense of direction out here, the trees all look the same no matter which way you turn, and the sky above has shifted from dark blue to almost black, swallowing any hope of figuring out where the hell you are. You can’t tell north from south anymore, everything blurring together in the growing dark.

You cut right this time, then right again, mind racing toward the perimeter. If you can just find the edge of the forest, hit the fence, spot anything that gives you a landmark, then maybe you’ll have something solid to go by. But he’s closer now, you can hear his breath, steady and way too near. You hadn’t even noticed him gaining ground, but somehow he’s right there behind you.

The impact comes from the left without warning.

He doesn’t just grab you, he takes you down in one clean, decisive motion, and you hit the forest floor hard with him over you. One of his hands braces so he doesn’t crush you completely, which somehow makes the whole thing worse, that little bit of consideration cutting sharper than if he’d just slammed you flat. The breath gets knocked right out of you, and for a second the world narrows to nothing but darkness, his solid weight pressing you into the dirt, and the smell of him, unfairly familiar, wrapping around you like it has every right to be there.

You recover fast though, twisting and fighting with everything you’ve got, managing to get one hand free so you can shove hard against his chest. Titus lets you push, just enough to give you that flicker of thinking you might actually be winning for once. Just enough.

Then he shifts his full weight and you go absolutely nowhere. He’s stronger and heavier than you, pinning you so completely against the forest floor that all your struggling turns useless. He’s looking down at you with that expression you’ve seen a hundred times before, patient, certain, almost warm. and his breathing stays completely even. Not even winded. It’s so fucking unfair. He’s older than you; how the hell is he in this much better shape?

“Get off me,” you manage to gasp out.

He doesn’t. Instead he tilts his head slightly, like he’s actually considering it as a real option before dismissing the idea entirely.

“You did well,” he says instead, voice quiet. “Longer than I expected.”

“Don’t.” You twist again, uselessly, but his hand catches your wrist and pins it gently but completely beside your head. “Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not.” And the infuriating part is he sounds like he genuinely means it. “I’m actually impressed, baby.”

You go dead still. Not because you’ve given up—you’ve got way too much goddamn pride for that—but because your brain is spinning, scrambling to find the one mistake he’s bound to make eventually. He’s already onto you though. His eyes track every little twitch of your pupils, reading you with that same effortless, irritating fluency he’s always had.

The clearing around you has gone completely silent except for the ragged sound of your own lungs working overtime.

He’s crowding you now, his weight a heavy, solid heat that presses you deeper into the dirt and leaves. You can feel the direct pressure of his fingers locked around your wrist and the way he’s staring at you like you’re the only thing in this godforsaken woods worth paying attention to.

You need to say something sharp. You had a line ready, something bitchy and mean that would actually sting, but the thought gets swallowed whole the second he moves.

He doesn’t hesitate. He just takes what he wants.

His mouth slams into yours with slow, heavy hunger, lips forcing yours apart and eclaiming something that’s always belonged to him. When his tongue slides in it’s a deep, wet drag that sends a hot liquid weight straight down to your crotch. You let out a noise you immediately want to choke back, it’s half moan, half pathetic whimper, as he tilts his head for a better angle, sucking on your tongue before slicking back into your mouth in a way that’s just fucking filthy.

Your free hand scrambles for his jacket, knuckles turning white as you bunch the fabric tight. You can’t even tell if you’re trying to shove him off or drag him closer anymore, but your body isn’t listening to your brain. It arches up into him anyway, chasing the heat of his chest and the rough scrape of his stubble against your chin. When your teeth accidentally snag his bottom lip he lets out this low, vibrating groan that you feel rumble all the way through your own chest.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips wet and swollen, hot breath mingling with yours. His thumb strokes slow over the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is hammering out the truth he already knows.

“Still want to run?” he asks.

The bastard is smiling. Not pissed, not even serious, he’s having the time of his life. You should’ve known he’d get off on the chase like this.

“Yes,” you snap.

And you mean it. Mostly.

Then you reach up, fist your hand in his hair, and haul him back down.

He goes willingly, of course he does, the man is horny by nature. This time the kiss sinks slower, deeper into the spit and heat. You slide your hands up his chest, fingers hooking into his collar as you feel him shift, settling his weight more comfortably between your legs. He’s getting distracted, his iron grip on your wrist loosens, just a tiny bit.

There it is.

You let your hand drift lower, low enough to make his breathing hitch against your mouth. He makes this thick, needy sound in the back of his throat that tells you his focus is exactly where you want it now. You shift your leg in a slow, deliberate tilt of your hip that looks like you’re just trying to get his cock flush against you.

He falls for it.

Your palm slides over his stomach and presses hard against the thick, rigid line of his cock straining through his pants. He’s already fucking wrecked for you, throbbing and hot under your hand. You rub him slow, giving him a squeeze that makes his hips jerk forward into your touch. The groan he lets out is raw and guttural, vibrating straight into your mouth as he loses himself in the kiss, his tongue licking deep and messy against yours, teeth catching your lip in a sharp tug. You can feel him pulsing against your palm, thickening even more as you stroke him through the cloth like you’re finally giving him the reward he thinks he earned for catching you. His breath stutters against your lips, his tongue moving in ways that are pure filth.

He thinks he’s finally broken you.

That’s when you plant your foot flat against his hip and shove with everything you’ve got.

It’s not a clean move by any means—it’s pure desperate leverage—but it’s enough to break his hold and create one beautiful, stumbling second of space. You’re on your feet before he can even blink, already bolting back into the treeline.

Behind you, you hear him grunt as he hits the dirt.

And then you hear him laugh. A private, delighted sound, like you’ve just done something genuinely charming instead of kicking him while he was down.

You run harder, but you’re still breathless, mind distracted by how fucking good he kisses and the way he groaned and how quick he’d gotten so hard for you. Turns out your little strategy to distract him had backfired and distracted you instead.

You make it maybe forty feet. And that’s being generous, giving yourself way too much credit.

The arm that wraps around you comes from nowhere, thick and absolutely immovable, and suddenly your feet aren’t touching the ground anymore. He hoists you up like you weigh nothing, pulling your back tight against his chest while your legs kick uselessly at open air. He doesn’t squeeze, and he’s careful not to hurt you. He just holds you there, completely secure, one arm locked around your middle as you writhe and swear and accomplish absolutely fucking nothing.

He’s breathing harder now. Finally. But it sounds less like exertion and more like pure satisfaction, like relief.

“There,” he says close to your ear, almost fond. “All done. I won.”

After that ordeal, Titus brought you back to the mansion. Once there, he personally escorted you to your shared room, as if you didn’t know the way already. Though you can’t blame him for keeping you close, not after what happened today.

You shower. The water comes out murky with dirt at first, so you wash your hair and your body as many times as it’s necessary until it’s all clear, until you cease to perceive the scent of dirt and sweat and his cologne all over you.

By the time you exit the shower, the sun has fully gone down, and you find a white gown delicately hung by the door. It’s so beautiful. And it’s a shame; because it truly is. It’s exactly your taste, in a style you adore, a fabric you seek often in formal dresses. It's perfect for you.

He’d gone to those lengths, of having a dress made specifically for you. But then again, he’s known for going to lengths.

You do your hair the way you always do, it’s all muscle memory by now, all with such ease that it requires no effort for you to look good.

Then you slip the gown on. And it’s… bittersweet. In the two years you were with Titus (or have been, are you back together? Who the fuck knows), the thought of marriage did cross your mind. You won’t sit here and pretend to be an innocent bystander. You know what he’s like. You know the things people like him do—and let’s not even go that far— the shit he has done. You know he has many irredeemable qualities. So you won’t sit here and pretend to be a victim. You stayed, longer than you should’ve, sure, but you had stayed.

Marriage had come to mind before, but you’d never allowed yourself to think too much about it. You were scared, still are, about what it would mean to marry into his family, his world. Starting with the fucking initiation. All it takes is pulling the wrong card before everyone is on a game to hunt you to death.

You shiver.

So seeing yourself in this dress is… bittersweet. You had, at some point in time, longed to marry him, even with all his issues and his bullshit. But you knew, deep down, that it’s also something you should fear. Something no one should want.

And yet, here you are.

A knock on the door makes you jump slightly in your place. You take a breath to steady yourself before doing anything.

“Yes?”

“Are you ready?”

“Almost.”

Well, you might as well have said ‘yes’, because he unlatched the door as if you’d said it.

The moment his eyes land on you, he stills completely. His gaze moves over you slowly, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world, though tonight he does; he won. It drags from the hem of the dress upward, taking its sweet time, and when those eyes finally meet yours there’s something in them that makes your stomach do a slow, unwelcome flip you’d really rather it didn’t.

You’ve seen Titus Danforth unmoved by things that would fuck other men up completely. You’ve watched him stay unbothered in rooms full of people trying to intimidate him, composed in situations that had no right to feel calm. And yet here he is, standing in the doorway of your bathroom, looking at you like you’ve just undone something deep inside him that he didn’t expect to feel tonight.

He clears his throat. Looks away for exactly one second, then his eyes are back on you, heavier than before.

“You look beautiful.”

And the worst part is that he means it. You can tell there’s no sick angle, no calculated game in the words. Just Titus being completely sincere, genuinely undone by a dress he picked out himself. It’s exasperating how real he can be sometimes, how he can drop the armor and just say shit like that without any ulterior motive.

“Thank you,” you say, and you mean it too, because what else is there left to say at this point?

There’s a brief stretch of silence where it’s obvious both of you want to say something more but neither of you does. This whole situation is so fucking complicated. You broke up with him this morning, and now here you are, gowned up, about to marry him. Not without a fight, but still. It makes you wonder if you ever had any real backbone at all. If you even wanted to break up with him in the first place, or if some part of you had been waiting for him to refuse to let go.

“This isn’t how I imagined it,” you finally manage to say, the words coming out quieter than you expected. “I imagined something huge, something that would probably annoy me because you know absolutely everyone that matters and I don’t, and you’d keep getting pulled aside for all those meaningful conversations. Then I’d get mad and you’d call me immature because we were already married and you’d never go anywhere without me. I imagined music, pretty scenery, flowers everywhere…the whole thing.”

He looks down at his shoes for a second. It’s brief, very brief, but you catch it. Then he adjusts his cuffs, because yes, he’s all suited up and unfairly handsome, much to your dismay.

“It’s not what I imagined either,” he agrees gruffly. “This isn’t how I had planned things to go.”

You can already feel the ‘but’ coming.

“But you left me no choice.”

Of that, you’re painfully aware. You probably threw a massive wrench into all his carefully laid plans. The breakup had been such a sudden decision, dropped right in the middle of one of the good periods between you two. You really had been in a solid place before you sprang it on him. If anything, you’re still surprised by how calmly he took it. You’d been terrified for those few seconds before the words left your mouth, half expecting him to snap, but he hadn’t. Nothing thrown at the walls, no cruel words thrown back, besides the ones you’d already said to start the conversation, anyway.

But now you understand why he stayed so calm. He wasn’t going to lose you, no matter what you said. He’d already bought the house. He’d had the dress tailored and made perfectly for you. He’d turned the whole thing into a game he knew he could win. He knew you weren’t actually going anywhere.

The attempt at breaking up had really disrupted his plans, though.

“It’s time,” he says, and extends his hand to you.

You look at it for a second. Open and waiting, like this is the most natural thing in the world, like you’re just heading out to some nice dinner instead of signing your life over. You take it anyway.

His fingers close around yours immediately, warm and sure, and he leads you out of the room without another word. The mansion is unnervingly quiet around you. Your heels click against the floor, and you focus on that sound, nothing else. Just that steady rhythm instead of letting your mind spiral about where you’re going and what happens when you get there.

The room he brings you to is small. Candlelit. There’s a man already waiting: the lawyer, or someone who passes for one in this world, standing with papers and a pen, his expression suggesting he’s done far stranger things than this. Titus is probably paying him a fortune for the discretion.

It’s just the three of you. No music. No flowers. The complete opposite of everything you’d imagined.

Titus positions himself in front of you and turns to face you fully. For a moment you just look at each other, the air thick between you.

The lawyer clears his throat and begins.

“Do you,” he says, looking at Titus, “take her to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do,” Titus says. No hesitation. Not even a fraction of one.

Then the lawyer turns to you.

“And do you take him to be your lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for as long as you both shall live?”

And there it is.

You think about this morning, standing in front of him with your heart in your throat, saying the words that were supposed to end everything. You think about the forest, those seven minutes, the way he found you like he’d never even needed to look. You think about the dress hanging by the door—perfectly your taste, perfectly your size—bought long before you ever said a word about leaving. You think about the fact that even now, standing here, some traitorous part of you doesn’t entirely feel like a victim.

The lawyer waits. Titus waits. His eyes stay locked on yours, steady and certain, because he already knows what you’ll say. He knows you.

You take a breath.

“I do.”

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, which surprises you considering your heart feels like it’s trying to leap straight out of your chest.

“The rings,” the lawyer says.

And of course there are rings, because this is Titus and he’s thought of everything, has been thinking of everything for god knows how long. His ring slides onto your finger with an ease that feels almost rehearsed. You slide his onto his finger, your hands only shaking a little.

“The license,” the lawyer says next, producing the papers and setting them on the small table beside him with a pen.

You sign your name. You watch the ink dry for exactly one second. There’s something about seeing it there, your name, your handwriting, now permanent, that makes the whole thing feel more real than anything else tonight. More real than the dress, more real than the vows. This is the part that can’t be undone.

Titus signs beneath you, quick and certain, then straightens up.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.” The lawyer says it like a closing argument, the matter finalized, binding. “You may kiss the bride.”

Titus closes the gap between you, and suddenly the air in the room feels way too thin. He reaches up, his thumb dragging slow and heavy across your cheekbone, like he’s giving you every second to realize exactly what he’s about to do. His eyes drop to your lips for a quick flicker before locking back onto yours.

Then he’s on you.

It’s nothing like that panicked, adrenaline-soaked mess in the forest. This is different, slower, more deliberate. He’s taking his time, his mouth moving against yours with a focused hunger that makes your knees go embarrassingly weak right there in the candlelit room. His hand cups your jaw, holding you steady like you’re something he actually wants to keep intact, while his other arm hooks around your waist and hauls you that last inch forward until there’s no space left between you.

The kiss doesn’t just happen, it grinds and lingers, thick and heavy, delicious in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the lawyer still standing three feet away. This is just Titus finally getting his hands on something he’s wanted for a long goddamn time, and he’s not rushing any second of it. You hear him catch a sharp, ragged breath through his nose, the sound barely held together as he deepens the kiss, tongue sliding slow and sure against yours.

When he eventually pulls away, his eyes are blown out and dark, heavy with everything he’s not saying. His thumb is still tracing slow patterns across your skin, and he’s staring at you like you’re completely his now.

Which, technically, you are. Legally and irrevocably.

“Hello, Mrs. Danforth,” he says, his voice a low vibration meant only for you, the words sinking straight under your skin.

And despite the total shitshow your life has become, despite how much you should hate him for all of this, something in your chest does something it really, really shouldn’t. It fucking flutters.

The lawyer gathers his papers with quiet efficiency, offers a curt nod that feels more like a final seal on a contract than any kind of congratulations, and slips out of the candlelit room without another word, leaving the two of you alone in the heavy silence.

Titus doesn’t move away. His hand stays cradling your jaw, thumb stroking slow, lazy circles against your flushed cheek as he looks down at you with those dark, unreadable eyes. The title he just gave you—Mrs. Danforth—still hangs in the air between you, heavy and permanent.

“You’re shaking,” he observes quietly, voice low and rough around the edges.

“I’m not,” you lie, even as your fingers twitch where they rest against his chest, betraying you completely.

A small, knowing smile curves his lips. He leans in closer, brushing his mouth against the shell of your ear, breath warm as he murmurs, “Liar.”

Before you can even get a retort out he’s scooping you up again, effortless, carrying you down the quiet hallway toward the master suite. Your heels are dangling stupid off your toes, one slips free and you don’t even care where it lands. The white gown pools and tangles around you, heavy silk whispering against your skin. You don’t fight. There’s no point anymore. The game’s over, you lost bad, and some treacherous, stupid part of you is already humming low and hot with what’s coming next, buzzing under your skin like electricity you can’t shut off.

He kicks the bedroom door shut behind him with his foot, the bang echoing a little, and sets you down on the edge of that massive bed. The room’s dim, just one lamp throwing soft light and moonlight sneaking through the heavy curtains, making everything feel hushed and secret. Titus stands over you, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it aside without looking. His fingers work the cuffs of his shirt open real slow, deliberate, eyes never leaving yours. That stare pins you.

“Take the dress off. Slowly.”

It’s not a request, it’s an order.

You hesitate, just long enough that he notices, the corner of his mouth twitching, and reach behind you for the zipper. The sound of it sliding down feels obscenely loud in the quiet, like it’s giving everything away. The fabric slips from your shoulders and pools at your waist, leaving you in nothing but that delicate white lace lingerie they gave you for tonight. His gaze drags over you shameless, slow, possessive, hungry, lingering on the way your nipples pebble tight against the thin lace, the dip of your waist, the curve of your hips.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, the word rough, scraped raw with want. He steps closer, cups your face in both hands and tilts your head up. “My wife. Finally.”

That word shoots through you, part fear, part something way more dangerous that makes your stomach flip and your thighs press together without thinking. You open your mouth to say something—probably stupid, something to grab back even a sliver of control—but he kisses you before you can. This kiss is different, deeper, slower, filthier than the one in the ceremony room. More like the forest one but hungrier. His tongue slides against yours with lazy confidence, tasting, claiming, sucking on your tongue like he’s trying to devour every last protest, every doubt, every bit of resistance you’ve got left.

He pushes you back onto the bed until you’re lying beneath him, the gown still tangled around your hips like it doesn’t want to let go. His body covers yours, solid, warm, overwhelming in the best worst way. One of his knees nudges your thighs apart as he settles between them, grinding the thick heavy line of his cock against your clothed core with these deliberate rolling presses that make your breath hitch. You gasp into his mouth, hips twitching up involuntarily as heat floods between your legs, fast and embarrassing.

“Already so wet for me,” he teases against your lips, voice dark with amusement. “Even after trying to run from me all night. Your cunt knows who it belongs to, doesn’t it?”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Not really. Your body’s already betraying you completely, aching for more of that friction, that pressure.

He chuckles, low and filthy right by your ear. “That’s the plan, baby. Until you can’t remember why you ever thought you could leave.”

His mouth trails down your neck, sucking and biting just hard enough to leave faint marks that’ll bloom tomorrow like proof. He peels the rest of the dress off you with practiced hands, tossing it aside like it’s nothing more than wrapping paper on a gift he’s been dying to unwrap for years. The lingerie follows; bra unhooked and discarded, lace panties dragged down your legs slowly. You catch the way his pupils blow wide when he notices how the crotch of your panties is stuck to your pussy, soaked through because of how wet you already are.

When you’re completely bare beneath him he sits back on his heels for a second and just looks, drinking in every inch like he can’t get enough. His hands follow, palming your breasts roughly, thumbs circling and pinching your nipples until they tighten into aching sensitive peaks. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, tongue swirling hot and wet, teeth grazing and tugging while his fingers pinch and roll the other. You arch off the bed with a broken moan, fingers threading through his silver curls and pulling hard, harder than you mean to.

“Titus, fuck—”

“Shh.” He releases your nipple with a wet pop and kisses his way down your stomach, spreading your thighs wider with his broad shoulders. “I’ve waited long enough for this, lemme taste you.”

He doesn’t tease for long. His mouth is on you in the next breath, hot and relentless. His tongue drags through your slick folds with one slow savoring lick from entrance to clit, then circles the swollen bud with firm knowing pressure. You cry out, hips jerking against his face, but his strong hands pin you down, broad shoulders holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wants. He eats you as hungrily as he did the very first time, that never changes. Messy, greedy, groaning against your cunt like your taste is the only thing that’s ever satisfied him. Two thick fingers push inside you without warning, curling hard against that spongy spot that makes stars burst behind your eyes while his tongue flicks and sucks your clit with those obscene slick sounds.

You come hard and fast, thighs trembling around him, a sharp broken cry tearing from your throat as pleasure crashes through you in relentless waves. He doesn’t stop to give you some reprieve, of course he doesn’t. Keeps licking and sucking through the aftershocks, fingers pumping steadily, drawing it out until you’re whimpering, oversensitive, pushing weakly at his head.

“Too much-ah, Titus—”

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips and chin shiny with your arousal, eyes dark and satisfied. “Not nearly enough.” He crawls back up your body, shedding the rest of his clothes as he goes. His cock springs free finally, heavy, thick, flushed dark and already leaking precum at the tip, as it rests hot and heavy against your thigh.

“Look at me.”

You do. His eyes lock onto yours as he lines himself up and pushes in, he always loved eye contact while he slides in, and fuck, it is pretty hot. The stretch burns in the best way, filling you completely until he bottoms out, balls-deep inside your clenching heat. You both groan, the sound raw and filthy. For a moment he just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard, letting you feel every throbbing inch of him. You’re thankful for the pause—you always needed some time adjusting to his cock. It’s huge. That, and because you’re still incredibly sensitive after the previous orgasm.

“Fuck… so tight. You feel like you were made for my cock,” he rasps, and it’s such a delicious tone you have to hold back from clenching around him right then. “My wife’s greedy tight cunt sucking me in like it missed me.”

Then he starts to move.

It’s not gentle. Which is also a contradiction to how you imagined your wedding night with him as his wife, but you’re not complaining, how could you? His hips snap forward in deep punishing strokes that rock the expensive bed beneath you, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room along with your ragged moans and whimpers, mixed with his groans. Each thrust drags against every sensitive nerve inside you, the thick vein on the underside of his cock feels so good dragging along your walls, the head kissing your cervix with every brutal plunge. He fucks you like he’s trying to fuck the memory of your breakup right out of your body.

It’s working. God, it’s working too well.

His left hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, the golden ring on his finger digging into your plush skin, a blunt reminder that he’s not your boyfriend anymore—he’s your husband now. He pulls your hips up so he can go even deeper while his other hand braces beside your head, driving into you harder, faster, angling those strong hips to hit that spot that makes you see white. You wrap your legs around his waist, nails digging into his back and shoulders, urging him deeper even as you gasp his name like it’s both a curse and a prayer.

“Say it,” he demands, voice rough against your ear, hips never slowing. “Say you’re my wife. Say you’ll always be mine.”

You shake your head, stubborn even now, biting your lip to hold back the words. But he angles just right and slams in harder, grinding against your clit with every thrust, making your back arch off the bed with a keening whine.

“Say it,” he repeats, punctuating each word with a brutal wet thrust. “Tell me who you belong to, Mrs. Danforth.”

“I’m-fuck- I’m your wife,” you finally choke out, the words breaking on a moan as another orgasm builds fast and vicious under his relentless pace. “I’m yours- oh god—”

“Good girl.” He reaches between you to rub tight rough circles over your swollen ultra-sensitive clit, pushing you over the edge again. You come with a sob, clenching around his thick cock so hard it drags a guttural groan from his throat, your walls fluttering and milking him as the waves rip through you.

He doesn’t slow down. Fucks you through it, hips stuttering only when his own orgasm starts to hit. With a low broken sound—a whimper, for your ears only—he buries himself as deep as he can and comes hard, pulsing inside you, filling you with hot thick spurts of cum that make your toes curl and your mind go blissfully blank. You feel every twitch, every rope as he empties himself, marking you from the inside.

For a long moment the only sound is your shared ragged breathing. Titus collapses half on top of you but careful not to crush you completely, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His lips brush your pulse point in something almost tender while his cock twitches inside you, still half-hard, like he’s not quite done claiming you yet.

But he’s far from finished.

After a few minutes he lifts his head, eyes heavy-lidded and dark with lingering lust. He brushes a strand of sweaty hair from your forehead, then pulls out slowly. A thick trail of his cum leaks from your swollen pussy right away. The sight seems to please him immensely.

“Round two,” he murmurs, voice husky. “On your hands and knees. I want to watch my cum drip out of you while I fuck it back in.”

He flips you over with ease, pulling your hips up so your ass is raised high, chest and face pressed to the sheets. His hands spread your cheeks and he groans at the messy sight of his release coating your folds. Without warning he pushes two fingers inside you, scooping up his cum and pushing it deeper, making you whimper at the overstimulation.

“Look at this sloppy cunt,” he says, voice thick with filthy appreciation. “Already full of me and still greedy for more?”

He replaces his fingers with his cock in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt again. This time he fucks you harder, one hand fisted in your hair to arch your back, the other slapping your ass with sharp stinging smacks that make you clench around him. The angle is deeper, more punishing, his balls slapping wetly against your clit with every snap of his hips.

You come again, screaming into the sheets, and he follows soon after, flooding you with another load until it’s leaking down your thighs.

He doesn’t let you rest for long.

By the time the sky begins to lighten outside the windows, you’re a trembling, cum-soaked mess, your limbs weak, voice hoarse from moaning, every inch of you marked and claimed. Titus pulls you into his arms one last time, spooning behind you with his cock still nestled inside you, softening but refusing to leave your heat.

“Sleep, Mrs. Danforth,” he murmurs against your neck, pressing a surprisingly soft kiss there. “You’re mine now. And I’m nowhere near done with you. We’re going to see our new house later today.”

You should hate the way that promise makes fresh heat coil low in your belly, but you don’t hate it. And yeah, you feel stupid, like you’re betraying the version of you that was set on breaking up with him yesterday, but you can’t hate this. Hate him. The break up had never been out of lack of love, if anything it had been the opposite what drove you away, it had been knowing the lengths he’s willing to go to for you and being afraid of the responsibility of having his heart in your hand.

With a sigh, you press back against him, letting exhaustion and that dangerous, ruined satisfaction pull you under.