play me for it | ๐๐๐๐๐ฟ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐
๐๐ผ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐๐๐๐๐ฟ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐๐ ๐๐ผ๐๐๐๐๐๐๐๐
๐จ๐ช๐ข๐ข๐๐ง๐ฎ: ๐ฌ๐๐๐ฃ ๐ ๐๐๐ข๐ ๐ค๐ ๐จ๐ค๐๐๐๐ง ๐๐๐๐ค๐ข๐๐จ ๐ข๐ค๐ง๐ ๐๐๐๐ฉ๐๐ ๐ฉ๐๐๐ฃ ๐๐ญ๐ฅ๐๐๐ฉ๐๐
Football has simply always been your passion to say the least. You had made the league because you earned it. Not through a charity pick, not through some public relations stunt made to create a 'name' for yourself, not because a boardroom of old men wanted the shock value of putting a woman on a men's team. You were there because every tryout, every drill, every brutal cutdown round, you have been the one left standing. There had not be a moment on that field where your heart was not in it. You had outworked every person that had tried out of that team and you were proud of it. Most importantly, you out-willed every single player who thought they were deserving of a spot more than you did.
Including the person you despised the most, Theodore Nott.
The league's most infuriating, magnetic rival. He was a star midfielder of the opposing club. Long, unhurried strides that somehow ate up the entire pitch. A body that moved like that already knew it was better than yours, but still watched you closely, as if it was making sure that advantage never slipped. Hair was always messy in that deliberate, unfair way. Jaw set like every match was personal. Eyes sharp enough to slice through whatever confidence you walked in with. And that tongue, a weapon he wielded as easily as he did the ball.
Every time you faced him, the stadium shifted. You felt it. The chanting faded into one pulsing noise. The floodlights seemed to burn hotter. And somewhere between the first whistle and the first sprint, something electric snapped into place; recognition, a challenge, hunger, something neither of you could name without stepping too close to a line neither of you were ready to admit existed.
Reports called it rivalry, while commentators called it chemistry. Your teammates called it tension strong enough to set off the stadium alarms. But you already knew what is was. It was the way he always found you on the field first, before the ball, before the play were to unfold. His eyes locking with yours like he needed proof that you existed and were ready to take him apart. It was the way he muttered, low and biting, every time he passed you: "Too slow today" or "Try harder sweetheart".
But the worst part was, you always did keep up. You had always pushed yourself harder. But there was something in trying to outrun Theodore Nott that made your blood turn into molten.
He matched you stride and stride, stubborn heart against stubborn heartbeat, as if the two of you were running your own private match under the surface of the real one. Every shove, every intercepted pass, every collision where his chest hit your shoulder, and his breath brushed your ear. . .
It all meant something neither of you ever would say out loud.
Opposite sides of the league, with stadium lights burnings overhead and the world watching, there was no room for softness or 'what ifs'. No room for slips ups, or mistakes. No room for the truth of whatever this thing was between you.
But there was always the moment, just before the kickoff, where you and Theo would meet at the midfield. Just close enough to where you could see the faint smirk at the corner of his mouth. Just close enough that he could see the heat in your eyes when you stared him down.
It was press day, the next time you saw him. The media hall buzzed with flashes and murmurs, the reporters clustered like vultures, players shuffling from camera to camera, handlers shouting about schedules and interviews. The air smelled like cologne, turf, and nerves. You had learned to move through all off it like a blade, sharp and untouchable.
Which is why you did not break stride when Theodore Nott's voice slid into your eye like warm smoke. "Didn't think your team would risk putting you against me again," he drawled, low enough that no microphone could not catch it. It was just you and him.
You refused to give him the satisfaction of a glance. "They didn't," you said, tone even, "I told them I wanted you."
Your words hit him like a surprise pass. He blinked, only once. With Theo, that single flicker was equal to a gasp. His shoulder brushed yours as he turned, watching you with that maddening mixture of curiosity and challenge. But then, came the smirk. It was slow and self assured. It was pretty enough, you hated that it was pretty.
"You always want me," he murmured, tilting his head just enough to catch your expression.
That was all it took for you to stop, one foot planted, a clean pivot. You stepped into his space, not enough for contact, but just enough that the line between bodies was tightened like a drawstring. His cologne wrapped around you, deeper than the disinfectant tang of cameras, warmer than the overhead lights.
"On the field?" you said, voice low and steady. "Absolutely. I'm going to embarrass you."
Theo let out a quiet breath, "That's not what quite what I meant." His eyes dropped to your mouth. It was not an accident nor was it meant to be subtle. Every thing he did, he did with purpose, nothing was a mistake to him. For a split second, your pulse stuttered, tightening in your chest in a way you refused to let him see.
You stayed unreadable, you always tried to say unreadable in front of him. "Keep dreaming, Nott." You dismissed him.
He stepped closer towards you. Just enough to make you aware of how tall he was, how easily he could angle his head down to you. This kind of closeness that might look innocent to someone passing by, but felt anything but that.
His breathe brushed your ear, and his voice dropped into something warm and rough, "Only if you keep giving something worth to dream about."
Heat shot down your spine. Your jaw tensed to hold the reaction in.
Without turning back, because you would not let him see the smile threatening at the corner of your mouth, you walked. Every step gave him the refusal to win. You hated that he could pull that out of you with just a few words.
You hated even more that he knew it.
The second half had been relentless. The kind of match that made your legs scream and your lungs burn in sync with your heartbeat. Every pass felt like a gamble, every touch a challenge. The other team's defence was tighter than ever, but none of that compared to Theo.
He appeared to be everywhere you were. He was always just a step behind, then suddenly next to you, blocking the angles you thought were open and clear. Shadowing your runs, always pressing around you. With every shoulder bump carried that faint, infuriating smirk that was pressed on his lips. It was like he enjoyed the struggle as much as you did. He enjoyed the challenge, the opportunity to make you think.
โSuddenly losing your touch, bella?โ He had whispered to you, after a sharp tackle.
โOh, you wish,โ you snapped back, trying to keep your focus sharp and steady.
โActually,โ he muttered, voice low and teasing. โI have some better wishes.โ
You did not answer. The refereeโs whistle saved you a response, but that did not stop his words from lingering in your mind, it was like a feather brushing the skin of your spine. You did not have time to waste to dwell, the match demanded everything, and you were nothing if not relentless.
With ten minutes left, the score tied one - one, and the possession had switched. The ball slipped loose in midfield, and suddenly it was just you and him, sprinting together, shoulder to shoulder. You could feel the heart radiating off him as your muscles burned in unison. You pushed, half a step ahead, tapping the ball forward, your heart hammering in response.
Then, he moved, it was quick, sharp, almost perfect. His foot hooked the ball cleanly, dispossessing you in a motion that was more of a dance rather than defence. โTry harder next time,โ he panted, close enough that his breath grazed your jaw. It charged with something unspoken that made your pulse quicken.
โTry shutting up,โ you shot back, voice rough from effort and adrenaline.
He had laughed, sharp and breathless. His laugh felt so close and burned into your chest in a way that had nothing to do with soccer. There was a sudden spark in it, like static electricity, it was a thrill that made your stomach drop and your muscles tense.
It was the way he leaned forward, brushing just enough against you in order to remind you of his presence, and laughed only to make your head spin. With every fibre of your body was alert and charged, not with competitive fire but something dangerous and magnetic. It was like he could tell he had some type of power over you. You knew he felt that feeling too, just by the way his eyes flicked to yours for the brief second longer than necessary before returning back to the ball.
The whistle blew once more, signalling a throw in, but for a heartbeat you forgot everything but the heat of his body and the echo of his laugh. That sharp, confident, sound that somehow made the world shrink down to just the two of you on the field.
You shook your head slightly as if trying to get rid of him out of your thoughts. You tried to regain your focus back, game first, Theodore Nott second.
But somewhere deep down, you knew that thrill was not going away anytime soon.
The stadium noise echoed faintly through the concrete, a distant roar washing out into a low rumble. The match had ended in a draw hard fought, it was brutal and frustrating. It was the kind of match that left you vibrating time after just from the leftover adrenaline. You saw your coach rushed down the hallway, vanishing in the matter of seconds. Most of his team had disappeared into the locker rooms, but Theo stayed.
He had leaned against the cool concrete wall as if he owned the space, head tipped back, breath still uneven from the final sprint. Sweat dampened the edges of his hair, making it fall in dark pieces across his forehead. His jersey clung to him, outlining his broad shoulders, long torso, muscles tense beneath the wet fabric.
You tried to refuse yourself from looking too long. "You are insufferable," you said, forcing your tone flat even though your pulse was still racing.
He had lifted up his head just enough to meet your eyes. But slowly, a devastating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're obsessed," he said, the words came out simply as if he was stating a fact.
"You wish, Nott." You murmured, rolling your eyes at his comment.
"No," he answered, pushing himself off the wall with lazy grace. His voice dropped, appearing husky and deliberate. "You do."
Your heart stuttered, one sharp misstep in its rhythm. He noticed, like he always did.
Theodore crossed his arms over his chest, his muscles flexing under the motion. "Fine, let's settle it. . . A bet."
You could not help but scoff in return, "On what?" you asked, raising a brow.
"Next match. Six weeks from now." His eyes gleamed at the idea, revealing the competitive fire that was growing within his chest. But, you noticed something, his eyes darkened as if he could not wait for the results. "Loser owes the winner a night."
You felt your breath being caught against something you could not name. The air suddenly felt heavier around you. "A night?" You asked, soft and surprised.
He nodded. "Winner decides what it means. Drink, company, whatever they want." His gaze drifted towards your mouth, his actions appeared unapologetic, as they followed the lining of your jaw, then reaching back up to your eyes. "Or something more. . ."
Heat curled low in your stomach as an idea formed in your mind. It spread outward in a slow burn. You hated that you loved that feeling. It scared you though, how badly your body responded to that tiny pause. "And if I win?" You asked, voice quieter than you intended.
He stepped closer towards you. Not quite touching you, but close enough that his shoulder brushed yours with every breath. Close enough that you felt the tension radiating off him, thick as the humid air that surrounded the both of you.
He angled his head down to you, his eyes heavy lidded with challenge and interest. "Then, I am yours for the night in any way you want." He murmured, voice dark and heavy.
A sharp rush of heat flooded your veins. You felt your body getting warmer as you tightened your grip on your water bottle. You forced your face to stay neutral like this moment was not creating a rush within you, but it did not matter, he could see right through you. "Fine, it's a deal." You said, extending your hand.
You expected a quick shake, he did not give you that. He took your hand slowly, finger sliding against yours in a deliberate, almost intimate pass before he gripped back, firm and warm. That kind of grip that sent a corresponding tug down your spine. You squeezed hard. "Be ready to lose," you muttered.
"Oh, tesoro. . ." His thumb brushed the ridge of your knuckles before you could pull away, just a light trace, it felt like it was barely there, but the sudden movement, was enough to make your breath catch. "I've been ready for you."
Your stomach dipped, as your pulse hammered. When you finally let go and stepped back, quickly because if you were to stay like that a second longer, you were not sure who would win the real battle happening there in the quiet tunnel.
Forty two days, thirty six thousand, seven hundred, and twenty minutes to win the beat. You could not imagine losing and ending up in his hands for the night. You tried not to think about the second part, however, you failed greatly.
The morning air had bit your lungs as your cleats slammed into the wet turf. Everyone else groaned when the conditioning drills were announced by your coach. Your teammates dragged their feet in slow, lazy steps across the field. While you ran harder, faster and sharper.
Every sprint, every cut, every explosive first step you did, you imagined Theo beside you, long strides, effortless, shoulder to shoulder, pressing, pushing, taunting, daring you to break.
The thought sent you a sudden jolt through you had nothing to do with the competition. Heat was in your chest, a twist was in your stomach, your muscles strained harder than they would have otherwise.
"Damn," your coach muttered from the sideline. "You trying to outrun death itself?"
You did not offer an answer, you felt as if you did not need to. You were too busy picturing yourself beating Theodore to a loose ball, watching his smug smirk fade in frustration, and against your better judgement, a feeling of thrill you were not supposed to feel appeared.
The image of him, struggling, made your stomach flip and your chest tighten.
There was not a moment where reports did not swarm around like bees. Their cameras were flashing, microphones trust forward at a sudden breath or even a glance. However, one caught your attention, "(L/n), who is your biggest rival this season?"
You answered with no hesitation, "Number eight from Montrose United."
The journalists nodded their heads in response, giving each other knowing glances. Someone leaned in, their voice teasing, "And is there extra motivation to beat him?"
Your face remained unreadable, "Absolutely. He thinks he's better than me."
Behind the crowd, just beyond the barrier, Theodore leaned casually, one eyebrow raised, growing interest in your conversation. His jacket was half zipped, his jawline glowing under the bright lights. He was watching, waiting for a moment to jump in.
Once the reporters moved on, he drifted closer. "Number eight, huh?" He said, his tone lazy but confident.
โYou really canโt stop thinking about me.โ He muttered, his famous smirk growing across his lips.
You crossed your arms, resisting the temptation to snap back at him, resisting the pulse of heat crawling up your neck. "Are you training this much, or just planning to lose our bet?"
"Hm, that depends." He murmured, his shoulder brushing against yours enough to make it impossible to ignore. "Would losing to you really be losing?"
"Save it for the pitch, Nott." You muttered, rolling your eyes, refusing to show him the feeling that started to develop through you.
"Oh, I intend to," he replied.
The inter-squad match was chaos, player drowning in adrenaline, and sweat. You moved like something possessed. You had quick feet, precise passes, and perfecting your timing. Each challenge was difficult, but it only made you more sharper and determined to win. Every push, every collusion, every snarky comment made only fuelled you.
When you scored, shooting the ball into the top corner of the net, fast and neat, the field gasped in response. Your teammates cheered, yelling you name across the pitch. But even in the middle of the roar, one comment struck you, "Damn. If this is how you play when some guy gets under your skin, maybe we should send him flowers," a teammate joked, slapping your back.
You chuckled, shoving him lightly, "Shut up."
But the truth looped through your mind. Every sprint, every kick, every second of intensity over the past few weeks circled back to Theodore, his voice in your head, his presence on your skin, and that impossible smirk when he mentioned the bet.
Where you found yourself next, out of all places, volunteering at a charity event, kids dribbling around cones, little giggles being heard over the field. You rounded the corner and there he was. He was crouched, trying a little girl's tiny cleat, he looked absurdly soft and patient in a way no one else ever got to see.
It was like he felt your eyes on him, he looked up, catching you gaze. His lazy, confident smirk remaining unfurled. "Caught me being nice?" he questioned, his voice sounding taunting.
"Unfortunately, didn't think you were capable," you shot back.
He walked closer to you, his hands in his pockets, the faint scent of sweat and cologne clinging to him. "Keep talking. I like your mouth when you're annoyed."
The words felt as it created a fire in your stomach, hitting dark then it should have allowed to. You raised your chin towards him, "You're not getting in my head."
"Oh, bella. . ." He leaned down, placing his head next yours, his lips brushed the shell of your ear, a teasing graze that made your breath hitch. "I've been in your head for weeks."
You suddenly shivered. He felt it. His breath caught too, almost imperceptibly, before the announcer called his team. He took a step back, just far enough to leave the space between you. "See you in a week, sweets." He murmured, his eyes burning. "I hope you're ready."
Time had passed of that day. You were alone in your room, surrounded by your pillows. You laid on your back as you stared at the ceiling, burning holes into the white beyond. Your heart hammered as you tried to gain rest that night. You thought over your game strategy to distract yourself from the thoughts of him. Thinking over tactics, possession, set plays.
But every time, your mind would come up with a new image, he always seeped through. It was the way his eyes followed you. The things he would say to you, knowing the power and control he had over you. The bet, the promise of a night waiting at the end of it.
You did not know what terrified you more, losing, winning, or what could happen after.
However, you knew one thing was certain. Tomorrow was not just a match.
It was a collision years in the making. Every heartbeat, every nerve, every breath would feel like running at Theodore Nott, and not just on the field. But straight at the spark that had been crackling between you since the first press day.
That thought made your pulse quicken even more than the game itself.
It was the match day. The stadium lights were blinding and huge, the white suns suspended above the field, turning every blade of grass sliver edged. The roar of the crowd vibrated through the ground, up to your cleats, and into your bones. You saw different colours banners being dropped down, applying the pressure to win. The air felt heavy, coated in sweat, adrenaline, and the metallic tang of anticipation.
You stood in the tunnel, your shoulders rolled back, jaw tightened, heartbeat steady. You still felt uneasy, the rush of the game was beginning and you could not wait for the outcome. However, across from you, was him, dressed in a navy suit that clung to him like it was built for his body alone.
His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, his veins visible along his forearms. His hair was damp already, a strand falling in front of his eyes, deep in your body, you wanted to push that strand out of his face. You rolled your eyes back at that thought, suddenly feeling foolish. The expression on his face was not cocky or teasing, it was just him. He looked at you like the world had shrunk down to just the two of you.
It was like this was not a rivalry anymore but rather something sharper and daring. The tension was so tight between you that if someone touched it, it would snap like a wire.
Officials blew their whistles, calling for the captions to come forward. The world felt like it was in slow motion, once you and him stepped up. You were toe to toe at the centre line, the coin flipping in the air like a spark between fuses. "You ready?" he asked, voice low enough to vibrate straight through your chest.
"You scared?" you muttered, a smirk started to bloom on your face as you lifted your chin.
His lips twitched, not for a smirk, not for a smile, but rather something hungrier, as the colour of his eyes darkened. "For losing to you?" his voice dipped rougher and deeper. "Never."
Behind the look and the voice, there was a flicker of want and uncertainty as if he was ready to take you down here right on this field.
You knew it, he knew that you knew it. The coin hit the referee's hand, signalling for the match to began.
During the first half, you exploded off the starting whistle like you had been shot from a cannon. He did too. Once your foot touched the ball, he was there, around you, doing the same routine of chasing and pressing against you. Your bodies collided again and again, friction sparking in ways that had nothing to do with the same. Everything to do with the six weeks of tension leading here.
Everyone at the game could feel it, even your teammates. This game was something different, it defined the unspoken. You felt it, every time his breath ghosted near your cheek, every time his hand grazed your hip fighting for possession, every time he would muttered something low enough for only you could hear.
Twenty minutes in, you were sprinting down the sideline for a loose ball when Theo barrelled up beside you. Sweat glistened on his neck, his breath sharp, eyes locked on yours even as you both ran full speed. "Getting tired yet?" he said.
He bumped your shoulder, more force than needed, more challenge than foul. You met him with equal force, using your body to push him off balance just enough. His exhale was a laugh, it was short and breathless. "God, you drive me insane."
"Not even close." He rasped, his eyes burning with heat.
Before you could respond, his teammate won the ball and the moment snapped a apart, leaving your pulse racing, your blood became hot, and your mouth dry.
When half time arrived, the score was still zero to zero. The real battle, was what was happening to between you and him. You pushed yourself off the bench, walking into the tunnel, you passed him. Both of you were drenched in sweat, breathing hard and muscles tight from the forty five minutes of war.
He slowed his steps. "You're playing different today," he said without looking away from you.
"So are you." you muttered, stopping your movements.
He let his gaze drag over you, your flushed face and your heavy but steady breaths. The set of your jaw, and the fire in your eyes still lingered, but match his own.
"You're making me work for it."
He taken a step closer towards you. Growing too close for the cameras and the reports. Too close for sanity. He was close enough that your forearms brushed and the heat radiating off him made your skin buzz.
โIf you win. . .โ he began, his voice dropping. โAnd I swear Iโll. . .โ He stopped himself, biting the inside of his cheek.
You swallowed, hard. โThen start preparing,โ you whispered.
For a long moment, he just looked at you, and then a wicked, slow smile curled across his mouth. โWeโll see.โ
Seventy, six minutes in the game. Time passed, but it did not feel like you were even playing, you were just moving. You received a long pass, cushioning it on your thigh with practiced ease, spinning on your heel. He was right behind you, of course he was. He shadowed you like he had memorized your blueprint.
His foot stepped in, swept the ball cleanly. You cursed loudly, and chased after him. He surged forward, shirt pulling tight across his back. You deeply hated how good he was, but you also loved it too.
You caught up to him, his had an mis touched, it was small but fatal. You lunged your body toward, you won the ball back. The stadium detonated in noise, a shockwave you felt in your chest. Theodore swore under his breath, โYou brilliant little. . .โ
You did not waste time, not bothering to hear the end of what he was saying. You were already racing down the field, it was left, right, past one defender, then another. Your heart pounded in your ears like a war drum. Twenty yards out, you struck. The ball bent like it had been waiting for this moment.
It curved, then dripped and slipped into the top corner. It was a goal. The stadium turned feral as cheers escaped them. Water bottles flew up in happiness, voices cracked from the screaming that came from deep in their lungs, all you could hear was your name being chanted over the stadium. It echoed, loudly in your ears, you felt that time paused. You could not celebrate, something within you, not allowed your body not too.
Your eyes went straight to him. He was frozen, his chest rising and falling. His jaw was tense. But his expression, it was something you would never forget. He was not upset, or furious, but rather proud, electric with something molten.
Your teammates rushed onto the field, mobbed you. Someone dumped ice water over your head. Another grabbed your face and yelled something you could not hear over the roaring crowd.
But your attention kept flicking, magnetically, back to him.
He walked past you for the restart. He stopped close enough that your jerseys brushed with each inhale. โYou played like hell,โ he said, voice low. โYou earned it.โ
โYou going to back out?โ you asked, though your voice trembled almost imperceptibly.
His laugh was soft, low and rough enough to make heat curl along your spine. โBack out?โ he echoed, stepping closer until your bodies nearly touched. โSweetheart, Iโm barely holding myself together. However, it looks like Iโm yours tonight.โ
Your breath was punched out of you, your knees nearly failing you. A tremor ran through you like electricity.
A tremor ran through you like electricity. The words fell out of your mouth, before you could stop them. "My place or yours?" you asked, voice dropping lower.
His eyes darkened, pupils widen, breath catching. "Yours," he said, raw and certain, "So, I donโt do anything stupid on the drive.โ
You inhaled sharply, nodding you head in response. He bent his head lower towards you, slowly. He was close enough that his lips brushed the shell of your ear when you spoke. "Lead the way," he whispered.
The sound of your apartment door closing, it barley just shut before Theodore's hands were on you. He pressed you back against the wall with force that made with the picture frames rattle. His mouth hovered just overs yours, breath hot, his chest rising hard against you from the sprint up the stairs.
"You really made me lose," he murmured, voice low and wrecked in a way you had never heard on the field.
You had smirked, "You said you were ready."
His laugh had echoed your apartment, sharp and breathless. "I said I was ready for you. . . And I wasn't."
Theodore had placed his thigh between yours, slow and deliberate, until your breath left you in a quiet, involuntary sound he swallowed with a kiss. The kiss became rushed, anything but soft or romantic, but rather a collision. Your had fisted his jersey, dragging him closer, like you needed to prove that he was not the only one with teeth. His kiss deepened instantly, answering your challenge with heat and pressure, a low growl appeared from his throat that vibrated right through you.
He broke the kiss just long enough to mutter; "You like pushing me, don't you?"
You only tugged him closer by the collar, "Only because you push back."
His eyes darkened at your breathless words. He lifted your hands above your head, pinning your wrists to the wall with one of his, his other hand sliding around your waist, fingers dragging down your hip like he was mapping the shape of you. "You drive me insane," he said, his forehead pressing against yours. "You've been in my head for months."
"And youโve been in my way for months."
He huffed a laugh and kissed you once again, harder this time, teeth grazing your bottom lip, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to ground you, to make your pulse quicken.
Your leg brushed his thigh and he inhaled sharply, jaw tightening. "Thatโs it," he muttered against your neck. "You do that again and Iโm. . . not stopping myself."
"Then donโt," you whispered.
He swore softly under his breath, something raw, as if his words were being dragged out of his chest, ripping apart the inside of him. His breath fanned against your face, his chest falling up and down like a broken pattern. "You're killing me," he muttered, pressing his lips against the warm skin of your throat. "You have no idea what it has been like wanting you while trying to beat you."
You could not help but let out a shaky laugh. "Sounds like a you problem."
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his hand still pinning your wrists, his thigh still pressed between yours, his breath still warm on your lips. "Oh, sweetheart," he said, voice low and wrecked, "This is very much our problem now."
"Please don't stop," you whispered, wishing for a slight hint for him to kiss you. But in that moment, it had shifted into something deeper. He further pressed his body into yours, his voice dropping. "Say that again."
Your lips brushed his jaw as you whispered, "Don't stop, Theo."
He had exhaled like you had hit him. His mouth was quickly on yours, however, the kiss felt different. It was claiming, consuming, his lips hard and desperate against your own, like he has been starving you for a long time. His hands dragged down your arms slowly, fingers grazing your skin until goosebumps rose everywhere he touched. When he reached your lips, he gripped you, pulling you tighter against him as if that was even possible. The heat that surrounded you was unmistakeable, undeniable.
His mouth moved lower, tracing the line of your beating pulse, your collarbone, and the edge of your shoulders with warm kisses that started sharp and turned into dangerously slow. His fingers slipped under your shirt, sliding across the bare skin, exploring with intention. Every inch he touched felt claimed by him.
Your back arched into him, the warmth of his hands and his mouth making your thoughts feel foggy. He swore under his breath, it was quiet but filthy admiration. His hands moved to your waist, thumbs stroking along your sides as he tugged your shirt up. You lifted your arms without thinking, letting him pull it off you completely.
The look he gave could have set the room on fire. "God," he whispered, "I have been imagining this, but it didn't even come close."
He pressed you against the wall again, but this time his hands roamed your skin, it was slow at first but then growing firmer, mapping your back, your rips, the curve of your hips. He kissed you with a sense of urgency that bordered on frustration, like he could not decide where he wanted you most.
Your hands tangled in his hair, fingers tugging at his curls, pulling him closer, and he let out a low noise, half of a growl and half gasp, as if your touch undid him. "You're so intoxicating, it's infuriating."
"It makes you crave me more, doesn't it?" You smirk against his lips.
"Damn straight, bella." He said kissing you as he spoke. He walked you backward towards your bedroom, never breaking apart from you, his hands continued to slide over you like he needed to memorize every part of you before you could vanish. You pulled at the hem of his shirt in return, fingers slipping under it, tracing the sharp lines of his stomach, finding comfort of the heat radiating off his skin. His breath hitched, the sound made your knees go weak.
He tugged his shirt off in one quick movement, tossing it somewhere behind him, then leaned in again, chest pressed to yours, his breath warm against your neck as he whispered, โTell me if you want me to slow down.โ
You did not, instead you pulled him closer towards you instead. His laugh was dark and low, like he had been hoping you would say that. You hit your bedroom doorframe, and his mouth was on your shoulder, the base of your throat, your jaw, his kisses were hungry and heated, his tongue lapping over your skin. His pattern felt rough enough to leave warmth blooming under your skin.
Your fingers trailed down his back, feeling the muscles tighten under your touch. He nipped your neck gently, then softened the bite with a slow, apologetic kiss that made your stomach drop. When you finally reached the bed, he guided you onto it, not with force, with a certainty that matched yours. He hovered over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other stroking down your side, over your hip, lingering.
His forehead rested against yours. โLast chance,โ he whispered, breath uneven, voice almost shaking with how hard he was holding himself back. โTell me to stop, or tell me you want this.โ
You pulled him down by the back of his neck, your lips brushing his as you breathed, โI want this.โ
โฐ: happy new year everyone! I hope everyone spent their holidays with loved ones!
@ all comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated
