hi girly!! could i request a kylian fic where he is protective, touchy and generally obsessed with reader? like maybe them going out with his other teammates to a nightclub after madrid’s win and generally kylian being attached to her hip, his hand never leaving her waist and all this obsessive attachment between them leads to smut, where they fuck in a private luxurious vip room when they’re left alone, since his teammates are dancing in the club’s dance floor🩷
Was supposed to post this yesterday...
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — Real Madrid just won, the champagne is flowing, and the club is buzzing with celebration. But Kylian barely notices the crowd or the music. All night, his attention stays exactly where it always does—on you.
𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Kylian Mbappé x reader
Warnings! FLUFF!! established relationship, touchy Kylian, public teasing, tensionnn, nightclub vibes, alcohol mentioned, post-match celebration chaos, teammates cameo (Jude, Trent, Aurélien, etc.), rushed aftercare, Kylian is a very obsessed boyfriend, NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, multiple orgasms, oral (f & m receiving), hair pulling (ish), a little love from behind,
The bass isn’t just a sound; it’s a physical weight, pressing against your chest, vibrating in the soles of your feet, syncing up with the frantic rhythm of your pulse.
The air in the club is thick, a humid haze of expensive cologne, top-shelf tequila, and the sharp electric tang of adrenaline. It’s the smell of a victory that hasn’t quite faded yet, the collective high of ninety minutes of battle on the pitch finally spilling over into the dark, strobe-lit night.
You are tucked away in the velvet-lined enclave of the VIP area, elevated above the writhing mass of bodies on the main floor. It’s a spectacle of Madrid nightlife at its finest—bottles of sparklers sending up showers of gold light, bodies moving in a syncopated blur, the noise level a roar that drowns out your own thoughts.
And yet, somehow, you’re hyper-aware of one thing.
You feel the heat of his body before you even see him, a familiar gravitational pull that eclipses the chaotic energy of the club. He slides in behind you, the movement fluid and predatory, bypassing the group of laughing, shouting teammates without a second glance. His chest brushes against your back, solid and reassuring, and you instantly lean into him, a reflex you’ve developed over the years.
He smells incredible—a mix of the metallic tang of the champagne he’s been nursing and the spicy, woody scent of his cologne. It’s a smell that makes your head spin.
"You good?" he murmurs, his lips grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. His breath is hot against your neck, sending a fresh wave of shivers down your spine. You barely manage a nod, tilting your head back just enough to catch his eyes. They are dark, rimmed with exhaustion but bright with that familiar, fierce intensity that is usually directed at you.
"I'm good," you manage to say, though your voice sounds thin, swallowed instantly by the heavy thrum of the bass. "Feeling a little tipsy though."
A low chuckle vibrates through his chest against your back as he stares into your glassy eyes. "I can see that." His hand finds your waist, his fingers splaying wide, possessive and heavy. You don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.
It’s hard to tell with him sometimes.
You tilt your head slightly toward him. He’s leaning back against the plush couch, you sitting between his legs, looking far too comfortable in the chaos of the club. The soft purple light catches the sharp line of his jaw, the shadow of his lashes when he glances down at you.
“What?” he says, leaning closer so you can hear him.
A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, fueled by the buzz of alcohol and the sheer, undeniable magnetism of him. "Nothing," you say, turning slightly so your cheek brushes against his shoulder. "Just thinking you look ridiculously good tonight. Even better than usual."
His grip on your waist tightens, just a fraction, a subtle reflex that sends a jolt of heat straight through you. He leans in closer, the stubble on his chin grazing your temple. "Oh yeah?" he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, rougher now, meant only for you.
"Mmhmm," you hum, letting your eyes drag over the open collar of his black shirt, the way the top few buttons are undone to expose the sharp, jutting lines of his collarbones and the smooth, brown skin of his chest. He’s radiating heat, a furnace in the cool, air-conditioned room, and you just want to crawl inside his skin. "You're distracting me."
The corner of his mouth kicks up, that arrogant, half-smirk he wears so well. But his eyes remain fixed on you, heavy-lidded and dark, scanning your face as if he's memorizing the way the club lights catch the sheen gloss on your lips.
"What are you gonna do about it?" he says simply, his thumb stroking idly against the silk of your dress, right over your hip bone. The friction is maddeningly light, a ghost of a touch that somehow manages to scorch you through the fabric.
"Kylian," you say, a warning that lacks any real heat. It sounds more like a plea, breathless and thin.
His name on your lips only seems to encourage him. He doesn’t pull away; instead, he presses closer, eliminating the last fraction of an inch between your bodies. You are effectively caged in by him, surrounded by his scent and the sheer immensity of his presence. You want to drown in it.
"What?" he asks, feigning innocence, though the glint in his eyes tells you he knows exactly what he’s doing. He brings his glass to his lips, his eyes never leaving yours as he takes a slow, deliberate sip. The movement is hypnotic. You watch the column of his throat work as he swallows, and you have to resist the urge to lean forward and press your mouth to the pulse point hammering beneath his jaw.
You're restless now, your entire body thrumming with the leftover adrenaline of the quickie you had in the bathroom after the game and the alcohol coursing through your veins. The need to touch him, to be closer to him, is a physical ache, clawing at the underside of your skin.
You shift on the plush velvet couch, turning to face him. The action brings your knees flush against his thigh, and he doesn't shy away from the contact. Instead, his hand slides from your waist to your thigh, his fingers tracing the delicate lace hem of your dress.
"I need a drink," you mutter, mostly to yourself, trying to break the sudden, overwhelming tension that has coiled tight and hot between the two of you. The laughter of his teammates—Aurélien, Ferland, Eduardo—feels miles away, a muffled backdrop to the intense, private world you two are constructing here in the corner.
You reach for the bottle of champagne sitting in the ice bucket on the low table, but Kylian beats you to it. He moves with that lazy, predatory grace he has, his hand covering yours on the neck of the bottle. His skin is warm, his grip firm but gentle, stopping you in your tracks.
"Allow me," he says, his voice a low rumble that you feel more than you hear.
You let your hand fall away, watching as he effortlessly lifts the bottle up to your lips. You lean forward, parting your lips, letting the golden liquid pour into your mouth. It’s cold and bubbly, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his body, but all you can focus on is the way his gaze is locked on your mouth, the way his thumb is now stroking the sensitive skin on the back of your hand.
You swallow, feeling the fizz, feeling his eyes boring into you. It’s intense, almost too much, but you crave it.
"Good?" he asks, lowering the bottle but not retreating.
You lick your lips, tasting the lingering sweetness, and watch the way his eyes track the movement of your tongue like a hawk. "perfect," you breathe, the word barely a ghost of sound, before dipping down to wrap your lips around the rim again.
It’s a bold move, maybe a little slutty for a public setting, but the alcohol has dissolved your inhibitions, turning the heavy bass and the flashing lights into a permission slip. You hold his gaze as you take another long swallow, letting the champagne spill just a little.
Kylian’s gaze drops from your eyes to your mouth, his expression darkening, heavy with a hunger that’s barely restrained. His hand on your thigh comes up to swipe his thumb across your bottom lip, catching a stray drop of champagne. The friction is rough, calloused against the softness of your skin, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"You're wasting it," he murmurs, his voice rough, low enough that it vibrates against your chest.
"Am I?" you counter, your voice breathy, barely rising above the heavy thrum of the bass. You don't pull away from his touch; instead, you lean into it, letting your tongue dart out to catch the drop of champagne lingering on his thumb.
The groan that rumbles in his chest is raw, a seismic shift that only you can feel because you’re pressed so tightly against him. His eyes darken, his pupils swallowing the warm brown of his irises. The playful arrogance from a second ago evaporates, replaced by something heavier, more primal.
"You’re playing a dangerous game, princesse," he warns, but his hand doesn't move. He drags his thumb from your lip, down the curve of your chin, his touch leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
"And I'm winning," you whisper, challenging him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You know exactly what you’re doing. You know exactly which buttons to press.
Kylian’s jaw tightens, a muscle feathering beneath the skin. He stares at you for a beat, two, the air between you crackling with enough static to set the whole VIP section on fire. Then, his gaze cuts sharply over your shoulder toward the dance floor.
You follow his line of sight. Down below, the crowd is a writhing sea of limbs. You spot Jude and Trent near the edge of the DJ booth, surrounded by a cluster of laughing girls, their hands in the air, bottles of champagne held high like trophies. They are lost in it, completely consumed by the celebration.
Kylian’s hand slides from your jaw, the loss of his touch instant and cold, but before you can mourn it, he’s shifting. He stands up, pulling you with him, the movement fluid and decisive.
"Dance with me," he commands, not really asking, his hand finding yours, his fingers lacing through yours, tight and sure.
The change in him is instant, the switch flipped. He’s no longer the relaxed, smirking man on the couch; he’s in charge. He pulls you through the throng of people in the VIP area, nodding curtly at a few security guards who recognize him instantly, clearing a path.
The descent from the raised VIP platform feels like crossing a border. Up there, it was gold velvet and chilled bottles; down here, it is pure, unfiltered chaos. The bass is a physical assault, rattling your teeth, and the air is thick with humidity and the sharp tang of sweat.
The crowd is a living, breathing organism, a writhing sea of bodies moving in a chaotic syncopation to the relentless beat. The air is hotter down here, thick with the scent of expensive perfume, and spilled alcohol. The floors are stickier too.
Usually, you might feel overwhelmed by the sheer density of it, the press of strangers, but tonight, you feel invincible. You feel untouchable.
Because you are with Kylian.
He uses his free hand to part the sea of bodies, a combination of his impressive shoulders and the sheer force of his reputation clearing a path. People recognize him instantly—phones flash in strobe-light bursts, mouths form perfect O's of surprise, a few brave hands reach out to tap his shoulder or offer a congratulatory shout. He acknowledges none of it.
His eyes are fixed forward, locked on the center of the floor, but you can feel the tension humming in his arm, the way his muscles coil and release. He’s looking for a pocket of oxygen in the suffocating crush of the celebration.
He finds it near the edge of the DJ booth, a small circle of relatively open floor where the bass is slightly less deafening, though still heavy enough to vibrate in your marrow.
He turns, pulling you flush against him, and the world shrinks. The flashing lights, the shouting, the desperate grasping hands of strangers—it all blurs into the background, reduced to nothing but white noise.
Kylian’s hand finds your waist again, his grip firm, claiming you in the middle of the chaotic floor. He doesn’t care who sees. In fact, the way his jaw is set, the way his eyes scan the crowd with a detached, cool arrogance, suggests he wants them to see. He wants every man in this club to know exactly who you belong to.
The song shifts, the bass slowing down into a heavy, grinding rhythm that seems to pulse in time with the blood rushing through your veins. It’s a dark, seductive beat that demands bodies move closer.
You turn, your back pressing against his chest, and let your head fall back onto his shoulder. The height difference is perfect like this; he envelopes you completely. You can feel the hard planes of his chest against your spine.
His hands are everywhere. One slides from your waist down to your hip, his fingers gripping the curve of your bone with a possession that makes your knees weak. The other rests low on your stomach, a subtle, teasing threat that makes your breath hitch.
You let your eyes drift shut, surrendering to the sensory overload. The world dissolves into nothing but the heavy thump of the bass, the flashing lights behind your eyelids, and the overwhelming sensation of Kylian’s hands on you.
He starts to move. A controlled, sinuous roll of his hips against yours. He knows exactly how to move his body, an athlete’s understanding of leverage and rhythm, and the way he slots against you is terrifyingly perfect.
You grind back against him, matching his pace, letting the music take the wheel. The friction is exquisite, the fabric of his pants rough against the silk of your dress, creating a delicious drag that sends little sparks of heat racing through your veins. You can feel him, hard and insistent against your backside, a physical reminder of exactly where his head is at.
The hand on your stomach moves upward, his palm flattening against your ribs, his thumb brushing the underside of your breast. He leans down, his lips crashing against the sensitive cord of muscle running from your shoulder to your neck. It’s an open-mouthed, wet press of teeth and tongue. You gasp, your head lolling back against his shoulder, giving him better access. He takes the invitation, scraping his teeth against your skin before soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue.
"You have no idea," he growls against your neck, "You have no fucking idea what you do to me."
"I think I have some idea," you manage to retort, though your voice is breathless. You grind your hips back against him, in a slow, deliberate circle that earns you a sharp intake of breath from him, his fingers flexing convulsively against your ribs.
"You're playing with fire," he warns, but there's a smile in his voice, dark and dangerous.
"I love getting burned," you retort, breathless, turning your head just enough to catch his eye.
Before you can answer, his grip on your hip tightens bruisingly, and he uses his body to maneuver you, spinning you around to face him. The transition is seamless, a masterclass in control. You stumble slightly, the heel of your shoe catching on the sticky floor, but his hands are there instantly, catching you, steadying you against him.
Now you’re face to face, and the air between you is suffocatingly thin.
"Yes," you say simply, staring up at him, your eyes locked on his. His gaze is a storm, dark and turbulent. You reach up, your hand curling around the back of his neck, pulling him down to you. He resists for a split second, a test of your resolve, and then he bends, his lips brushing against yours, a feather-light tease. "I want you to fuck me until I can't remember my own name," you whisper against his mouth.
The final thread of his restraint snaps.
He turns, his hand clamping around yours, his fingers lacing together so tightly it almost hurts, but the pain is distant, irrelevant. He starts to weave through the crowd, cutting a path with single-minded focus.
You giggle, stumbling slightly behind him, the alcohol making your steps clumsy, your head swimming with a giddy, reckless energy. You’re vaguely aware of Jude shouting Kylian’s name, of Aurélien clapping him on the back as you pass, but Kylian doesn't stop. He doesn't even slow down.
---------------------------------------------------
"Oh my god," you gasp, the sound escaping you before you can bite it back. Your back arches off the plush velvet of the chaise longue, a desperate, involuntary bow of your spine. "Kylian."
Your hands are tangled in his hair, your fingers gripping the soft, short coils at the nape of his neck, holding on for dear life as his mouth works between your thighs.
You’re completely exposed to him, the silk of your dress bunched around your waist, your panties nothing but a ruined scrap of lace dangling from one ankle. The air in the private VIP room is cooler than the club, raising gooseflesh on your skin, but the heat radiating from Kylian’s mouth is enough to burn you alive.
He doesn't respond to your gasp, just anchors his hands more firmly under your thighs, pushing your legs wider, positioning you exactly where he wants you.
He starts with a slow, deliberate drag of his tongue, a flat, wet pressure against your clit that has your thighs trembling against his shoulders. It’s exploratory, almost lazy, as if he has all the time in the world to map out every single nerve ending. He hums low in his throat, the vibration travelling straight through you, and you have to stifle a cry by biting down hard on your bottom lip.
"Eyes on me bébé," he commands, his voice muffled against your clit.
You force your eyes open, your gaze drifting down the length of your body. The sight alone is almost enough to undo you. Kylian, with his broad shoulders occupying the space between your legs, his dark eyes locked intently on your face as he tastes you. He looks devastating like this—lips swollen and glistening, jaw working, entirely focused on your pleasure.
He takes his time, his tongue alternating between broad, devastating strokes and focused, teasing flicks that have your hips bucking off the velvet. He’s reading every response your body gives him, learning the language of your gasps and the frantic tightening of your fingers in his hair.
"Kylian, please," you whine, your voice ragged, echoing off the walls. The muffled bass of the club is still thumping against the walls, a distant reminder of where you are, but in here, the only rhythm that matters is the one he’s setting.
"Please what?" he pulls back just enough to speak, his breath ghosting hot and heavy over your slick, sensitive skin. He runs a thumb through your wetness, collecting it before pressing it firmly against your clit, rubbing slow, agonizing circles. "Tell me what you need, bébé."
"Make me come," you gasp, the words tearing out of your throat, desperate and ragged. "Please, Kylian, don't stop."
A dark, satisfied smirk curls his lips, "As you wish," the arrogant cadence of his voice sends a fresh wave of heat rolling through your veins.
He doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath. He lowers his head again, but this time the slow, exploratory torture is gone. He seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, at the exact same moment he slides two fingers inside you.
"Fuck!" You cry out, your back bowing off the chaise, your heels digging into his shoulders.
The stretch is exquisite, a sudden, fullness that steals the air from your lungs. His fingers are long and deft, curling upwards to find that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. He pumps them in and out, setting a ruthless, driving rhythm that matches the erratic thumping of your heart, while his tongue continues its relentless assault on your clit.
The pleasure builds rapidly, a tidal wave rising in your gut, pulling you under. You can hear the wet, slick sounds of his mouth and fingers working you, lewd and loud in the quiet room, a stark contrast to the thumping bass from the club on the other side of the door.
"Kylian, I—god, I'm close," you manage to gasp out, your fingers tightening painfully in his hair, pulling him impossibly closer. You're teetering on the edge, the pleasure so sharp it nearly makes you delirious. "Please don't stop."
He doubles down, sucking on your clit with a renewed fervor, his fingers pumping into you with a speed that has your entire body trembling. The coil inside you snaps, shattering your world into a million fragments of light and sound. You come with a silent scream, your body arching off the chaise, your thighs clamping tight around his head, trapping him against you as the waves of pleasure crash over you, over and over again.
He works you through it, his mouth and fingers gentling, guiding you down from the high, until you’re nothing but a boneless, panting mess on the velvet.
Kylian pulls away slowly, pressing one last, lingering kiss to the inside of your trembling thigh before sitting back on his heels. He looks wrecked—his lips are swollen and glossy, his chin glistening with evidence of your pleasure, and his eyes are blown wide, the dark brown almost entirely swallowed by black. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, a gesture that is so crude yet so effortlessly sexy that a fresh aftershock of heat rolls through you.
"That good, huh?" he asks, a hint of that familiar arrogance creeping back into his voice, though it’s roughened by arousal.
You prop yourself up on your elbows, your body still buzzing, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. You reach out, grabbing a handful of his shirt and pulling him up to you. You crash your lips against his, tasting yourself on his tongue.
"I want you in my mouth," you murmur against his mouth, the words a desperate plea. "Right now."
Kylian doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls away from your lips just enough to allow you space to move, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and burning with a hunger that matches your own. He leans back against the chaise, spreading his legs wide, making room for you between them.
The sight of him—legs spread, head thrown back, the hard line of his cock straining against the fabric of his trousers—is enough to make your mouth water.
You slide off the velvet chaise and sink to your knees on the plush carpet between his thighs. The position feels submissive, yet the power you hold over him in this moment is tangible. You rest your hands on his knees, feeling the hard muscle beneath the fabric of his pants, and slowly drag them up his thighs.
You lean in, your hands moving to the belt buckle of his trousers. The metal clinks softly in the quiet room, a sharp sound that makes Kylian’s breath hitch. You make quick work of the button and zipper, your fingers brushing against the hard length of him straining against the fabric. He hisses, his hips bucking up involuntarily, seeking friction.
"Easy," he murmurs, his voice tight, his head falling back against the velvet. He watches you through half-lidded eyes, his jaw tight with anticipation.
You hook your fingers into the waistband of his underwear and tug, freeing him. He springs out, heavy and thick, curving up towards his stomach. Your mouth waters at the sight. You've seen him countless times, but the sheer scale of him, the way he looks— flushed and desperate for you—never fails to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You take a moment just to look at him, to appreciate the heavy weight of him in your hand. He’s beautiful everywhere, but there’s something about him like this—completely unguarded, vulnerable in his desire.
A bead of pre-cum glistens at the tip, and you lean forward, darting your tongue out to collect it. The groan he lets out is guttural, a sound ripped from the back of his throat, and his hips jerk off the velvet, seeking more.
You don’t tease him. You can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, his eyes burning, his hands fisting in the fabric of the couch beneath him. You part your lips and sink down, taking him into your mouth as far as you can, relaxing your throat to accommodate him.
The taste of him is heady, musk and pure, unadulterated masculinity, and it makes your head spin faster than the champagne ever could. You flatten your tongue against the underside of his shaft, hollowing your cheeks as you pull back up, letting your lips drag over the sensitive ridge of his head before sinking back down.
"Putain," he hisses, the curse slipping out in a breathless exhale. His hand leaves the velvet of the couch to tangle in your hair, not pushing, just resting there. "Your mouth… fuck, bébé. Just like that."
You hum around him, the vibration making his hips twitch, a sharp, aborted thrust that he quickly checks. He’s always so careful with you, even when he’s losing his mind, holding onto a thread of control that you desperately want to snap.
Above you, Kylian is unraveling. His breathing has turned into ragged, shallow gasps, his chest heaving under the expensive fabric of his shirt. The hand in your hair tightens, his fingers massaging your scalp, sending little tingles of pleasure down your spine, but he still doesn't push. He lets you set the pace, let you control the rhythm, even though you can feel the tension thrumming through his entire body, the desperate way his thighs are tensing beneath your hands.
"Look at me," he rasps, his voice wrecked, his gaze fixed intensely on the stretch of your lips around him. The rhythm of your tongue is steady, calculated. You hollow your cheeks, taking him deep, suppressing your gag reflex as the head of his cock nudges the back of your throat. "God, you look so good like this," he breathes, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone, collecting a stray tear that leaked from the corner of your eye. "So pretty with my cock in your mouth."
The praise sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core, your pussy clenching around nothing. You double down, your hand stroking the base of him in a tight, twisting movement that matches the speed of your mouth, your other hand coming up to cup his balls, rolling them gently in your palm.
"Shit," Kylian hisses, his hips bucking up, a shallow, involuntary thrust that pushes him deeper into your mouth. He’s losing the battle against his restraint. "Stop, stop," he gasps out, his voice tight.
You pull off him with a wet pop, your lips swollen and glistening, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Your hand doesn't stop moving, stroking him firmly, keeping him right on the edge. "Why?" you ask, your voice rough, a husky rasp that sounds nothing like your own. "Don't you want to come?"
"Not like this," he grits out, catching your wrist in a grip that’s gentle but unbreakable, stilling your hand. His chest is heaving, his eyes wide and wild, fixed on your swollen, wet mouth.
He tugs you up, and you go willingly, the carpet soft under your knees as you rise. As soon as you’re within reach, his hands are on you, cupping your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks with a tenderness that belies the dark, stormy hunger in his eyes. He kisses you, in a messy, desperate clash of teeth and tongues, tasting himself on your lips, a reminder of what you were just doing to him.
He pulls away from the kiss only far enough to speak, his forehead resting heavily against yours. "Wanna be inside you," he breathes, the words a ragged confession against your lips. "Need to feel you."
Your knees are already weak from your orgasm and the floor show you just put on, but his words seem to steal the last of the strength from your legs. A fresh wave of heat rushes through you, settling low and heavy in your belly. You nod, a frantic, jerky motion.
You turn in his arms, the silk of your dress sliding down your hips to pool on the floor at your feet. Kylian’s hands are on you instantly, large and hot, gripping your waist to pull you back against him.
The skin of his chest is flush against your back, hard and warm. The position is familiar, practiced, an unspoken language between the two of you. You know exactly what he needs, and you are more than willing to give it to him.
"Bend over," he commands, his voice a low growl that vibrates through your spine.
You plant your hands on the velvet surface of the chaise, arching your back and sticking your ass out in a sultry invitation. The position leaves you completely vulnerable, your elbows sinking into the plush fabric, your face turned towards the wall so your cheek brushes against the cool velvet.
Behind you, you hear the distinct tear of a foil packet—the sharp, crinkling sound cutting through the haze of your arousal,
Then his hands are back on you, hotter and heavier than before. He runs his palms over the globes of your ass, his grip possessive, squeezing hard enough to leave marks that you know you’ll be tracing in the mirror tomorrow morning.
One hand leaves your skin, and you hear the slick, wet sound of him stroking himself a few times, hissing through his teeth. Then, he’s lining himself up, the heavy, blunt head of his cock notching at your entrance. He pauses there, a tease, a question, until you’re shaking with the need for him to just move.
"Please," you whimper, dropping your forehead down to rest against your crossed arms on the velvet. "Kylian, don't make me beg."
"I like it when you beg," he teases, but his restraint is clearly fraying.
He pushes forward, sinking into you in one slow, relentless thrust that forces the air from your lungs in a sharp, ragged gasp. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, teetering on the edge of pain before dissolving into a deep, throbbing pleasure. He doesn't stop until he's fully seated, his hips flush against your ass, filling you so completely it feels like he’s rearranging your insides. He stills for a moment, giving you a second to adjust.
"Move," you gasp out, the word a desperate plea. "Please, baby, move."
He doesn't waste time, pulling almost all the way out, before slamming back into you. He sets a ruthless pace, a punishing rhythm that steals the air from your lungs and leaves you clinging to the velvet chaise for dear life.
"Look at you," he grunts, the sound rough and ragged, tearing from his throat with every thrust. "Taking me so deep."
You can't form words. You can barely breathe. The drag of him inside you is overwhelming, so deep it makes your vision blur. You drop your forehead against your crossed arms, muffling the broken cries that spill from your lips, your entire body trembling with the force of his movements.
One of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up the damp column of your spine, tangling in your hair to grip the base of your neck. He uses the leverage to pull you back against him, forcing your arch deeper, changing the angle so he’s grinding against that spot inside you that makes your legs shake.
"Don't hide from me," he commands, his voice ragged, punctuated by the sharp slap of his hips against your ass. "Let me hear you."
You turn your head, cheek pressed against the velvet, your eyes fluttering open to gaze blindly at the dark corner of the room. Your mouth falls open, a broken, desperate sob escaping your lips as he drives into you, hard and fast. The wet, slick sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, a lewd symphony that is somehow louder than the muffled bass thumping from the club outside.
The friction is overwhelming, a sweet, burning drag that sends sparks skittering across your vision. The music outside the room seems to sync perfectly with the rhythm of his hips.
"You feel so good," the words punch out of him on a harsh exhale. He leans forward, the damp heat of his chest pressing against your back, effectively caging you in. He buries his face in the curve of your neck, his teeth scraping against the sensitive skin, leaving a sting that you know will bloom into a dark bruise by morning. "So fucking tight for me."
You push your hips back to meet his thrusts, desperate for more, chasing the friction that threatens to tip you over the edge again. The coil in your lower belly pulls tighter, a hot, twisting knot of pleasure that makes your toes curl.
"Kylian," you sob, the sound breaking on a sharp intake of breath. "I can't—I'm gonna…"
"Go ahead, trésor," he cuts you off, his voice a dark rasp against your ear. He releases the grip on your hair, his hand sliding around to cup your jaw, turning your face towards him so he can capture your mouth in a messy, open-mouthed kiss. It’s awkward, the angle making it difficult to maintain, but he needs the connection just as much as you do. He swallows your gasp, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to tangle with yours.
He pulls back from your mouth just enough to rest his forehead against your head, his breathing harsh and ragged in your ear. "Let go for me," he commands, "I want to feel you."
His hand slides from your hip, delving between your legs to find your clit. He rubs tight, ruthless circles over the bundle of nerves, the sensation pushing you past the point of no return.
You come with a silent scream, your body locking up, your fingers clawing desperate furrows into the velvet of the chaise. Your inner walls clamp down around him, trying to pull him inside you and keep him there forever.
"Putain, fuck," Kylian hisses, his rhythm faltering for a split second as he fights to accommodate the sudden, tight clench of your cunt. He doesn't stop moving, though; he grinds into you, drawing out the pleasure until it’s almost too much, until your vision goes white at the edges. "Just like that. Take it all."
He works you through it, his voice a ragged stream of praise and filth in your ear, telling you how beautiful you are, how good you feel, how he’s never going to get enough of this. It’s overwhelming, the sheer intensity of his focus centered entirely on your unraveling.
As the aftershocks finally begin to recede, leaving you a boneless, gasping mess against the velvet, Kylian chases his own end. The relentless rhythm of his hips stutters, his breathing turning ragged and shallow against your neck. With a low, guttural groan that vibrates through your entire back, he buries himself to the hilt one last time, his grip bruising on your hips as he spills into the condom.
For a moment, the only sound in the room is the heavy, syncopated cadence of your breathing. The bass from the club still thumps against the walls, a reminder of the world outside this private bubble, but it feels miles away.
Kylian collapses against you, his weight pinning you to the chaise. He doesn't pull out immediately, choosing instead to press a trail of soft, open-mouthed kisses along the damp curve of your shoulder, up the column of your neck to the sensitive spot behind your ear. It’s a tender gesture, a stark contrast to the rough, punishing way he just took you apart.
The air in the small VIP room is thick, heavy with the scent of sex and expensive perfume, the humidity clinging to your skin like a second layer. For a long moment, neither of you moves.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs against your skin, voice rough with exertion, but thick with a soft, undeniable affection. He pulls back slowly, slipping out of you with a groan. He deals with the condom, tying it off and tossing it into the small bin beside the table before walking back over you.
He helps you up from your awkward position, your knees trembling slightly as you right yourself. He takes a moment to smooth down your dress, his hands lingering on your waist, before he bends to retrieve your panties, which had been forgotten on the floor near the table. He holds them out to you, a smirk playing on his lips.
"Still want these?" he asks, his eyes dancing with amusement.
You snatch them from his hand with a glare that lacks any real heat, your face flushing hot. "I'm not walking around commando in a dress this short, Kylian."
He laughs, and steps into your space, smoothing a hand over your hair. " You look good like this, though."
"Like a prostitute?" you mutter, trying to find your reflection in the darkened glass of the cabinet to assess the damage. Your lipstick is gone, likely smeared across his mouth or the neckline of his shirt, and your hair is a tangled halo around your shoulders.
"Like you’ve just been thoroughly fucked by your boyfriend," he corrects, his tone dropping an octave, smug and satisfied. He reaches out, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "It’s a good look on you."
You roll your eyes at him, but you can’t fight the smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. There is a distinct, post-coital haze that settles over his features, softening the sharp angles of his face, replacing the intense athlete with a gentle, cuddly version you rarely get to see in public.
"Come here," he murmurs, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into his chest. He rests his chin on top of your head, swaying you slightly to the muffled rhythm of the bass thumping from the other side of the wall. It’s a sweet, domestic moment in the most unlikely of places, and you sink into him, your cheek pressed against the soft fabric of his shirt.
"We should probably head back," you murmur into his chest, though you make no move to step away. You’re reluctant to leave this bubble, to trade the scent of him and the quiet aftermath for the noise and chaos of the club.
He sighs, the sound rumbling through your body. "I know. Jude's probably dancing on tables by now."
"We can't leave him unsupervised for too long," you agree, pulling back slightly to look up at him.
He presses a soft kiss to your forehead, a simple gesture that makes your heart flutter. "Let's go home, princesse."
