Content: Rafayel deals with your jealousy
Rafayel has been whining about trivial nonsense for the better part of an hour, and your patience is a fraying thread. You’re slouched on the velvety couch in his studio, legs dangling over the armrest, while he stalks back and forth in front of his latest half-finished painting.
“I’m telling you,” he huffs, gesturing dramatically with one graceful hand, “this new curator is completely incompetent. She called my shading interesting, but in a very passive tone. Like she would know a single thing about Lemurian technique.”
You watch him pace, arching an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”
He stops, leveling an indignant glare at you. “That’s it? ‘Uh-huh’? You could at least pretend to be invested in my suffering.”
“Rafayel,” you sigh, rubbing your temples. “It’s not suffering. It’s you being a spoiled little prince because someone didn’t lick your boots for once.”
He lets out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like you’ve stabbed him. “Boots deserve to be licked when they’re attached to a genius. I am gracious enough to share my brilliance with these mortals, and this is the thanks I get?”
“Oh my god,” you mutter, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re literally the most dramatic person I’ve ever met. You know that, right?”
“Don’t pretend you don’t find it charming,” he snaps, but there’s no real bite to it. Just that bratty petulance he reserves exclusively for you.
You don’t dignify that with a response. You just lift your phone and scroll pointedly. If he wants to have a meltdown over being called interesting, he can do it without your applause.
He pouts and flops down next to you, draping himself over your legs. “You’re ignoring me.”
“I’m preserving my sanity.”
He tilts his head back to look up at you, hair spilling over your thighs like liquid ameythst. “You still love me, though.”
“Unfortunately,” you sigh. “Still my boyfriend. Even if you’re a diva.”
A smug little smile curves his mouth, satisfied that you’ve acknowledged it, and you hate how smugly gorgeous he looks when he wins these tiny battles. Hours later, you regret ever tolerating him.
The gallery opening is in full swing, all crystal chandeliers and pretentious chatter. You’re nursing a glass of something bubbly you can’t pronounce, half-listening to an old collector drone about Lemurian pigments, when you spot Rafayel across the room.
Some girl in a backless dress, hanging onto his every word, laughing too loudly at his stupid anecdotes. You watch, jaw clenched, as she lays a hand on his arm, tracing the embroidered cuff of his sleeve.
Rafayel doesn’t push her away. Doesn’t scold her. Doesn’t so much as look mildly inconvenienced. He just lets it happen, you’d say basking in her attention, even. Your chest tightens. You drain your glass. When he finally extricates himself, graceful and unbothered, he drifts over to you.
“Enjoying yourself?” you ask, your voice tight.
His eyes flick down your body in lazy appraisal. “Not particularly. These events are all the same. Though,” he inclines his head “you look…lovely.”
“Uh-huh.” You turn away, setting your empty glass a little too hard on the bar.
His brows draw together. “Something wrong?”
“Why would anything be wrong?” you snap.
He studies you, expression unchanging. “You seem tense.”
You grit your teeth. “I said I’m fine.”
He’s quiet a beat too long, and you feel the burn of his gaze on your profile. “Hm.”
“What?” you demand, spinning to face him.
He lifts his hands in a delicate, mocking gesture of surrender. “Nothing. You’re simply a bit prickly tonight. Like a puffer fish.”
Your mouth falls open. “Prickly?”
He tilts his head, smiling faintly. “I’d say adorable, even. But maybe something even more. Could you be… no, there’s no way.”
You take a steadying breath. “Don’t start.”
“Whatever this is,” you hiss, gesturing between you. “I don’t need you psychoanalyzing me because you let some random girl paw all over you for 30 whole seconds.”
His lashes flicker. “Ah.”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me,” you warn.
He steps closer, and you hate that your breath hitches. “I didn’t realize you were counting how many seconds she touched my sleeve.”
“I wasn’t doing it on purpose,” you lie, too fast.
“No?” His tone is maddeningly soft. “Because you look like you’re about to claw her eyes out.”
You scowl, crossing your arms. “I don’t care. You’re free to flirt with whoever you want.”
“I wasn’t flirting.” His tone shifted and his eyes darkened to the point you flinched slightly in shock.
But you scoffed, “Sure looked like it.”
His smile is small and secretive. “Are you jealous?”
He studies you, gaze unblinking, and something in it makes your pulse quicken, something patient and sharp, like a predator scenting weakness. But he doesn’t push the question again. He just watches you with that inscrutable Lemurian calm, letting the tension coil tighter and tighter.
The drive back to his place is silent. You refuse to look at him. He doesn’t force conversation. The moment the front door clicks shut behind you, though, you round on him.
“You know what? Fine. Maybe I am a little pissed off,” you snap.
“But not because I’m jealous,” you insist, shoving off your shoes. “Because you’re just- just so-”
“So what?” he murmurs, sounding almost amused.
You stalk past him, intending to barricade yourself in the guest room just to prove a point, but his hand catches your wrist. He doesn’t yank, just holds, firm and inescapable.
He doesn’t. “I’m infuriating because…?”
You swallow hard, heat rushing up your throat. “Because you like all that attention. You pretend you don’t, but you do. You eat it up.”
“Mm,” he hums. “And that bothers you.”
“Liar,” he says, soft and final.
You try to wrench free again, but his grip doesn’t budge. “I don’t owe you an explanation.”
He steps into your space, Lemurian eyes gleaming like deep ocean. “You’re right. You don’t owe me anything.” His voice drops lower. “But you will be honest.”
“I am honest,” you grit out.
He laughs, it feels dangerous. “Little thing, you wouldn’t know honest if it bit you.”
“Stop calling me that,” you hiss.
His free hand lifts, brushing your cheek. “What, little thing?”
You slap his hand away, heart hammering. “I’m not some fragile pet you can patronize.”
“No,” he agrees, voice like silk over knives. “You’re a brat who wants to pick a fight because you’re too proud to admit you’re possessive.”
Your temper snaps. “Oh, fuck you.”
He doesn’t flinch. “Such language.”
“God, you’re so smug. You just stand there letting every idiot in the room drool over you, and then act like I’m irrational when it pisses me off.”
Your breath comes in ragged little pulls. “What?”
You try to shove him, but he catches your other wrist, pinning both above your head against the wall. The motion is effortless like he’s barely restraining himself.
“You think I didn’t notice?” he murmurs, leaning in until his mouth grazes your jaw. “The way you watched her like a shark.”
“I hate you,” you whisper, it’s not true, you’re just upset but your voice cracks.
“No, little thing,” he says, voice husky, alien. “You hate that you want to be the only one who matters to me.”
His grip tightens, and the smile he gives you is nothing human but something old and predatory slipping through the cracks in his beautiful mask.
“You think you’re the only one allowed to be difficult?” he goes on, almost gently. “That you can pout and snipe and pretend you don’t care, and I’ll just let you?”
“Why do you care?” you spit, though your voice wobbles. But you so desperately want to hear it. His claim on you.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear. “Because you’re mine.”
“And you will not disrespect me to make yourself feel better.” His tone dips, dark and dangerous. “You forget, little thing. I am not some human boy you can just sass.”
You still, chest heaving.
“You know what I am. My nature is to be adored. To be worshipped.”
Heat flushes your cheeks, a humiliating ache pooling in your belly.
“Just sounds egotistical and arrogant to me,” you whisper, but it sounds feeble.
He smiles against your skin. “Say it again. Let’s see if you still believe it when you’re falling apart for me.”
“Go on,” he coaxes, brushing his mouth over your throat. “Be a brat. It will only make it sweeter when you break.”
You squeeze your eyes shut, but it’s no use. He can feel it, your hunger, your twisted longing. And he revels in it.
“Such a lovely little tantrum,” he murmurs, voice sinuous and cruel.
Your heart slams against your ribs, the thrum of it loud enough that you swear he must hear it. Maybe he does, his pupils have gone blown wide, black eclipsing the pale gleam of his irises. You try to twist away again, and that’s the moment his composure finally snaps.
“You don’t get to run,” he murmurs, voice soft but threaded through with something older, something that makes your skin prickle. “You wanted this. You wanted to push me, to see how far you could go.”
His grip on your wrists shifts, holding them both in one hand above your head while his free hand trails down your sternum. Not gentle. Not asking. Claiming.
Your breath catches, every nerve singing. His fingers drag lower, pressing the fabric of your clothes into your skin. His touch isn’t rough, but there’s no patience left in it, no pretense of the languid, harmless diva who spent the afternoon whining about curators.
This is the siren. The Lemurian. The thing under the surface of all that polished charm.
“You think you’re clever,” he breathes, brushing his lips over your cheek. “You think you can provoke me and stay in control.”
You force yourself to glare at him. “I am in control.”
He laughs, dark and genuine, the sound rolling right through you. “No, little thing.” His thumb presses just under your jaw, tilting your head back so you can’t look away. “You never were.”
“Fuck you,” you roll your eyes playfully, it doesn’t sound nearly as defiant as you want it to.
He smiles, slow and cruel. “Oh, I’m going to. But first,” He leans in, his mouth ghosting along the shell of your ear, his voice a low, intimate rasp. “I’m going to make sure you remember exactly who you belong to.”
You shiver, hatred and arousal warring in your chest.
“You’re so desperate to be special,” he goes on, his hand drifting down to your hip. “So desperate to be the only one. And you are.” His fingers dig in just enough to sting. “But you’d rather throw a tantrum than admit you want the reassurance.”
He places a sweet kiss on your lips, fierce and punishing, swallowing your words. His free hand slides up to tangle in your hair, angling your head so he can take more, deeper, until you’re gasping into his mouth. When he finally pulls back, his lips are curved in a smile that makes your stomach flip.
He releases your wrists, but before you can react, he’s spun you around, pressing your front into the wall. One big hand splays between your shoulder blades, pinning you effortlessly. His body is a warm, solid weight at your back, trapping you there.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “Trembling.”
“Yes, you are.” His hand slides up your nape, cupping the back of your skull. “You pretend you’re above it. But you’re just as weak for me as every other creature in this city.”
You hate how true it feels. Hate how your whole body goes liquid when he talks to you like this.
His mouth finds the side of your throat, nipping hard enough to make you gasp. “Such a mouth on you,” he muses, lips brushing your skin. “All that sass. All that attitude. And it’s worth nothing.”
He bites again, harder, and your knees nearly buckle.
“You want to be a brat?” he purrs, his hand sliding down your spine. “Then be a brat. I’ll enjoy taming you.”
You can’t help the small, ragged noise that escapes you, and you feel him smile against your neck.
“That little sound. I’ve been waiting to hear it all night.”
“Hm?” His palm curls around your hip, squeezing possessively. “Say it again.”
You hate yourself for obeying. “Rafayel.”
He eases back just enough to turn you around again. You find yourself trapped between his arms, caged by the breadth of him, your back against the wall. His expression is no longer even pretending to be human, his eyes are fathomless, his mouth curved in that knowing, predatory smile.
“You forget I was crafted to seduce, to enthrall. There’s nothing you can say that will put you above me.”
You swallow hard, nails digging into your palms. “I don’t care.”
“You care so much it’s pathetic,” he murmurs, brushing your hair back from your face. “You care so much it’s delicious.”
You open your mouth to retort, but he catches your chin in his hand, thumb pressing into your lower lip to silence you.
“Enough,” he says softly, and for once, you go still.
His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, inhumanly luminous. “You will remember this,” he tells you. “You will remember that no one touches me. No one dares. Because you are the only one who is mine.”
“And I am the only one who is allowed to ruin you.”
Your pulse goes frantic, heat flooding every inch of you.
“You understand?” he murmurs.
When you don’t answer fast enough, he leans in, lips brushing your ear, his voice a molten whisper, “Answer me.”
“Yes,” you choke out, your pride in tatters.
He smiles against your cheek. “Good girl.”
The praise goes straight to your gut, shameful and electric.
His mouth finds yours again, and this time, the kiss is slower, deeper, like he’s savoring every small shiver and stifled whimper. When he finally draws back, his hand cradling your jaw, you feel dizzy, wrecked, undone.
“You see?” he purrs. “You can’t outsass me.”
You glare at him, even though your legs barely hold you up. “Still hate you,” you whisper, but it comes out wrecked.
He laughs, brushing a final kiss to your temple. “No, little thing,” he says, voice darkly satisfied. “You hate that you love me.”
And the worst part is, you know he’s right.
He doesn’t release you right away. Instead, he studies your flushed cheeks, your parted lips, the raw need you haven’t admitted even to yourself. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, and you hate how your eyes flutter at the contact.
“You look so sweet like this,” he murmurs. “Finally quiet.”
You try to gather the tatters of your pride, scowling up at him. “I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” he cuts in smoothly. “Look at you.” His hand cups your jaw, tilting your face up, as if to display your expression to some unseen audience. “You want to pretend you’re still angry. Still in control.”
“You’re trembling,” he goes on, voice soft as silk. “You’re clinging to your attitude because you don’t know what else to do.”
You press your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.
But he just laughs, low and dark, brushing his mouth over your cheek. “Sweet little thing,” he croons.
His hand drifts lower, flattening over your heart, and for a single, terrible instant, you remember exactly what he is. Not just a beautiful, spoiled siren. Not just your bratty, insufferable boyfriend. But something deeper. Older. Made to lure people to their ruin.
He feels the way your heart thrums, the way your body betrays you. And he delights in it.
“You’re so easy to read,” he whispers, his lips ghosting over the corner of your mouth.
You grit your teeth, desperate to say something, anything that will put distance between you. But every thought melts under the weight of his closeness.
Finally, you rasp, “You’re so full of yourself.”
He hums, deep in his chest, the sound vibrating through you. “Then why,” he breathes, “are you still here?”
You swallow, but nothing comes. No excuse. No denial. Just the ragged sound of your breathing and the humiliating truth of how badly you want him.
Rafayel shifts back half a step, giving you barely enough space to see the dark amusement in his eyes. “That’s what I thought.”
And you realize too late that he’s been soft with you until now. That all the petulant whining and the sultry teasing was just a game he let you play. Because when he finally releases your waist and takes your hand instead, his grip is unyielding, and you know you aren’t going to win this round.
His free hand comes up to cradle your jaw, deceptively gentle.
“You are done testing my patience.”
The bedroom door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the air feels heavier, charged with something electric. He doesn’t let go of your hand. Just studies you in the dim light, his gaze sweeping from your face to your trembling hands.
“All that bravado.” He steps closer. “Gone.”
Your breath comes shallow, your pulse thrumming in your ears.
“You want to know what happens to brats who think they can get away with pissing off a siren?” he asks softly. “A Lemurian God?”
You swallow hard. “What?”
He smiles, slow, terrible, beautiful. “They get ruined.”
Your head spins as his mouth claims yours again, hungrier, rougher, no patience left in it. His tongue parts your lips, tasting you like he’s starving, and you can’t stop the way your body arches up into him.
He pulls back just enough to speak, his breathing ragged. He rasps, his voice lower than you’ve ever heard it. “I haven’t even started, and you’re already shaking.”
He releases your wrists at last, but only to shove your hands to his shoulders like he wants you to push him, to pretend you still have fight left. His palms drag down your arms, possessive and slow, until they settle on your hips.
“You’ve been such a brat tonight,” he murmurs, dipping his head to scrape his teeth along your throat. “Such a mouthy little thing.”
His fingers tighten. “Tell me again how you’re in control,” he goads, his voice dripping with dark amusement.
Your pride sputters up, desperate to resist. “I—I am—”
He laughs softly against your skin, and you feel the sound everywhere. “No,” he purrs, dragging his mouth lower, along the hollow of your collarbone. “Not anymore.”
His hands slide under your clothes, deft and unhurried. The first brush of his palms over your bare skin makes you gasp.
“Say it,” he orders, voice a low, dangerous rumble. “Say you’re mine.”
You shake your head, even as heat pools low in your belly. Because it is just so fun to not give him what he wants. “No.”
He sits back on his heels just long enough to tear your shirt over your head and toss it aside. You have barely a second to catch your breath before he’s leaning over you again, pinning your wrists in one hand against the mattress. His other palm slides up your side, fingers curling around your ribs.
“You’re going to say it,” he tells you calmly. “Because you know it’s true. Because you love me,” brushing his mouth along your sternum. “You love every terrible thing about me.”
Your head tips back, a helpless whimper escaping.
“And you love when I do this.”
His hand trails down your stomach, slipping beneath your waistband, and you go rigid, your breathing hitching on a ragged moan.
“Already wet for me,” he croons. “Pathetic.”
“Fuck you,” you gasp, your hips jolting despite yourself.
He lifts his head, meeting your eyes with that fathomless Lemurian gaze. “Say it.”
He presses his fingers more firmly between your thighs, making your vision spark. “Say you’re mine.”
Your pride is a tiny, flickering thing now, but you cling to it with your last scrap of defiance. “No.”
He catches your earlobe between his teeth, biting just hard enough to make you gasp. The shock of it melts the last of your resistance, and before you can stop yourself, the truth tears out of you in a shaking whisper:
He goes very still. His fingers still between your thighs. His eyes fix on yours, bright and unblinking.
Your throat works. “I’m yours,” you say, louder this time.
A slow, wicked smile spreads over his face. “Good girl.”
Your whole body shudders at the praise.
His grip on your wrists eases, but when you try to move your hands, he tsks under his breath. “Stay,” he orders softly. “If you move, I’ll start over.”
Rafayel lowers himself over you again, bracing one arm by your head. The other slides back down between your legs, unhurried, deliberate.
“I’m going to ruin you,” he says calmly. “And you’re going to thank me for it.”
You open your mouth to deny it, but all that comes out is a broken moan as his fingers stroke you exactly where you need it, slow and devastating.
You feel yourself slipping, the heat coiling tighter and tighter. And just when you’re about to shatter, he stops. You sob, hips jerking, and he catches your chin in his free hand, forcing you to meet his gaze.
Your pride tries to hold the line, but it’s a pathetic last stand. “Rafayel—”
“…please,” you gasp, tears pricking your eyes.
He smiles, satisfied. “That’s better.”
His fingers start to move again, faster, harder, and you hear yourself begging in earnest, ragged, mindless pleas. And when he finally pushes you over the edge, his mouth finds your ear again, his voice a dark promise:
“You’ll never belong to anyone else. My bride.”
You’re still trembling when the last waves of release fade, your body limp against the bed. Your mind feels soft around the edges, every thought dissolving under the heat of him.
But Rafayel doesn’t let you drift too far.
His fingers slip from you, leaving you empty, aching, and you whimper at the loss. Before you can beg again, he’s curling that hand under your jaw, tilting your head back so you have no choice but to meet his eyes.
He looks calmer now. Colder, somehow. Like something has settled into place behind that beautiful face, the Lemurian in him, patient and ancient, watching you with pitiless fascination.
“You see?” he murmurs. His thumb strokes your lower lip. “This is what happens when you forget yourself.”
You shiver, your voice coming out hoarse. “I—I didn’t—”
He cuts you off with a low laugh. “You did.”
His other hand drags over your stomach, your hip, a deceptively gentle touch. You feel the heat building again already, humiliating in how fast it comes back.
“You thought you could provoke me,” he goes on, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “You thought you could pout, and yell, and test every last bit of my patience and I would just let you.”
His thumb presses into your lip, just enough to part it. You swallow hard, your breath catching.
“But you forgot what I am.”
His gaze is so steady it feels like it’s reaching inside you, peeling back every last scrap of pride you’ve tried to hide behind.
“You forgot,” he whispers, “that I don’t have to tolerate you. I choose to.”
You feel your heart stumble in your chest.
“And you forgot that when you push me too far…”
His thumb slides along your lip, smearing the slickness there.
“…I will always push you further.”
You should hate him for the way he says it. For the soft certainty that you are his to discipline and devour. But your body betrays you, heat licking up your spine, your hips shifting restlessly against the mattress.
He sees it. Of course he does. His mouth curves in a slow, dark smile.
“You like this,” he says, voice soft with mock pity. “You like being made to behave.”
Your cheeks burn, but you can’t deny it, not when you’re already trembling for more.
When you don’t answer, he sighs, almost disappointed. “Still too stubborn to admit it?”
You glare at him, though it’s a weak, watery effort. “I’m not—”
He cuts you off by pushing two fingers into your mouth. You gasp around them, eyes going wide.
“That’s enough,” he says quietly, with a finality that leaves no room for argument. “You’re done talking back.”
His thumb tips your chin higher, forcing you to keep eye contact while your lips close around his fingers. He watches you suck them in, his pupils flaring.
“Better,” he murmurs. “Much better.”
Your pride flickers up one last time. Small, defiant, and you nip lightly at his fingers, trying to salvage some illusion of control.
He goes very still. Then he leans close, until his lips brush your ear.
“You think you’re clever?” he asks softly, almost conversational. “You think you can pretend you aren’t begging for me?”
You shiver, your breath hitching around his fingers.
He withdraws them from your mouth, trailing them down your chin. “Get on your knees.”
Your eyes fly open, wide. “What—”
The word is a command you feel in your bones.
He sits back, and something in you knows better than to disobey. You push yourself up, legs unsteady, and slide from the bed to kneel at his feet.
Rafayel’s hand settles in your hair, gently threading through the strands. He studies you, his expression calm, almost thoughtful.
“You don’t look so defiant now,” he observes.
You lift your chin, trying to glare at him from the floor. “I still hate you.”
He laughs, low and pleased. “No, you don’t.”
His fingers tighten, tugging your hair so you have to look up at him. “You’re going to stay here,” he says softly. “On your knees. Quiet and pretty.”
Your heart slams against your ribs.
“And when I decide you’ve learned some respect…”
His hand slides along your jaw, thumb brushing your lip again.
“…maybe I’ll let you come back to bed.”
Your pride cracks in that moment, finally, fully, and all you can do is nod.
He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours, his breath warm.
“Good girl,” he murmurs, and it’s the final humiliation: that you love hearing it.
He just hovers there, lips a breath from yours, his fingers still twined tight in your hair. Like he’s savoring the sight of you on your knees. You’re tamed, quiet, finally stripped of all the bratty defiance you’d been clinging to.
“You look perfect down there,” Rafayel murmurs, his voice a low caress. “You should see yourself.”
Your throat works around the dryness, your breathing shallow.
Part of you wants to spit something clever back. But it dies in your mouth under the weight of his gaze.
And he sees it, of course he does. The way you hesitate. The way your body leans ever so slightly toward him, like you can’t help yourself.
“You understand now,” he goes on, almost gentle. “Why you don’t test me.”
You swallow, your voice thin. “…yes.”
His smile is slow, predatory. “Say it again.”
You lower your eyes, heat flushing your cheeks. “I understand.”
He tips your chin up with a single finger. “And what do you understand?”
The approval that flickers in his expression is sharp and possessive. He drags his thumb along your lower lip again, watching the way your breath hitches.
“Good girl,” he praises softly.
Your chest tightens, shame and want tangling in a helpless ache.
He shifts back just enough to look down the line of your body, kneeling between his thighs, your hands limp in your lap. You hate the way it feels right. The way part of you wants to stay here forever if it means you don’t have to pretend anymore.
“You know,” Rafayel muses, voice deceptively thoughtful, “I could keep you like this all night.”
Your pride makes one last, pathetic attempt. “No.”
His hand in your hair tightens just enough to make your scalp prickle and he leans in again, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.
You feel yourself tremble.
“I think,” he goes on, tone soft as a blade sliding between your ribs, “you’d be very happy if I just kept you here. On your knees. Needing me.”
Your breath shudders out of you.
“I think you’d be even happier,” he adds, his hand sliding down the column of your throat, “if I reminded you exactly how to behave.”
His thumb strokes your pulse, feeling how fast it races.
“You want me to,” he murmurs. “Don’t you?”
You don’t answer, you can’t.
He chuckles, dark and knowing. “That’s all the answer I need.”
And then he pushes you gently but firmly back, until you’re sitting on your heels, and he rises to stand in front of you.
Your gaze lifts automatically, cheeks hot.
“You’re going to show me,” Rafayel says, voice low and edged in command, “that you can be obedient.”
He reaches for the fastening of his clothes, undoing it with slow, deliberate motions, never looking away from you. The air feels thick, your heartbeat thudding in your ears as he bares himself.
And then he steps closer, his hand curling in your hair again, guiding your mouth exactly where he wants it.
Your breath catches and still, you obey. Lips parting, your pride dissolving into something raw and hungry.
He strokes his thumb over your lower lip. “You can be so good for me.”
And then he presses forward into your mouth, the heat and weight of him making your vision blur.
You whimper, your hands clutching at his thighs for balance.
“That’s it,” he breathes, his voice thick now. “Just like that.”
His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place. You can’t look away from his face, the way his jaw flexes, the way his eyes darken.
“Look how pretty you are,” he says hoarsely. “Such a perfect little thing, finally quiet.”
Your cheeks burn. You try to pull back, but his grip holds you fast, his hips giving a slow, shallow thrust that makes you moan around him.
He hisses in a breath. “You have no idea,” he rasps, “how long I’ve wanted to see you like this today.”
Your pride is gone, just gone. All that’s left is the need pulsing low in your belly, the helpless ache that makes your eyes sting.
When you finally have to pull back for air, he lets you but its just long enough for a shaky inhale before guiding you forward again.
“Not done yet,” he murmurs.
You’re dizzy with it now, his hands, his voice, the dark approval in his eyes every time you take him deeper.
And when he finally lets you pull back for good, you’re flushed, your lips wet and swollen, your breath ragged.
He studies you for a long moment, his expression a careful balance of possessive satisfaction and something almost tender.
Then he bends, catching your jaw in his hand again.
Your legs feel like water, but you manage to stand, swaying. He catches you against his chest, his arms closing around you.
And this time, when he kisses you, it’s slow. Deep. Almost reverent.
“You’re mine,” he whispers against your mouth.
“…yours,” you breathe, unable to deny it anymore.
He smiles, unguarded and devastating.
“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a last kiss to your temple. “Now. Back on the bed.”
And you go, obedient at last because no part of you can pretend anymore you want anything else.
You climb onto the bed with your body still thrumming, heat, shame, need. They’re all wound so tight it’s hard to tell where one ends and the next begins.
Rafayel follows you up, moving with that effortless Lemurian grace that makes your breath catch. He doesn’t look remotely sated, and something about how much he wants you, how thoroughly he intends to take you, makes your pulse flutter in your throat.
“Lie down,” he says, voice low and edged in hunger.
Your hands tremble as you obey, sinking back against the pillows, and he looms over you, bracing himself on one palm beside your head. His other hand slides slowly down your bare chest, skimming over every sensitive place he knows too well by now.
Your breath stutters when he rolls the tender flesh beneath his thumb, teasing it to a tight peak. His mouth follows his hand, warm and insistent, teasing you until you squirm beneath him. He works you slowly, drawing out the sounds he wants, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make your breath catch. His palm slides lower, tracing your stomach.
When he lifts his head, his pupils are wide and dark, that siren pull in them more intense than ever. The part of him that used to pretend at gentleness is stripped away, what’s left is raw and possessive, the Lemurian predator under the pretty smile.
And you can’t look away. You shudder, your thighs pressing together.
His hand grips your hip and drags your legs apart again, baring you completely to him. You flush, instinct making you squirm to close them again, but he pins you in place with an easy, inexorable strength.
“Hey,” he murmurs, voice like silk over a blade. “You don’t get to hide.”
He moves between your thighs, his palm skimming up your inner leg, and you can’t stop the tremor that goes through you when he brushes against the place you’re most sensitive.
“Still so wet,” he croons. “After everything.”
He gives a soft, almost pitying sound, as though you’re pathetic for wanting this so much. And maybe you are.
