𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦. for as dead as you are, sylus is the one who makes you feel dangerously alive.
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠. vampire!fem!reader. human!sylus. vampire turning. oral sex ( fem. receiving ), lots of blood, mates, pet names, possessive behavior, jealousy, mentions of murder, happy ending. 5.3k wc. art credit.
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You hear him before you see him.
The crunch of frosted leaves beneath his boots, the soft curse as he stumbles over a moss-covered log. His breath comes in staccato bursts—drawn sharply, released unevenly, reptilian in its uncertainty. Jagged. Cautious. Possibly afraid, but undeniably human.
And that was the curious part.
No human has walked these trails in a century. Not after the caravan of eight vanished in 1848, their gold fever swallowed by something far older than their greed. Not after the hikers who strayed too far in 1978, their voices echoing for days before silence devoured them. Not after—
Your throat seizes.
Heat ignites in your veins, like a thousand fire ants sinking mandibles into your flesh, burrowing deeper, gnawing with exquisite cruelty meant to punish you. Your hand flies to your throat as though you could claw the hunger free, nails digging into skin that will not mark. The urge to retch overwhelms you, though your body is long past such mortal weaknesses.
After so long, you’ve forced yourself to see it as something separate. This. Your hunger.
You are not the same. You cannot be. You were born from different sources.
You know that your very existence is a crime against humanity, that even standing this close to the heartbeat below is as immoral as murder—because that is where it always leads. It always has. It always will.
But your hunger— no. Your hunger does not believe in restraint.
It believes you should take what is presented, that you should not rot in these woods for the sake of prevention. It whispers that you should leap from this branch, descend upon him, tear into the warmth of his throat until the fire inside you is extinguished.
And above all, it knows—as much as you do—that his blood sings to you in a way no other’s has before.
This cannot be happening.
You need to get away. Far, far away—
“Who’s there?”
The words cut through the air, clean as a blade. His voice is steady, too steady, and the certainty in it roots you to the branch. He doesn’t sound like prey. Nearly the opposite, actually.
You force yourself to draw breath you don’t need, fighting the roar in your head. Do not answer. Do not linger. Do not—
But your hunger is a traitor. It savors his voice, clings to it as if it were already on your tongue.
The leaves shift as a breeze passes through them. He tilts his head upward, and through the shroud of branches you finally see him. The moonlight grazes his face, sharpening the lines of his jaw, setting his eyes alight like twin flames. You expected fear in them, but you find curiosity instead.
“I know you’re there,” he says quietly. “I’ve… been searching for you.”
Your grip on the branch tightens until the bark splinters. He cannot mean you. He cannot know. And yet his gaze doesn’t waver, doesn’t flicker from where you perch. It feels like honest recognition.
At last, you drop from the branch—the first feat of your hunger’s— and land silently on the frozen earth a dozen paces away. He takes one step forward; you take one back.
“Don’t,” you say, your voice breaking on a note you barely recognize. It has gone unused for far too long.
He studies you for a long moment. “I’ve been searching for you,” he says again, quieter this time.
Your throat aches as you force two words from it. “You’re mistaken.”
His lips twitch at the corners, almost a smile. “Am I?”
The hunger writhes, desperate to have him, and you can’t stop yourself from stepping back. The shadows cling to your form, but not enough—because his eyes flicker to the crimson bleeding through your irises, and you see the proof register. No denial could undo what he’s already seen. Much to your dismay.
“I can only imagine you’ve heard the stories,” you rasp, fingernails digging into the bark of the tree you stand before. “You must know what I am.”
“I do.” His voice does not falter. “But I’ve never been fond of urban legends, even if I’m particularly… fascinated by them. I came because I wanted to see the truth for myself.”
“And you’ve seen it. Turn around and forget you ever came. You’ll regret anything else.”
For a moment, you think he might obey. It brings a sense of relief to you. Humans have always been pushy little things, easy to bend and twist at your will—
He takes another step closer, snow crunching underfoot. “I think you’re mistaken. I don’t fear you.”
Your lips part, hunger and disbelief warring in equal measure. “You should.”
“I should,” he agrees with a nod. “And yet here I am.”
A long silence follows, and you notice that his eyes burn brighter in the dark.
He pauses, then inclines his head with a strange courtesy. “Sylus.”
You blink at him, unprepared for something so human as an introduction. You’re surprised he didn’t extend his hand and expect you not to tear it from his body. “You’re a fool.”
“Possibly.” His mouth curves into something sharper, the hint of a smile that isn’t unkind. “But I’ve been called worse, by people who have far less humanity than you do.”
What a joke. You haven’t possessed an ounce of humanity long before he was birthed into existence.
At last, you turn away, forcing distance into your voice. “Do not come back.”
But he only hums, almost sounding satisfied with both himself and with you. “Hm. I will.”
You shut your eyes, the hunger coiling tighter. For the first time in centuries, you pray— pray to a God you abandoned long ago— that he will not keep his word.
Because if he does, you will not survive him.
—
He just cannot take a hint.
To his credit, however, you’ve long since stopped giving them.
You’d think it went without saying that every waking moment you spend beside him is another opportunity to rip his throat open and shut the song in your veins, but apparently that isn’t obvious to everyone. Humans have always been oblivious; Sylus is no different.
Luckily, the last six months have taught you finesse: quieter withdrawals, measured breaths. You prefer to call it an art at this point. The art of not allowing your thirst to control you.
The town has been stationed beneath an angry stormcloud for the last two days. During the first, you had camped in your shelter that was not built for such conditions. By the second, Sylus had ventured out to find you and bring you back with him. Temperature no longer affected you, neither did texture, but for a reason you aren’t sure you regret quite yet, you oblige with a simple clause: just for the night, until the storm clears.
And now, he’s sprawled in the study’s armchair, the light coming from the lamp folding across his cheekbones, and you—after minimal protest—have taken the couch. The room smells of old paper and gunsmoke; a peephole into his world. It is mundanely human and it steadies you in ways you hate. Truly, you do hate this. You hate the way he makes you feel. So cared for and considered and— and alive—
Outside, the cold night presses against the glass, thunder claps and lightning touches down somewhere in the distance, clearly indifferent to the thoughts warring in your mind. After all, his presence is the real weather you contend with.
“You must have been lonely out there,” he says, as if it were a coat he’s offering you. His hand wraps around the rim of a wine glass, not looking at you.
He asks things like this often— soft, clinical questions that always land like small knives into your skin. He never says the obvious: that he’s the cause of it. He never says the other obvious: that he’d like to be the cure.
You let the silence sit like a live coal for a breath too long. “Yes.”
The word slips from you, clean and small. Confession is a dangerous thing. It opens doors to need; need opens doors that are meant to be cemented shut.
He exhales, as if preparing himself. “Have you ever had a mate?”
You can hear the way his hand tightens on the glass as if holding himself in place, the liquid contents swishing slightly.
“No,” you say. The answer is a flat, tall wall you build up as quickly as you can. You do not mean to sound brittle, but habit has made you sound like iron. You follow with the easy truth, because he has a way of asking anyway until the truth dares to show its face, “There are no vampires left in the area. I didn’t like them then. I’m not willing to risk traveling now.”
He looks at you then, like he has been studying you for months and is suddenly struck by a detail he had missed. “You didn’t like them then?” he repeats, and you can hear the consideration threading his words. “Why?”
Your answer comes quicker than it should’ve. “Because they were small and cruel. They fed on the fear of the weak. They influenced me to… I just— I could not bear them.” Your hands go to your knees without your permission—needing to feel something solid under your palms. “And because traveling… well, I’ve seen what happens to creatures who leave their ground.”
He crosses one leg and leans forward. “And yet you stay within reach of other people.” His voice is soft— not accusing, but curious again. Always curious. “Why me?”
Even though you internally protest, the hunger surges at that, sharp and intimate. It’s dangerous to admit that your reasons are smaller and stupider than the myths: curiosity, the relief of company, the absurd hope that someone might look at you and not flinch. But you’re less stiff now; six months have chiselled away at the walls you swore never to let fall.
“You found me,” you correct. “Not the other way around.”
He lets out a soft, contemplative sound and stands, moving to the bookshelf near you— an excuse to be closer, you’re sure. You typically don’t allow him within ten feet. He hands a book to you with a careless flourish, fingers intentionally brushing yours in a touch that does not linger but does not fully retreat either.
The contact, as minimal as it is, sends your veins humming. It makes your head snap to attention, it draws your eyes to the curve of his finger and the overwhelming warmth of his skin. His heart skips twice in his chest, and if you had a beating one yourself, you’re sure yours would have too.
“You could leave,” he says, almost idly, watching you read the title. “You don’t have to stay near this town. You don’t have to see me either.”
“I’ve already told you,” you say. Your throat tightens; you have practiced this line. It is a shield and a resignation. “I don’t travel.”
He watches you for a long while, the lamplight catching the red at the rims of your irises—something he noticed the first time he saw you and has not mentioned. The sight of it should have sent him scurrying. Instead, it seemed to anchor him.
“Lonely suits you poorly,” he murmurs.
“How rich,” you almost scoff, because truth is a weapon. “Lonely is a condition I accepted. Survival is not intended to be romantic.”
He snorts softly, a sound that could have been accompanied with a smile. “Well, I don’t suppose,” he says, “that you’d consider—” He breaks off, folding his hands together as if to stop himself from laying more bare.
You glance up once more, and meet the honest heat in his eyes. If you had a mortal heart, the way it tilts toward you would make it ache. Instead, something older twists: hunger tethered with something that might be tenderness.
“I don’t consider much,” you say, trying for a rebuke and finding your voice softened against the lie.
The truth is that you consider too much when it comes to him. You have found yourself thinking of him more often than comfortable. You try to convince yourself that this isn’t worth noting, that the fact that you can vividly recollect him is not a crack in your armor.
You typically begin with his eyes, then his scent, the sound of his steps, the bravado of his posture, the calmness of his exterior, the curve of his lips when he nearly smiles—
He drops back into the chair, and the sound snaps you out of it. “Tell me, then— if you have never had a mate, what would you want?” He pauses, almost shy, “...if you were foolish enough to imagine such a thing.”
The question is precise but intimate; it strips a layer of the armor you built out of centuries. You could lie, deflect, fabricate appetites you do not feel. Appetites you have never felt. The hunger in your veins tightens, impatient above all else. But the truth—however small and ugly—has begun to seem less lethal.
“I would want someone who didn’t flinch,” you say at last. “Someone who sees me and stays. Someone unafraid.”
He watches you then as if cataloguing the shape of your admission, and for the first time since you met him there is not a single predator’s gleam on his face. Instead something like… reverence. He straightens, and the light makes his eyes smolder, dangerous and genuine all at once.
“In that case,” he said, voice almost steady, “maybe you don’t have to be lonely forever.”
It was not a suggestion, but an offering. His certainty presses on the place inside you where hunger and soul collide, and you feel the old, inevitable pull: a desire for communion.
You close the book because long ago, your mother had told you that words are weapons, and right now you have nothing left to throw. “I’m not...” You stop; the sentence collapses under its own weight. You are not brave enough to name what you want. You are not brave enough to name what you would take if you could.
He stands, steps nearer, and for a heartbeat you almost forget your vow to keep distance. You want to tell him that he’s reckless, that every promise he makes is a dare you cannot refuse.
His voice starts. “So don’t be. Stay with m—”
“The storm has cleared,” you announce, standing abruptly. “I should be going now. I don’t want the townspeople to form any bizarre questions about my presence.”
You turn to leave, but Sylus’s hand catches your wrist. It was a bold move that would have landed anyone else in a bodybag.
“Don’t go,” he tells you. “It’s still raining. Stay here until it truly clears. You can have this room to yourself– I won’t bother.”
You exhale shakily, eyes searching his. “O…Okay.”
—
Something that you forgot to account for was the fact that you don’t sleep.
You can rest, yes. You can close your eyes and let the hours slip by, but true sleep—the kind that takes you away—hasn’t belonged to you for centuries.
You lie on the couch in his study, staring out the window in an attempt to distract yourself from the sound of Sylus’s breathing from just a few rooms over. He has been asleep for over an hour—you can tell by the way his breaths have steadied—and for some reason, it fascinates you. The rise and fall of his chest, the steady drum of his heart through the walls.
And for another reason you’d prefer not to name, you leave the study and drift toward his bedroom. You try to convince yourself to return, to go back to the forest instead of invading his private space—but you don’t.
Your hand presses against the wood and nudges it open with a quiet creak.
There he is.
Eyes closed, wearing nothing but a robe loosely tied across his waist. His hair is mussed, one arm slung across the pillow as though he expects someone to be there. Your feet carry you quietly toward the side of the bed, and without a second thought, you take a seat on the edge of the mattress.
Every rational bone in your body is screaming for you to go, to run, to hide, to forget—but instead, your eyes study him.
He looks gentler when asleep. Softer. The weight he carries during his waking hours melts off him here.
Your fingers, soft and pliant, trace the indents of his eye bags, the faint shadows of exhaustion. Your palm finds his cheek, and you nearly shudder at the sensation.
“You’re so warm,” you whisper, more to yourself than to him.
Warmth is a foreign language to you, and yet here it is, buzzing beneath your skin where he touches you without even knowing it.
He shifts slightly at the sound, his head leaning faintly into your hand. Not awake, not quite. But he feels you.
You stay like that longer than you should. Just watching. Something in your chest tightens— not hunger, not exactly. Something heavier. Something that doesn’t demand to feed but to stay.
You weren’t sure how much longer you stayed in his manor—one minute, maybe ten—but you do know that once you left his room, you caught yourself regretting it for a moment longer than acceptable.
—
Sylus’s heart is dancing, and it isn’t alone.
The pulse rides ragged against your ears, a drumbeat doubled, staggered, and worse, familiar. His own, elevated in speed, but twined with another. You can hear the strain in him, the pull of muscle, the drag of breath, the rhythm of a body pushed past comfort. The other— sharper, weaker, quivering.
Prey. Or… mate.
Your nails dare to cut crescent moons into your palms.
He has someone.
The thought poisons you, searing its way through bone and marrow until your entire body is sick with it. Six months— six long, slow months of his persistent voice, his maddening questions, his relentless presence wearing down your walls like riverwater on stone—and he finds someone now? Someone not you?
The ache is unbearable. You could stay, you should stay, you have sworn yourself to stillness— but your hunger roars in tandem with your envy, and suddenly your feet are carrying you into the night, out of the safety of stillness, into the dangerous press of distance and town.
But when you find him, the scent is blood.
The window is unlatched— always careless, reckless Sylus— and slipping inside is as effortless as the breath you no longer take. He is there, standing in front of his fireplace that illuminates the entire room. Alone.
Your eyes focus then, and you watch as he peels blood-stiff fabric from his shoulders, and lets it fall like a second skin to the floor. His chest rises and falls with the remnants of exertion.
Your throat locks. It is not the musk of lust that coats the air, but the iron tang of slaughter.
He has killed.
And in that moment, you understand what he is—not prey, not mate, but something perilously between. Dangerous. Lethal. His hands are stained not by accident but by intent, and you are drawn to him even with the revelation.
“This isn’t what you think.” His voice is hoarse, low, a scrape of gravel that prickles heat along your skin. He doesn’t turn, but you know he’s aware.
You almost laugh at the irony. That he thinks this would frighten you—as if you aren’t a murderer yourself, and haven’t been for a millennium. No, the more pressing matter is the one that drew you here in the first place.
“I thought—” you bite off the weaker words. “I heard you. With someone.”
That earns you a glance over his shoulder, a slant of a smile, humorless and wolfish. “It was just… business.”
You believe him. You can hear the proof in every second you exist. The two men who also inhabit this manor, Luke and Kieran if you remember correctly, are currently cleaning up the gruesome scene that preceded you by only mere seconds.
Sylus frowns, eyes flickering between yours. “You’ve overexerted yourself by traveling here.”
He knows now why you’ve refused to travel, why you’ve subjected yourself to isolation. You wouldn’t survive it.
You feel the truth of his words. Your limbs feel weak, a product of the lack of nutrients. You haven’t fed on animal blood in two months—and even that no longer replenishes you as it once did.
“I’m fine,” you assure him, shaking your head and swatting his hand away. “Sylus, I’m—”
Slice.
His knife clatters to the ground as he extends his palm to you, crimson already trickling from the wound. “Please,” he urges, eyes sincere.
You shouldn’t. You couldn’t possibly. You just—
“Please,” he repeats, softer now. “It’ll help.”
While you want to protest, to assure him that you don’t need it—you do. And so, you close the distance.
—
You feel better than you have in ages.
Replenished in every sense of the word, watching as Sylus bandages the hand that you have just fed from.
He hand drags his hand through his hair. “Is that what pushed you to rush here? The thought of me having a lover?”
The mockery in his voice is knife-thin, but beneath it you hear the thunder of his heart again, quickening.
You step forward despite yourself, caught in the pull. His body is taut, his chest slick with a sheen of sweat, muscles carved in light and shadow. He is ruin and temptation incarnate, and you are finally unraveling.
His gaze locks with yours. He sees it now. He knows.
“That’s why you came,” he murmurs, lips curling at the edges. “Because you couldn’t stand it.”
You don’t deny it. You can’t.
Sylus softly smiles then. “Your morals are bent out of shape, sweetie. I like that about you.” He turns to face you fully, and his hand finds your waist. The other falls soon after. “Tell me. What would you have done if there was someone here?”
You lose the last of your bearings with your answer. “I would have taken you for myself. By any means necessary.”
His warmth sears against your cold as his hand cups your face, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth.
It crashes into you—desperate, starved—your hunger tearing its way into longing, your longing collapsing into need. His taste on your tongue is better than you had ever imagined. In one instant you are gone, lost to him, lost to yourself.
Then you wrench away, gasping though you do not need air, trembling with restraint that runs bone-deep.
“If we go on—” your voice is ragged, near feral, “I can’t promise you’ll be mortal come tomorrow.”
His breath fans your cheek, his chest heaves against yours, and his heart—dear God, his heart—is still dancing.
Though now, it dances for you. Only you.
He speaks against your skin. “There is no life worth having where there is no you.”
Your lips crash together with an intensity you have never felt before, your hands sliding down his chest. His hold tightens on your waist but quickly releases once you shove him back onto his bed, crawling over him in an instant.
Your thighs bracket his hips as you settle in his lap. A loud rip follows, cool air rushing against your back.
“Is this your preferred method of undressing?” you muse against his mouth.
He laughs softly, hands sliding the torn fabric from your arms and further down your form. “It’s the quickest,” he replies, “so yes.”
The kiss breaks when Sylus’s mouth finds your neck, his tongue tracing over your skin as his lips trail down the column of your throat. His hips ruck up into yours, and a gasp leaves you at the feeling of him pressing against your clothed sex.
You have never wanted someone so intensely in your entire existence.
Kisses pepper along your shoulders, your neck, your sternum, until they reach the valley of your breasts. He licks a trail to your nipple before sucking the peak into his mouth. His other hand palms at your other breast, kneading soft flesh in his palm.
In this moment, despite how reluctant you have been to admit it to yourself, you know one thing for certain: being with Sylus feels like being brought back to life.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, eyes finding yours. His cheeks are flushed, the tips of his ears warm to the touch. “I’ve wanted you from the moment I met you.” You tilt your head, a protest on the brink of your lips, but it’s silenced by the press of his to yours. “I mean it. I want it all with you— whatever that may look like. I want you.”
You speak through an exhale. “Then have me. All of me.”
In a swift movement, he lowers you onto the bed. Your back hits the plush mattress, and he shifts to settle between your legs. He kneels, lips finding the inside of your legs as he presses kisses to your ankles, calves, and inner thighs.
“I need to taste you now.”
With your legs over his shoulders, you lay back, hair fanning across his pillows as he makes work of the remainder of your clothing. Every touch of him on your skin leaves you trembling with pleasure and anticipation.
He kisses you there first, a slow drag of tongue that pulls a shiver from your spine, before he licks a flat stripe up your center. He groans into you, the vibration forcing a moan from your lips as he devours you like a man properly starved.
“It’s—” he pauses, sucking your clit into his mouth, “—so good.”
You don’t formulate a response. Not that you need to—the way your body sings for him says it all.
Your hands fly into his hair, careful not to tug too hard, but with the way his mouth feels on you, you have no choice. Your hips buck against his mouth as much as his grip on your thighs allows.
Two fingers slide into you, working you open as he gauges your reaction through hooded eyes full of overwhelming devotion. When your back bows from the mattress, he doubles his efforts, ensuring the first orgasm you’ve felt in centuries is more than satisfying.
“Sylus,” you cry, teeth digging into your bottom lip. Your hips twitch, and your thighs press against his head. “I need— I need to—”
His hands tighten on your thighs, anchoring you to his mouth as he works you through your high. His tongue gentles, lapping up your release, cleaning you with the same mouth that ruined you.
You see stars above you, and you feel the warmth of him crawl up into your line of sight. He pinches your chin between thumb and forefinger, a cocky grin on his lips.
“Don’t gloat,” you murmur, sitting up on your forearms until your faces are inches apart.
Sylus hardly has the opportunity to gaze upon you, entirely bare before him, as you begin to undo his pants. He assists you the rest of the way, until the two of you are entirely exposed.
Fire cracks in the fireplace, illuminating both of your forms. Your hand rises, fingertips gently tracing the flush of his cheek. His cheek fills the indent of your palm, his lips pressing to the skin of your wrist.
“Since you know so much about my kind,” you begin, “I’d imagine you know about our mating rituals.”
He nods, wolfish grin tugging at his lips. “Is that your roundabout way of asking if I consent to the most beautiful woman sinking her teeth into my neck?” he smiles. “I’d be insane to say no.”
“Do you?” you ask. “It’s not every day you’re asked to give up your humanity for an ancient creature.”
Sylus shakes his head. “I’m not being asked. I’m choosing this.” He clears his throat. “In every lifetime, it begins and ends with you and I. There is nothing more to consider.”
“You believe so?”
“I do.”
You tilt your head, nose brushing against his. “Then make love to me.”
Within moments, you feel him at your entrance, forcing your stomach to seize up.
His lips find your forehead, his hand pressing to your lower back to hold you close. “Slow down, sweetie. You can do it.”
You suck in a sharp breath as you slowly begin to sink down, feeling him fill you. Your lips knock into his, your hands clutching at his broad shoulders as you still for just a moment.
“More?” he murmurs against your lips.
You nod, forehead against his. “More.”
Sylus moves with you like he’s waited lifetimes. Slow and sensual, hands roaming bare skin, caressing and kissing and holding wherever he can reach. He makes sure you feel every inch of him.
When you tense around him, he responds immediately, caressing your back and guiding your hips in time with his own.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “So pretty for me.”
Your hips roll in time with his, feeling him hit the spot inside of you that has your breath slipping from your kiss-bitten lips.
And then, that feeling inside of you—the one that has been dormant in the back of your mind—comes to the forefront. You know that it’s time, that you have to make your selection.
It seems like Sylus reads your mind, cupping the back of your head.
“I can take it,” he whispers, nose brushing against yours. “Take me, sweetie. I’m yours.”
And you do.
You mark him as yours for all of eternity, creating a bind between the two of you that transcends time and space.
That night, as you lay side by side, you will not sleep, but you will be content with that. As mates.
—
You step into Sylus’s study, eyes scanning the perimeter for his form.
He had intentionally skipped out on your evening hunt a few hours earlier, claiming that he wasn’t nearly as hungry as you knew he was. It was his loss. You managed to claim a bobcat that would hold you over for days to come.
While it was a lucky find, it didn’t stop you from worrying about him. This behavior was entirely unlike him. He was a mere fledgling— you knew that he needed to feed even more than you did.
Suddenly, you feel hands—ones that finally match your own temperature—land on your sides. They spin you around, pulling you close to a chest you have become all too familiar with in recent years.
Sylus places a kiss to your lips, and you feel him smile against your mouth.
“What’s so funny?” you ask, tilting your head. “Where have you been?”
His smile never leaves as he fishes into one of his pockets, and soon enough, you feel a weight land on your left ring finger.
You exhale a half-laugh, half-scoff. “A wedding ring? Sylus, you don’t have to—”
“Shh,” he shushes you with another kiss, firmer this time. His voice is low, reverent. “I only want the best for my beautiful, beautiful mate.”
“You and your human traditions,” you tease, though your arms wrap around his neck as though they were made to stay there. “I thought that our souls being intertwined was a heavy commitment in and of itself.”
He laughs quietly, forehead pressing to yours, his eyes burning with that familiar intensity that once threatened to undo you in the forest. “Just because it’s heavy doesn’t mean it isn’t worth celebrating.”
You search his face, the same one that once belonged to a mortal man you should never have spoken to, and now to the immortal who has chosen you, despite everything.
“You realize,” you murmur, brushing your thumb over the ring, “that this changes very little. You’re already mine.”
“Of course,” he replies, voice rough with certainty. “This is only proof of what we both already knew.”
You don’t say anything then. There’s nothing to argue. Not about this, not about him.
There never truly was.
hi guys it’s finally october, my favorite month of the year!!! sorry i posted this so late, i had to be a functioning adult and focus on my uni work 💔 but nevertheless vampire reader is here!
in an ideal world i would have loved to flesh out the concept a bit more but for a kinktober event i figured 5k words was already way too long 😭
thank you for reading! like + reblog if you enjoyed <3 let me know your thoughts <3 <3 <3
Somedays, you felt a little too inferior to be Zayne’s lover.
The youngest recipient of the Starcatcher award, the most respected cardiac surgeon in Linkon. He’s done such extensive research on protocore syndrome and has made such a lasting impact on pediatric patients dealing with the fallout of the Chronorift Catastrophe. A combat medic who graduated top of his class and still found the time to excel in several extracurricular activities and sports. You couldn't think of one thing he couldn’t excel in.
He was well respected, very sought after, and awfully handsome. And you? You were just a rookie hunter. Nothing more, nothing less. Really, he deserved a lot better. Someone who was also respected, smart, well rounded in several areas, perhaps a bit more mature.
You tried not to let those thoughts weigh you down, but sometimes you just looked at him and couldn’t help but feel that you were lacking. “Afternoon, Miss Hunter.” You blink, lost in thought as you clutch the lunchbox you had packed for him. Yvonne sat behind the receptionist desk, a smile on her red lips as you approached.
“Hey, Yvonne.”
“You’re bringing Dr. Zayne lunch again? I’m sure he’ll be thrilled.” she eyes the bag you’re carrying it in, covered in little snowmen and penguins. Her smile grows, softly uttering how cute it is. It has the opposite effect on you, however, suddenly feeling quite insecure about your childish choice. “Yeah, he left in a hurry this morning. Slept in for once.” You set it on the counter, fighting the urge to slip the bento out and shove the back in your pocket.
“Oh? Did you keep him preoccupied?” Light and teasing, but you struggle to return the grin. You had been the reason he was late, clinging to him like a koala until he had to physically detangle you from his body. “I guess you could say that.”
Yvonne’s smile falters a bit, eyebrow raising as she takes you in. “Is something bothering you?” You blink, laughing awkwardly as you fiddle with the lunch you brought. “Just lost in thought, I suppose…” you look away briefly, swallowing the lump in your throat before dragging your eyes back to Yvonne’s face.
“You should go see Dr. Zayne, he completed a long surgery about thirty minutes ago and I’m sure he could totally use a mood boost.”
“I’m sure the food will help.” Your smile is half-hearted, aching a bit as you think of the stress Zayne just endured in that operating room.
“I’m not talking about the food.”
You blink, slightly startled by the comment. “Wha–?” but Yvonne shakes her head, smiling a little softer now.
“I’m talking about you, Miss Hunter. Dr. Zayne has been looking so much happier ever since you started coming around.” Her arms cross, head tilting as she looks at you.
“His dark circles have lightened, his cheeks used to be pretty hollow and now they’re quite round. He looks healthier, more at ease. That’s all due to you, y’know. I’m sure you’ve noticed the way his eyes light up when you’re around, right?”
You suddenly felt a little lightheaded, scratching the back of your neck awkwardly as you shifted on your feet.
“Really?” And Yvonne can’t help but shake her head, laughing slightly. “Yes, really. Now go see him before he starves.” Your feet are moving on their own, nearly stumbling past the receptionist desk and down the hall to Zayne's office.
Your fingers tremble as they grab the door handle, turning it slowly and peering your head in. “Zayne?” The clicking on his keyboard stops almost instantly, a soft “come in.” Beckoning you forward without any hesitation. “I brought you lunch.”
You prayed you didn’t sound as dazed as you felt. Yvonne’s words are still bouncing around in your self-pitying mind.
“You’re an angel.” The way his lips curl into a smile makes your heart race, watching almost dumbly as he stands up and makes his way over to you. Lines still cover his face from where the surgical mask had sat, his eyes look a bit tired but there are no prominent bags.
Typical exhaustion, not worked to the bone exhaustion.
You nearly crumble as he embraces you, nose nuzzling your hair as his arms cradle you to his body. “I missed you, it’s like you knew I needed to see you.” For some reason, you started to cry. Hot tears silently slipped down your cheeks as he held you. “Are you okay?”
You feel Zayne stiffen slightly when you take a stuttering breath, he doesn’t quite let you go, but pushes you away just enough to see your face. “Why are you crying?”
Concern laces every word, hazel eyes searching your tear streaked face. You feel guilty, hiccuping slightly as you start to ramble on and on about your insecurities. Telling Zayne how you felt unworthy of his love, how you felt he deserved better, what Yvonne said to you, how you were just feeling overwhelmed with many emotions.
Zayne listened to every word, not interrupting, but holding you close as you bared your soul to him. “First of all.” he starts softly, thumb cupping your damn cheek and brushing away a few straggling tears. “I am so proud of you for telling me these things.”
You felt your throat constrict, a new wave of tears threatening to cascade down your face.
“But, I must say, I’ve been keeping things to myself as well.” And you swear your heart falls into your ass. “Maybe if I had opened up sooner, you wouldn’t have gotten to this point.”
Zayne sighs, eyes searching your teary ones. “If anything, I feel that I am the one entirely undeserving of your love. Of your radiance and your strength. You, my angel, my sweet girl.” He swallows, quickly swiping away more of your tears “You are too good for me.”
You’re quickly convinced he has lost his god damn mind.
“That might be the craziest thing I’ve ever heard, Zayne. You don’t think you’re good enough for me? Seriously?” But he nods, not an ounce of sarcasm evident. “I work long hours, I struggle with expressing my emotions, I have to leave you alone for so long when all I want to do is be in your arms.”
He swallows, cheeks tinged pink before continuing. “You deserve someone who can dedicate every second to you. Who can express their emotions easily, who can stay glued to your side forever.” But you can’t help but snort. “That’s unrealistic."
“It’s a reality I wish I could live in.” He counters flawlessly, no hesitation. “Do you see how crazy you sound thinking you are undeserving of my love, my angel?”
And you do, the wires in your brain fusing together as you clutch the lunch you packed him, shoving the insecurities deep down as you process it. “I love you, more than words could ever explain.” Soft, genuine, laced so thoroughly with devotion it knocks the air from your lungs. “I love you too.”
Fully inspired by the last post I reblogged, ily Zayne 😩
After stumbling into a sex shop together, you and Zayne discover a new side of your relationship that neither of you can stop thinking about. Two weeks later, when Zayne returns home from work in the Arctic, the reunion is anything but ordinary. What begins with roses and dinner quickly spirals into a night of leather, chains, and indulgence, where brat-taming discipline meets the tenderness of a pleasure dom.
Word Count: 31k
18+ Warning: --no minors!--fiance!Zayne, brat tamer Zayne, pleasure dom Zayne, domestic fluff, BDSM, bondage, whipping, impact play, pet names, skull/face fucking, pet play, use of the word "slut", rough sex, hunter/prey, standing 69, Zayne in his Catch 22 Immediate Disorder outfit, reward and punishment, squirting, sex toys.
My Zayne Masterlist🩵AO3 Link🩵Ko-Fi
It had only been two weeks. Just two weeks since that night when you and Zayne, still buzzing with laughter after hours at the arcade, happened to stumble across the grand opening of a sex shop. Two weeks since you wandered inside on a whim, curiosity gleaming in his emerald eyes as you both grabbed whatever caught your fancy, laughing at your own recklessness. Two weeks since he had taken those tools of pleasure, those ideas, and turned the night into something that pushed you two deeper than you’d ever gone before—something raw, breathtaking, and unforgettable.
You could still feel it—the way he had claimed you. Rougher, rawer than ever before. His fist buried in your hair as he yanked your head back, his palm coming down hard against your ass until it stung red and delicious, his voice a low growl calling you his perfect little slut as you watched him in the mirror. All the while, he drowned you in his love, in that fierce possessiveness that left you reeling.
And ever since, your mind hadn’t been able to let go. The memories clung like fire beneath your skin, igniting again and again whenever you closed your eyes. How could the man you knew—the gentle, soft, impossibly tender cardiac surgeon who curled around you on the couch under blankets, who handed you your smiling mug of cocoa that matched his own—be the same man who bent you over, disciplined you, fucked you until you forgot your own name? That contradiction, that delicious collision of sweetness and savagery, haunted you. It was intoxicating. It was the hottest thing you had ever experienced in your life.
You wanted it again. Needed it again. To kneel for him, to feel the weight of his hand tangling cruelly in your hair while his cock filled you to the brim, to hear his voice calling you his pretty little pet. You craved the dizzying rhythm of him using you like a cheap whore, only to be pulled into his arms afterward, his lips brushing tenderly against your temple as he whispered his love into your skin. That was Zayne—your Zayne. The most beautiful, bewildering man you had ever known. And you couldn’t stop obsessing over him, day and night, body and soul aching for him to take you apart like that all over again.
But Zayne had been gone since the Monday after that unforgettable weekend, pulled away to the frozen desolation of the arctic for work that felt like it would never end. Almost two long weeks of distance stretched between you, bridged only by flirtatious texts that left your cheeks burning and late-night face-time sessions where his voice curled around you like a blanket, his eyes dark with desire even through a screen. It was enough to keep you barely sane—but after a night like the one you had shared, it made the ache of separation unbearable. Every teasing message only sharpened the hunger. Every “I miss you” only dug the knife of longing deeper. You missed him more than ever. You needed that man who craved you like an addiction—needed him back in your arms, pressing you down, forcing your trembling legs apart until you were begging for a mercy he’d never grant, whimpering into the heat of his mouth as he devoured every sound you made.
And at last, he returned. Late last night, bone-tired and bleary-eyed, shadows beneath his eyes but all his warmth intact. The moment he dropped into bed beside you, he tangled himself around you like he had never left, kissing your face again and again, nuzzling your skin as though he could drink you back into him.
“I missed you,” he murmured against your laughter, his voice hoarse with exhaustion and love, “missed this pretty face so much.”
You melted into his embrace, sleep-heavy giggles spilling from you as his arms caged you close. He drifted off with his cheek pressed to your breasts through the thin fabric of your cami, your fingers lazily combing through the silky strands of his black hair until his quiet snores vibrated against your skin.
It wasn’t until morning that you noticed it—propped discreetly by the bedroom door, gleaming with a seriousness that felt out of place in your shared little haven: a padlocked briefcase he must have carried back with him. You’d blinked at it, curiosity burning instantly, but Zayne had only smirked, kissed your temple, and called it a surprise. Souvenirs, he said. Something you couldn’t have until tonight.
“What, more giant alien cocks for us to have sword fights with?” You teased, leaning lazily against the counter, watching your gorgeous fiancé move around the sun-lit kitchen.
He was topless, fresh from the shower, droplets still clinging to his pale skin, his damp hair falling over his forehead as he cooked you breakfast like some sinful domestic fantasy. And all you could think about was how, not twenty minutes ago, he had you pinned against the tiled wall, kissing you like a starving man, swearing he’d make the wait until tonight worth your while. His cock had been hard and heavy in the palm of your hand, and it had taken every ounce of his self-control not to give in to your desperate pleas right then and there.
“I bought us something a little more romantic this time,” Zayne said with that slow, devastating smile, flipping the skillet with practiced ease, “no hints. I want to maintain some mystery about wooing you tonight.”
“Wooing me,” you echoed, feigning dramatic shock, your tone dripping with mischief. As you passed behind him, you let a single fingertip trail down the length of his broad, bare back, delighting in the way the fine hairs on his nape prickled at your touch. You giggled softly—devilishly—as you pulled open the fridge, throwing a glance over your shoulder, “well, I hope this wooing of yours involves plenty of debauchery and leather. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got up your sleeve, Doctor Zayne…”
God, you were such a fucking tease. You knew exactly what you were doing to him. You caught the way his eyes flicked to your hips, the way his lips parted slightly when you swayed just a little more than necessary. His oversized pajama shirt barely covered you, the hem riding high enough to flash him quick glimpses of your bare ass as you bent down. And the hunger in his gaze—sharp, possessive, barely restrained—told you everything about the battle raging in that beautiful man’s head.
Zayne had been doing his homework while he was away in the arctic—you knew that much. And truthfully, so had you. The two of you had spent those long, lonely nights swapping links to articles and forums, trading curiosities like secrets in the dark. You sent him things you ached to try with him, lewd fantasies you couldn’t stop imagining. He sent back ideas he felt comfortable exploring with you—always careful, always protective, but just as eager, provided it was safe and something you truly wanted. Together, you devoured obscene quizzes, laughed over results, and picked apart every delicious new possibility of what this non-vanilla awakening in your relationship meant.
Apparently, it meant you were a brat. No surprise there—he could’ve told you that without a quiz. You thrived on mischief, on pushing limits, on flashing that wicked grin when he narrowed his eyes at you. And Zayne? To absolutely no one’s shock, your sweet, endlessly patient fiancé fell neatly into the role of brat tamer and pleasure dom—stern enough to bring a defiant tease like you to heel, yet indulgent enough to make your pleasure his obsession. He liked breaking you down just as much as he loved building you back up, ruling you with both discipline and ecstasy.
His much awaited return was exactly why you had spent the entire day lighting fires under his skin. With you and Zayne, foreplay never began in the bedroom—it started in the quiet, ordinary moments of the day, woven into domestic routines like sparks smoldering under kindling. Sometimes it was you sliding your hands around his hips while he did the dishes, whispering filthy promises into his ear while he tried to keep his composure. Sometimes it was him hoisting you up against a wall, his voice low and commanding as he warned you to behave…While you only smirked, bit your lip, and dared him to make you.
Today, though—today you were merciless. You padded around the house in nothing but his baggy shirt, no panties underneath, “accidentally” flashing him your sex or the curve of your ass every time you climbed the kitchen step stool to reach something. You stole a massive bite of his ice cream sandwich right from his hand, licking your lips dramatically before planting the sweetest kiss against his cheek. And when he came back a few minutes later with another sandwich just for you, you patted his chest and cooed, “good boy,” with mock-innocence.
God, you could practically feel the storm brewing in him, the way his gaze lingered, dark and heavy, every time you “slipped.” You knew you were taunting him, knew you were poking at the edges of his restraint on purpose. And you couldn’t stop wondering—how long could Zayne hold out before he decided to finally put you back in your place tonight?
By evening, Zayne was wound tight as a bowstring. You could feel it in the air between you—charged, humming, heavy with the unspoken. He was tense in the car ride to the restaurant, that much-needed date night you had insisted on with your soon-to-be husband. His hand rested on your thigh as he drove, fingers splayed possessively, and you couldn’t resist inching the hem of your dress higher, coaxing his palm closer to where you burned for him. The little squeeze he gave you, absentminded, almost reflexive, told you everything about the storm raging under his calm exterior.
He was tense when you stood together outside the restaurant, waiting to be seated, your smaller frame wrapped up in his oversized coat. You slipped your arms around his waist and pressed yourself against him, nuzzling into the solid breadth of his chest as if seeking warmth. To any passerby, it was an innocent display of affection, a fiancée clinging sweetly to her man. But you knew better. You knew the way your breasts flattened against him, the way your scent curled around him, the way your warmth bled into his body—all of it deliberate, all of it designed to scrape against his frayed self-control.
And God, you could feel what you were doing to him. The rigid set of his shoulders, the subtle tightening of his jaw, the way his hand lingered at your hip like he was debating whether to pull you closer or push you against the nearest wall. He was fighting himself, fighting to stay composed in public. And you? You buried your smile into his chest, knowing exactly how close he was to snapping.
But…Zayne knew what he was doing, too.
“You got me flowers?!” You gasped, eyes widening as you spotted the table reserved for you both. Nestled beside the gentle flicker of a candle sat a bouquet of red roses, their petals deep and velvety, tied neatly with a ribbon like they’d been waiting just for you.
His smile was soft, understated, as he slid into his side of the rounded velvet booth, “I did.”
Anyone else might have asked why. Might have wondered what the occasion was, what milestone he was marking. But not you. Not when you knew him.
“I saw on Yelp that this place was right next to a flower shop,” he explained simply, as though that alone was reason enough, “I thought you might find those roses pretty.”
Of course he would. Zayne was the kind of man who thought of you in the smallest, sweetest ways—flowers for no reason at all, just as you surprised him with boba and sweets dropped at his office. Love didn’t need a special occasion for either of you; it was in the gestures, the thought, the quiet care threaded into everyday moments.
“They are,” you murmured, burying your face into the bouquet, inhaling until the perfume of roses filled your lungs. The indulgence made him laugh, that low, rich sound, and he shifted closer, reaching to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your face popped up with a delighted sigh, cheeks flushed, grinning at him as though he had hung the stars.
His hand rose to cup your chin, thumb stroking slowly over the curve of your cheek. You leaned into his touch instinctively, the weight of your head melting into his palm. The look in his eyes—steady, warm, unguarded—sent your heart hammering against your ribs, your stomach fluttering with an ache you couldn’t tame.
“Just like you,” he whispered.
Your lashes dipped as heat pooled beneath your skin.
“Thank you…” The words came out softer than you intended, laced with breathless sincerity.
And then, with deliberate gentleness, his free hand brushed aside the roses between you, making room for him to lean in. His lips found yours—warm, lingering, reverent—a kiss that was less about hunger and more about claiming the moment, reminding you that no matter how much fire burned between you, this tenderness was the heart of everything.
Fuck. Zayne just…Had this way of making you fall in love with him all over again, every single day, didn’t he? It was maddening. The way he looked at you, the things he said, the little gestures that turned your heart inside out. You couldn’t stop blushing, and by the time the waiter approached with water, you had to gulp down half your glass just to cool your burning cheeks.
The only reprieve came when Zayne’s attention shifted to ordering, steady and polite as always. You breathed easier, just enough to notice the weight of his hand settling on your knee beneath the table, his thumb stroking idly—absentminded affection that had your pulse climbing again. A cardiac surgeon, and here he was, effortlessly giving you heart attacks.
“I’ll have the merlot,” you blurted suddenly, surprising even yourself.
Zayne’s brows lifted as his gaze flicked to you, surprised but pleased. He passed the drink menu back with a faint curve of his lips, his attention soft and amused.
“Oh, you’re having wine tonight?” His tone dropped into that velvet register, warm and teasing, “should I expect even more mischief from you when we get home?”
You ducked into your glass again, mumbling so quietly it barely counted as speech, “only if you’re gonna pin me against the wall by my throat for it…”
“What?” His laugh was low, light, like he half-thought you were talking nonsense.
But there was something in the way he tilted his head, the narrowing of his eyes, that told you he’d understood enough. His hand on your leg gave a gentle squeeze, coaxing you into bravery, and he leaned in closer. God, he looked so unfairly beautiful like this—adorable and devastating all at once, like he couldn’t decide if he was more endeared or turned on. And that gaze—soft, golden-green, wholly locked on you—made your chest squeeze so tight you could hardly breathe.
“Don’t suddenly start being coy now,” he murmured, lips curving, voice like warm honey, “what brazen thing did you just say to me this time?”
Your giggle bubbled out helplessly, eyes darting around the dim, private corner of the restaurant. It wasn’t crowded; no one was watching. And yet you still leaned in as if sharing a dangerous secret, your lashes lowering, your fingertip tracing playfully down the front of his buttoned shirt until it lingered over his chest.
“I said…” You whispered, gaze flicking up to snare his, “only if you’re gonna pin me against the wall by my throat for it.”
He blinked at you, surprised—caught off guard in a way you rarely managed with him. The tips of his ears turned a telltale shade of red as he let out a nervous little chuckle, running his tongue over his teeth as if searching for composure.
“Oh,” he murmured, almost sheepish, then tilted his head with a smirk curling into place, “and what diabolical thing do you have planned that would make me feel the need to be so…Rough, with you?”
That deliberate pause on the word made your pulse stumble. His thumb pressed a little higher on your inner thigh, kneading slow circles into tender skin, and heat flared low in your belly. God, you were already getting wet. Your nipples tightened beneath the thin fabric of your dress, aching, and before you could even hope he hadn’t noticed—he did. His gaze dropped, lingering, and you swore the air around you crackled. He wasn’t just glancing. He was staring. And then—
“One glass of merlot.”
You jumped in your seat, face blazing as the reality of the world around you came crashing back. Oh God. You weren’t alone. Dim lighting, hidden corner, yes—but still a public place, still a restaurant with an actual waiter standing at your table while you’d been two seconds from combusting under Zayne’s gaze.
“Thank you,” Zayne said smoothly, though his throat worked as he cleared it. Out of instinct, his large hand slipped down to tug discreetly at the hem of your dress, pulling it modestly back into place even though no one could possibly see under the table. Protective. Always protective, even now, even when you both knew the game you were playing.
“We’re still undecided on the food,” he added politely, and the waiter gave a nod before retreating.
You exhaled hard, relief rushing through you like a wave as the tension in your chest loosened. Zayne, unfazed on the surface but with that devilish glint still simmering in his eyes, opened the menu and slid it closer to you. His fingertips brushed yours as if to ground you—or maybe to remind you he hadn’t forgotten a single thing you just whispered to him.
“You looked like a frightened little lamb,” he laughed softly, the sound low and warm as his hand gave your bare knee a light, affectionate pat.
“And you looked like you just got caught red-handed trying to be sneaky,” you teased, your smile all sly edges as you tilted your head at him.
“Trying to be sneaky?” He echoed, his voice dipping with mock offense as his eyes flicked down to the menu, “I wasn’t trying to be sneaky about staring. I did it in front of you this time.”
“What??” You almost snorted, your laugh bubbling up at his shamelessness. You’d meant catching him mid-act while he touched you under the table, but his bold admission derailed you completely.
“Nothing,” he said, biting back a smile as he pretended to busy himself with the menu, his lashes lowering to hide the mischief in his eyes, “I simply said that the view is nice. Don’t you think?”
You let out a little scoff, but then—oh, you noticed. You caught the faint outline, the hard state he was in, concealed only by the shadows beneath the table. Heat coiled in your belly, curling your lips into something wicked.
“Yeah,” you purred, reaching to brush his lap with your fingertips, “I love the scenery here.”
He stiffened instantly, his body betraying him even as his composure held. Your palm cupped him through his slacks, giving a slow squeeze, and his eyes shot sideways—quick, instinctive—to make sure no one nearby could see. But no one could. The corner was dark, private, cloaked in low amber light. For you, the world had shrunk to just this moment, his body hot under your hand, his restraint trembling.
“Is this diabolical enough, Zaynie?” You tilted your head, feigning innocence, though your smile was all challenge, your strokes deliberate.
His hand snapped down to catch your wrist, firm but not harsh.
“You aren’t the one at the outer edge of the booth,” he murmured pointedly, his golden-green eyes narrowing. “Where are your manners?”
You giggled, quoting him back with a wicked little lilt, “don’t suddenly be coy now.”
You let him push your hand away, pretending to settle for a soft pat to his thigh instead, your expression shifting into mock sympathy.
“Sorry, Doctor Zayne. I forgot you had a huge—”
He almost choked on his water, coughing against the rim of the glass, and it took everything not to laugh out loud.
“—heart,” you finished innocently, your grin impossible to hide, pride written all over your face at how easily you could fluster him.
You lifted your wine glass, tapping it gently against his cup just as he set it down, eyes wide at you still.
“Cheers.”
He exhaled hard, that mix of fondness and exasperation spilling out of him in a sigh.
“Cheers,” he echoed at last, raising his glass to yours before drinking. He gave you a long look as he set it back down, “when the food comes, I expect you to eat without nonsense.”
You and your fiancé ordered food together, leaning shoulder to shoulder in the velvet booth. Plates arrived, and soon the two of you were stealing bites from each other’s meals, teasing over who had chosen better, laughter spilling between sips of your wine and his water. With every swallow, the edges of your nerves softened, melting into warmth that spread through your chest and sank lower, humming through your body.
But as that warmth loosened your restraint, it sharpened something else—your craving for him. The wine didn’t just ease you; it made you bold, made your thoughts slippery and sweet, honeying into fantasies before you could stop them. What was Zayne planning for you tonight? What surprise waited in that padlocked briefcase at home?
Your mind wandered, looping back into dangerous territory. You couldn’t help yourself—you kept sneaking glances at him while he ate, watching the way the candlelight painted shadows along the sharp line of his jaw, the way his lashes dipped when he smiled at something you said. Every time your voice dipped into a dirty whisper, his hand tightened around your thigh beneath the table, anchoring you, warning you. That only fed the ache, the itch to provoke him further.
Your leg brushed against his deliberately, slow, the friction unmistakable. At one point you plucked a petal from the bouquet beside you and traced it in lazy circles across his chest, watching his lips pause mid-sentence before his fingers caught your wrist and stilled you. You only grinned. You knew exactly what you were doing.
And God, you couldn’t wait to get home. Every sip of wine made patience harder, every second in that booth stretched taut with the promise of what was to come. You wanted to be tossed onto the bed, your body aching beneath the sting of leather striking your bare ass. You wanted to feel his reverent hands buckling a collar around your neck like it belonged there, like you belonged to him. You wanted to sass him, taunt him, defy him—push him until he had no choice but to drag you back down, to break you open until you were trembling, begging, desperate to prove you could be good for him.
“Honey,” you whined playfully, plucking another soft red petal loose from your bouquet, “you hardly ate…”
“I don’t want to be too full,” he said with a quiet smile, setting the checkbook on the table before turning more fully toward you, his body angled close.
“I do…” Your smile curved with intent as you lifted the petal to his jawline, dragging it slowly, deliberately down the column of his neck, “I wanna be filled up to the brim…”
“You’re obscene,” his hand shot up to capture yours, his fingers warm and firm as they wrapped around your wrist.
“Oh,” you smirked, eyes gleaming with challenge, “you wanna know what’s really obscene?”
He arched a brow, cautious but amused, “what?”
Leaning in, you let your lashes dip, your gaze darting pointedly to the bulge in his slacks. Your voice dropped into a sultry whisper, “that thing you can’t hide even if you tried.”
Ah, yes. His glaring erection. The moment your words landed, Zayne’s expression tightened, and you laughed softly, triumphant, victorious in besting him here and now.
“Where are your manners?” You teased with mock scandal, pinching his chin and turning his face toward you like you were the one correcting him. You leaned closer, lips brushing the edge of his breath, “in public, Zayne? Oh no…Want me to cover it for you?”
His eyes flicked down sharply, catching the flick of the fabric napkin you opened across your lap, “don’t.”
“I’m being helpful…” You whispered, all faux reassurance, spreading the napkin neatly over his thighs. And then, before he could react, your hand slipped beneath its cover. Your fingers curled around him, squeezing that deliciously hard length through the fabric of his slacks, your gaze fixed on his face so you could drink in every flicker of reaction, “I’m being so very helpful…”
Zayne let out a low sigh of frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose as though the gesture alone might tether him back to composure. His other arm shifted protectively, a subtle barrier in case distance and the dim, amber shadows weren’t already enough.
“Is that what we’re calling it now? Helpful? Really, Y/n…” His voice was quiet, low, dangerously patient, “you truly have no limit, do you?”
“No,” you shook your head with mock innocence, your palm stroking slow, deliberate pressure along the rigid length straining beneath his slacks. Every twitch, every involuntary shiver he gave under your touch only stoked your grin wider, “or self-control…Or shame…”
Your glance flicked over his shoulder, making sure no one was looking. He followed the motion, and in that tiny lapse you leaned closer, pressing your breasts into his shoulder as you angled toward his ear.
“Why don’t you teach me a thing or two about discipline again, when we get home?” You whispered, your lips grazing the shell of his ear, voice sugared with provocation, “it’s been so long since the last lesson that I already forgot.”
His hand shot down, catching yours, pulling it firmly from his lap.
“i will…At home. You aren’t getting your way,” his lips brushed against your cheek in a soft, grounding kiss, his composure unshaken despite the fire you could feel simmering beneath it. His mouth tilted into a smile against your skin, “but nonetheless, nice try. A for effort, beautiful. It was a commendable attempt. But I’m a man of my word.”
You scoffed, feigning offense, even as heat pooled in your stomach at the steel in his tone. He really wasn’t going to break. Zayne was strict, relentless, unwavering. A man of his word—always. Under the table, his hand slipped into yours, not only holding it captive to stop any further shenanigans, but squeezing with quiet affection. He leaned over, catching your chin between his fingers, turning your face toward him. His lips pressed to yours, tender and certain, pulling a smile from you despite yourself.
“You’re lovely,” he murmured against your mouth, kissing you again, sealing the words with warmth. His eyes softened, his smile curving against your own, “I hope you know that.”
You were still a little tipsy when you got home, the cold night air nipping at your skin as you crossed the driveway with Zayne’s coat draped over your shoulders, his arm steady around you. He guided you gently up to the door, his touch careful even in your wine-loosened state, his presence anchoring you in that way only he could.
The moment you stepped inside, the contrast hit you—the cozy warmth of home wrapping around you, the faint hush of quiet that came with the tall, dark windows spilling in pale moonlight. You hung up his coat, fingers brushing the switch for the lights—
And then he was on you.
A hand landed firm on your shoulder, spinning you before you could react, sliding down to capture your wrist as he pressed forward. You stumbled back, your spine catching the wall, but his other hand was already there to cradle the back of your head, softening the impact even as his mouth crashed against yours in a sudden, ravenous kiss.
You gasped into him, the sound lost in the heat of his lips. Finally. The thought burned through you as your free hand tangled desperately into his silky black hair, pulling him closer, harder, needing more. His body caged you in, tall and broad and unyielding—a six-foot-one wall of heat and muscle you never wanted to escape.
His kiss was feral, hungry, echoing faintly through the tall hallway, filling the house with the sound of your shared urgency. His hand pinned your wrist firmly against the wall beside your head, his weight pressing you into place, owning the moment, owning you. you moaned openly into his mouth, arching into him, drunk on the way he consumed you.
When he released you, it was only to seize your waist, big hands spanning the curve of your hips before sliding lower, curving over the swell of your ass with a lustful, unapologetic squeeze. He yanked you against him, the hardness of his body grinding into yours, and you gasped—half moan, half laugh—delighted by the sudden, reckless hunger in him. Your hands fisted tighter into his collar, his hair, tugging and pulling him down to you as your lips smiled against his, every kiss both playful and consuming, every breath tangled in his.
“More,” you breathed into his mouth, enthralled.
Oh dear. Ohh, dear. You knew that subtle shift, the tightening of his jaw, the hunger that darkened within him. Zayne was in that mood again. The one you’d been teasing and prodding out of him all day, whether you admitted it or not. That commanding, assertive edge that stripped him of his gentleness and remade him into something rougher, something harder, something that made every nerve in your body burn. You craved it. Dizzy with anticipation, you wanted—no, needed—that darker side of Zayne again. To be taken by it. Subdued by it. Branded by it.
You jolted with a gasp as he took a hard squeeze of your ass, the heat of his palm blooming through the thin fabric of your dress. His hand lingered, rough and possessive, gripping your cheek in a deliberate shake that sent sparks up your spine before he shoved you back against the wall, caging you tight between his arm and towering frame.
Your knees nearly buckled beneath you, your body going weak from the sheer force of him. His cock pressed firm and unrelenting against your stomach, hard evidence of his desire, while his other hand slipped from your hair to cradle the expanse of your neck. The gesture tilted your chin higher, forcing your eyes to meet his for a moment—just a moment before he devoured you again. You rose onto your toes instinctively, breath catching, body arching to him.
Then came the shift—the slide of his palm, inch by inch, until it wrapped fully around your throat. His fingers splayed with precision, his thumb stroking lightly along the curve of your neck as though seeking the frantic flutter of your pulse. And oh, he found it. Your heart hammered so violently it seemed to leap against his fingertips. Pressure. A light squeeze. Just enough to remind you who held you in his grasp.
You gasped, the sound torn from your chest as the move pried you from his lips and pressed you flush against the wall. Your brain short-circuited under the flood of sensation—shock, disbelief, adrenaline so sharp it tasted like lightning in your veins. And beneath it all, pooling low and molten, came the most dangerous thing of all: a thrill so sinful, so wicked, it left you trembling with arousal. Lust. Filthy, unashamed lust.
You looked up at him with wide, glazed eyes, your breath shallow, lips parted, utterly undone. And he looked down at you—searching, scanning, his gaze a slow, steady sweep over your flushed face, your parted lips, your trembling body pinned helplessly under his control. God. You were already soaked for this man. And he hadn’t even begun.
“Like this?” He whispered, the words so soft they barely formed sound, breathed into the scant space between your lips. His eyes flickered down to your mouth, then up to your wide, dazed gaze, drinking in every twitch of your expression, “would you say I’m doing it correctly, Y/n?”
Oh God. Oh, sweet Jesus. You were gone. Absolutely gone. Your heart thundered so violently you thought it might explode right out of your chest, every nerve ending alive and singing, your skin tingling from the low rumble of his voice alone. Those eyes—calm, steady, adoring, but threaded through with a smoldering fire—locked you in place as surely as his hand did. It felt unreal, like something too wickedly perfect to exist outside a dream. If only he squeezed harder. If only he actually took that step, really choked you. Surely, you’d melt at his feet.
“I—” Your voice caught, stammering uselessly as your throat flexed under his palm, the press of his hand grounding you and making your words scatter like leaves in a storm, “y-yeah…I think so?”
“Sorry,” he murmured, lips brushing the corner of your mouth in a kiss so light it was almost cruel, his thick lashes ghosting over your temple as his breath fanned hot against your cheek, “let me ask you an easier question…”
His thumb stroked with deliberate care over the frantic flutter of your pulse, his fingers tracing the steady current of your arteries like he was reading a map written only for him, “does this feel good to you?”
“It does,” you breathed, dizzy and trembling, your head light from more than just the wine. Your words broke against your lips, mumbled and needy as his palm held you steady, “t’so good…”
“Your heart rate is at roughly a hundred and twenty beats per minute,” he murmured, his tone quiet, steady, almost clinical—as though he were dictating notes only he could hear.
His knee pressed firmly between your thighs, parting them just enough to make your dress ride up, baring more of you to his control. The subtle shift made your breath hitch, heat sparking low in your belly.
“Which means your body is flooding you with adrenaline right now…” His eyes tracked every detail of your face, every twitch of response, “you have goosebumps everywhere. Dilated pupils…”
His hand slid free from your trapped wrist, knuckles grazing feather-light down the curve of your bare shoulder, following the thin strap of your dress like a trail meant to be unraveled. The touch was soft, reverent, maddeningly slow.
“Hard nipples,” he whispered, like he was checking off a list, the words both matter-of-fact and devastatingly intimate.
His knuckle brushed deliberately across your peaked bud, grazing the sensitive, stiffened flesh. Electricity shot through you, a jolt of heat that had you gasping against the wall, thighs tightening instinctively around the press of his leg.
“God…” His voice broke slightly, the veneer of clinical detachment giving way to raw reverence. His gaze flicked up to yours, burning, tender, and feral all at once, “you’re so gorgeous.”
Your hands fumbled for his belt loops, clutching him closer as if you could tether yourself to the heat of him, as if the solid press of his body against yours wasn’t already overwhelming.
“Should I even ask if you’re wet for me, at this point?” He whispered, voice husky with restraint as his hand slid down the length of your dress, fingers curling toward the hem.
The fabric lifted slowly, inch by inch, until it bunched around your waist. His hand stilled—abrupt, sharp—when his fingertips grazed bare skin instead of lace or silk. For a moment he froze, shock flickering across his features, and you nearly moaned at the sheer thrill of his discovery. His breath left him in a low, ragged sigh by your ear, hot enough to shiver down your spine.
“And you went to dinner without underwear on? Without me knowing?” His words rumbled through you, molten and disbelieving.
His palm cupped your sex with a firm squeeze, claiming, testing, making your knees threaten to buckle. His gaze caught yours—molten green, heavy with dark heat—and he shook his head slowly, almost in awe, almost furious.
“You’re on all kinds of bad behavior tonight,” his voice dropped as he gave your pussy a light, possessive shake that sent sparks racing through you. His grip tightened fractionally, grounding you in the intensity of his claim, “what if someone saw this? I’d kill a man just as easily as I can save one…All over your endearingly infuriating little penchant for trouble.”
“Oh yeah?” You taunted, your voice lilting with wicked delight, “what’s the big bad doctor gonna do to me, huh? You gonna treat my brattiness? Heal me of my nasty little sickness with some divine medicine or something?”
The words landed, and you saw it—the flicker in his expression, the way the composure on his face faltered for just a second as if you’d caught him off guard. Oh, you lived for this. You lived for pushing Zayne’s buttons, for teasing at that calm veneer until you found the crack in it. This new game between you—the delicious, simmering tension of you acting out just to see how far you could drive him—was becoming its own kind of drug.
“Oh no,” you continued, feigning wide-eyed innocence, your voice dripping with mock distress, “I’m so terribly ill and I can’t seem to follow orders for my treatment to truly be effective…”
Your hands slid upward, palms mapping the hard lines of his chest until they locked behind his neck, pulling you flush against him.
“I think I need intensive care…” You hitched one leg up around his hip, your dress riding scandalously high as you dragged him into you, pressing his thick cock right against your stomach. His jaw tensed, his eyes heavy with restrained fire as he fought to hold steady.
“So tell me, Doctor Zayne…” You whispered, your lips brushing his ear, your grin wicked as your breath feathered over his skin, “what page of your ethics manual covers fucking your dear sweet patient until she’s better?”
One second your toes were still brushing the floor, and the next you were airborne, hauled up against the wall so suddenly your mind barely had time to catch up. His large hands locked under your thighs, holding you up with effortless strength. A startled sound broke from your throat—something caught between a yelp and a breathless giggle—but it was swallowed immediately, smothered by the ferocity of his mouth crashing down on yours.
Your legs wrapped tight around his waist, instinctive, desperate, pulling him in with the same hunger that drove his kiss. Greedy, unrestrained, you matched him, your lips parting for his tongue as though you’d been waiting two weeks for this exact moment. And you had.
“Same one about giving her the punishment she deserves first,” he muttered against your mouth, the words vibrating hotly against your lips.
It was chaos on the way upstairs, a heady tangle of clashing lips and dancing tongues, of muffled gasps and the creak of his footsteps beneath the weight of you both. Dizzy with need, you barely noticed how quickly the world shifted until your back hit the mattress, the sheets cool against your flushed skin.
He came down over you instantly, caging you in, sandwiching you under the solid breadth of his weight. His lips were everywhere—crushing against your jaw, sliding hungrily down your throat, marking the tender curve of your shoulder. Your chest heaved beneath him, your body arching into his heat as his hands found the edges of your dress and peeled it down your torso with impatient reverence.
“No bra, either,” he murmured hotly into your skin, lips dragging fire along your collarbone, “you planned for all of this, didn’t you?”
You giggled with pure glee, the ceiling spinning above you as adrenaline coursed through your veins. The straps of your dress slipped down your arms, and you eagerly helped him, tugging the fabric lower to bare everything to him. The rush of air against your exposed skin made you shiver, and you whispered breathlessly, “yes, I did…”
His answer came not in words but in teeth. He caught your nipple between them with a sudden bite that had you yelping, your voice breaking into something high and helpless before dissolving into a moan as his tongue soothed the sting, licking over your sensitive bud until it throbbed.
“So did I,” he admitted quietly, his voice muffled as his lips sealed against you. He smothered your breasts in slow, greedy kisses, burying his face into their softness as though he’d been starving for you, inhaling you, worshipping you even as his touch bordered on feral.
And then you remembered. That briefcase. The one Zayne had carried home from his two-week work trip, padlocked and tucked discreetly by the door. A case he had promised was full of souvenirs—though you knew by now exactly what that meant. Not trinkets. Not keepsakes. But toys. New things to explore. New ways to push at the edges of this thrilling, dangerous discovery you had both stumbled into.
“Can’t you just fuck me right now?” You blurted, your voice high and unsteady, the words tumbling out before you could swallow them back. Your dress hung bunched uselessly around your waist, leaving you spread open and vulnerable beneath him, your nipples aching and chilled by the whisper of the AC between the lewd, wet pops of his lips leaving your skin.
Zayne chuckled quietly against your breast, the sound vibrating through you, maddeningly calm as if your desperation amused him. His hand slid under your knee, prying you open with ease, stretching you wider for him.
“O-or eat me out or something—” You gasped, the plea catching sharp in your throat when two long fingers plunged into your soaked cunt without warning. He sank them to the hilt in one smooth, practiced push, and you cried out, the sound torn from you raw and helpless, “ah!”
“And give you what you want right away?” His tone was even, almost conversational, as he lifted his head from your breast, his expression maddeningly composed. He sat back on his calves, his arousal tenting hot and insistent against the fabric of his slacks. Your eyes darted down in spite of yourself, hunger clawing at you, before another deep curl of his fingers dragged a shuddering moan from your throat.
He pushed your other knee farther apart, spreading you indecently, and his gaze locked onto your face—your parted lips, your fluttering eyelids, your body trembling around the slow, inexorable rhythm of his fingers beckoning you deeper into his control.
“Absolutely not,” he said softly, watching you unravel while his composure only sharpened. His thumb pressed deliberately along your thigh, steadying you as though guiding a patient through a procedure. “You’ve been mischievous all day today, Miss Fairy. Teasing me. Seeking my attention. Talking back…”
His pace shifted, precise, punishing in its slowness.
“No no no,” he murmured, his gaze drinking in the way your body arched helplessly toward him, “you’re going to be straightened out first. Until you’re a good girl again.”
You twitched when his thumb found your swollen clit, the slick press of it sending sparks through your nerves. Your thighs fell open further on instinct, hips canting up toward him in a shameless plea as his fingers continued their deliberate torment inside you. The slick sound of it filled the air, every stroke coaxing another wave of heat that you couldn’t bite back.
He leaned down over you again, one hand braced beside your head. His shadow fell across you, his green gaze burning down into yours, and the weight of it struck like lightning between your legs. God. Dear God. You were dying for him to ruin you—wreck you until you couldn’t breathe.
“You’re going to earn my cock,” he said softly, his voice measured, almost tender in its steadiness, though the words themselves dripped with molten filth. His fingers curled deep inside you, stroking slow, beckoning, the sweetest torture you could imagine, “this? This isn’t enough, being this unsurprisingly wet.”
“What more do you want??” You gasped, your voice desperate, the pressure inside you climbing with every tease.
You writhed beneath him, glaring through a haze of lust.
“You want me to get on my knees and beg or something? Cause this—this isn’t enough,
“ the last word cracked into a moan, but still you taunted him, still you challenged. His mouth curved in something dangerously close to a smile.
“I’m a little insulted that you think I’m doing anything other than toying with you right now,” he murmured. He pulled his fingers from your sex in one slow, obscene glide, slick glistening in the moonlight falling through the room. Your body clenched emptily around the loss, your breath catching in protest, and then he lifted his hand between you.
You watched, transfixed, as he spread his fingers apart, your arousal webbing thick between them before dripping down. He closed them again, repeating the motion almost lazily, making you stare at the glossy strands of yourself coating him.
“I haven’t even prepared the bedroom yet,” he continued, his voice smooth, maddeningly calm. His eyes flicked to yours, then down to your heaving chest, “or dressed for the occasion.”
Dressed? The word snagged in your mind, sparking a hundred questions you didn’t get the chance to ask. Before you could open your mouth, Zayne’s slick fingers slipped past your lips, pressing against your tongue. Instinct betrayed you—your lips sealed around him in an involuntary suck, heat flooding your cheeks as you tasted yourself on his skin.
Oh fuck. He was watching you. Watching the way your lips stretched around his fingers, watching the subtle swirl of your tongue as he massaged it, slow and deliberate. His gaze was steady, unhurried, savoring the sight of you unraveling.
Zayne wasn’t giving you what you wanted because this—this—was what he wanted. To toy with you. To make you pliant. To indulge in the way you made the prettiest faces when you were turned on, every whimper and twitch a performance just for him.
“Here’s how this is going to go,” he began softly, his voice calm and certain, vibrating against your bones. “I lock you out. You patiently wait. I set up without having to worry about you sneaking inside. You think long and hard about how you’re going to behave when I let you back in. Those are very easy directions to follow.”
You groaned low around his fingers, your lashes fluttering shut, your body rebelling even as you submitted.
“One more thing,” he added with a faint smile, sliding his fingers free only once they were perfectly clean. His thumb swept gently across your lips, wiping the sheen away, tender even as his dominance lingered, “I want you to get some chocolate-covered strawberries from the fridge and bring them to me in a bowl.”
“Wha-…And if I don’t?” You challenged, your voice husky, pushing back in the only way you could.
“Then you won’t get treats for being good,” his tone didn’t waver as he pinched your jaw lightly, guiding your chin upward. His mouth descended, kissing you slow, deliberate, tasting the remnants of your arousal on your tongue.
“Fine,” you sighed, giving in with a dramatic lilt, though your body buzzed from the command. You accepted his terms.
Zayne eased his weight off of you, his hands firm yet gentle as he guided you upright, helping you swing your legs off the mattress. Your body still trembled faintly from the lingering tease of his fingers, your skin hot and flushed as he steadied you on your feet. Your dress hung uselessly at your waist, and with a mischievous grin you slipped it the rest of the way down your body. The fabric whispered against your thighs, puddling at your ankles, before you bent to scoop it up and toss it playfully at him. He caught it easily, the corner of his mouth lifting in that infuriatingly calm smile of his.
“Go on,” he said, ushering you with a light pressure at your back, his voice both indulgent and commanding.
He closed the bedroom door softly behind you, the muted click of the latch leaving you alone in the hallway. You practically flew down the stairs, your bare feet paddling against the cool floor, your pulse drumming like wild music in your ears. You darted into the kitchen, yanking open the fridge and snatching the neat container of chocolate-covered strawberries. The cool air licked over your flushed skin, making your nipples tighten further as you hastily dumped them into the first bowl you could grab. The porcelain clinked faintly, too loud in the hush of the house.
If you were quick—maybe, just maybe—you could catch him before he finished whatever he was setting up. The thought thrilled you, buzzing in your veins, urging your feet faster. Bowl in hand, you raced back up the stairs, breathless, strands of hair sticking damp to your temples from the wine, from the adrenaline. The bedroom door loomed ahead, closed but not foreboding. You didn’t even hesitate. You grabbed the knob and yanked—It turned easily. Unlocked.
The door swung open faster than you were ready for, and you nearly stumbled forward, bowl wobbling precariously in your grip. But of course, Zayne was already there, like he’d been expecting this exact antic. His hands steadied both you and the strawberries in the same smooth motion, his reflexes sharp, his calm expression never wavering. He looked you over slowly, deliberately, his gaze sweeping the flush of your cheeks, the arch of your breasts, the silk of your bare skin.
The silence stretched just long enough for you to squirm before he said, voice low and amused, “are you alright? My my, such a rush. I like to take my time. You know that.”
That man. That maddening, patient, calm man.
You jumped onto your toes, trying to peer past his tall shoulder into the room, determined to catch some sign of what he was up to. But all you saw at first was normalcy: the soft amber glow of the bedside lamp, the low hum of music spilling from the small speaker on the nightstand. And then, your eyes landed on it. The briefcase. Locked. Waiting on the bed. A dark promise gleaming in the lamplight. Zayne stepped aside, his broad frame clearing your view of the room.
“I haven’t done anything yet,” he said, voice steady, casual, like he was merely stating fact, “you’re more than welcome to look, but you’re only delaying my efforts.”
You groaned loudly, dragging the sound out as you flung a hand at him, “okay, okay, I get it! Zayne, please! I’m dying here—”
“Don’t die,” he interrupted smoothly, plucking a strawberry from the bowl you still held.
Before you could react, he stuffed it between your lips, the sudden burst of cold, sweet chocolate and fruit shocking your mouth quiet.
“Have some sugar,” his hand came up, ruffling through your hair with a gentle pat, “good girl. Thank you for the strawberries.”
And then—just like that—he was gone. He slipped back into the bedroom with that infuriating composure, the door shutting in your face in the blink of an eye. The faint click of the lock mocked you. You stood there, blinking at the painted wood, strawberry halfway melting on your tongue, utterly flabbergasted. Did that man really just lock you out of your own bedroom? After everything? After hauling you into a passionate whirlwind and leaving you breathless, aching, dripping? He did. Of course he did.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do with myself?” You muttered under your breath.
You were naked. Horny. Wet enough you could feel it when your thighs pressed together. Dying for him—dying to feel the scorching weight of his body on yours, the strength of his grip bruising into your skin, the stutter of his breath at your ear as he made merciless love to your needy, sopping little cunt.
Instead, you were alone. Arms crossed over your bare chest, you leaned back against the wall opposite the door, the cool surface at your spine only making the heat between your thighs more unbearable. You tried to still yourself, to focus, ears straining for the slightest clue of what he was doing. But there was nothing. Zayne was quiet, of course. Always quiet. He wasn’t clumsy or careless—never had been. He moved with precision, with grace, each gesture controlled. You couldn’t hear a damn thing.
And he was taking his time. Whatever he was doing in there, he was doing it slowly. Deliberately.
“How’s my needy girl doing out there?” His voice came muffled through the wood, followed by two measured knocks from the inside, “not touching herself, I hope.”
Your eyes lit instantly with mischief, lips curving as though he could see the grin spreading across your face.
“And what if I was?” You shot back, your voice sweetened with challenge, “it’s not like you can stop me, Zaynie.”
“No,” he agreed, warm and unbothered, his tone carrying the kind of composure that only made you burn hotter, “but it’s not like you’ll get off from it either. If you really do want temporary relief, go ahead. I’m not stopping you. You’re just making things worse for yourself yet again,” he let the pause stretch just long enough to sting, “a habit you seem to have…”
You scowled at the door, heat flooding your cheeks. Sly bastard.
“I’m starting to think you’re a masochist, love,” Zayne teased, the smile in his voice unmistakable.
“You’re a sadist!” You griped, stomping your foot lightly against the hardwood, your nipples tightening from the chill of the hallway as much as from indignation.
“Am not,” he chuckled, his laughter low, velvety, devastatingly patient, “I just happen to find it endearingly amusing that half your torture is self-inflicted.”
Damn him. Damn all of him. That infuriating, unshakably calm man—you couldn’t win. He had an answer for everything, every single time, and the worst part was how much you craved being bested by him anyway.
The minutes stretched unbearably in the hallway. You’d lost count of how many times you shifted your weight from one bare foot to the other, arms folded tight across your chest against the cool draft seeping through the house. Every creak of the floorboard, every faint shuffle behind the door set your nerves sparking. Your skin tingled with impatience, with need, with curiosity so sharp it felt like hunger.
“Okay…I’m done,” he finally announced from the other side of the door. His voice slipped through the wood low and steady, but for the briefest heartbeat—just long enough to set your nerves aflame—the usual amusement bled away. In its place was something quieter. Something that almost sounded like…Nerves.
Your fingers tightened around the knob, pulse skipping, “can I come in?”
Locked. Of course.
“Close your eyes first.”
Your breath caught, your lashes lowering, “okay, they’re closed—”
The door flew open before you could finish the word. A hand seized your arm, firm and sudden, pulling you forward with a swiftness that stole the ground from under you. A startled yelp broke from your lips as the world spun. In an instant you were turned, your back smacking into the solid wood as the door shut with a decisive click behind you. The impact rattled through your spine, leaving you breathless.
And then—he was there. Zayne’s body crowded into yours, heat radiating from him in waves, his scent—clean, sharp, warm, achingly familiar—flooding your senses. His forearm slammed up above your head, braced against the door with finality as his weight leaned into it. The simple gesture locked you in place, caged you beneath him, his presence so all-consuming you couldn’t tell where your body ended and his began.
Oh, God…
“Hi,” he said simply, lips quirking in that little smile that somehow managed to be both devastating and infuriating. His eyes lowered into yours, shadowed by the the red-tinted strip lights, steady and knowing, while yours nearly bulged out of your skull at the sight before you. You…Must have been dreaming. Nothing else could explain it.
The crimson glow of the room, cast by the lights he’d shifted to that dangerous shade, barely even registered in your mind. All of it blurred, unimportant, drowned out by the sight of him. Your fiancé. Your darling. Your six-foot-one wall of strength and poise—now transformed into something raw, forbidden, devastating. He stood there, his sculpted chest and stomach left scandalously bare, every ridge of muscle gilded in the red light. Chains draped across him like sinful jewelry, the cold glint of metal catching on his collarbones, trailing down over the cut of his abs, all of it anchored to the black collar fastened snug around his throat. The effect was obscene, aristocratic, carnal—all at once.
One arm was sheathed in black leather, a single sleeve clinging tight to the powerful line of his bicep before tapering into a matching glove. The glossy fit caught the light, his knuckles bared where the material left a couple of fingers exposed. Even that small detail felt purposeful, deliberate—like everything he wore tonight was designed with precision, meant to undo you piece by piece.
And then, oh God, your gaze sank lower. His hips were caged in leather pants that looked practically painted onto him, the smooth material hugging the flex of his thighs and taper of his waist with merciless precision. The sight of his cock straining thick and swollen against the confines of those pants made your vision tilt, your knees wobble, your breath flee your lungs.
You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Zayne—your Zayne—looked like every fever dream you’d ever had come to life. And he smiled—calm, steady, devastatingly unfazed—as though he didn’t know he’d just stripped you of all capacity to function. That smile alone damn near sent you crashing to the floor. Actually, scratch that. It did.
A sound burst out of you, embarrassingly shrill, something trapped between excitement and sheer mortification—a girlish squeal that ricocheted off the red-lit walls before you could stop it. Your hands flew up to cover your flaming face, your palms pressing hard against skin that burned like it might combust. And then your knees gave out. Completely.
You slid helplessly down the bedroom door until your ass hit the floor, breath knocked out of you in a pathetic tumble. From that angle—dear sweet God in heaven—you were face to face with his cock, inches from your line of sight, outlined brutally hard against the glossy stretch of black leather. The obscene proximity made your lungs seize, and with a choked, shaky gasp you buried your eyes into your trembling hands, as though you could erase the image by hiding from it.
“What?” The single word fell from him with a lilt of amusement, soft but heavy enough to vibrate in your bones.
Then his hand was in your hair, warm and deliberate, fingers combing gently through as he coaxed your head back up. Your fingers parted instinctively, splitting just enough for your eyes to peek through the slats you made. Oh God. You were staring up at him. At that. Dressed like a man-whore villain ripped straight from some sinful, dark fantasy novel, his chest bare and highlighted in the crimson glow, chains glinting faintly with every movement. And he was looking down at you with patience and affection, petting you. Petting you like some fragile little thing while you sat cowering on the floor in front of him.
And this man—this absurdly divine creature, sculpted like temptation itself—was supposed to be your husband in less than a year? You were going to marry him? The same Zayne who drank hot cocoa with you on the couch, who tied your shoelaces when you were too sleepy to bend down, who smiled at you like love itself lived behind his lips? It was too much. Too goddamn much for your poor, rattled heart.
You toppled sideways onto the floor, curling up into a pathetic ball with your knees tucked and your hands smooshed tight over your face. The gesture did nothing—absolutely nothing—to contain the sudden, hysterical laughter that ripped out of you. Loud, unrestrained, bubbling up until it filled the room, echoing over the music and red light, the sound of you unraveling in disbelief at the sight of your impossibly perfect, terrifyingly sexy fiancé.
“…What’s so funny?” You heard him ask, his voice pitched low with careful curiosity.
“I—” The word cracked into another helpless laugh. You couldn’t even string a proper sentence together, let alone drag your eyes up to him. Your shoulders shook, your chest heaving with hysterical little hiccups of laughter, “I—oh God, babe, why?!”
“Do I look ridiculous in this?” He sighed, and for the first time tonight his composure faltered. The softness in his tone was threaded with doubt, and the sight of him shifting his weight made your stomach lurch, “I knew it was too much. I’ll go take it off—”
“—No, no!” You practically screamed, your laughter cutting sharp into panic. You shot upright so fast your head spun, flinging yourself at him before he could take a step away. Your arms wrapped tight around his thigh, clinging like a dead weight, pressing your cheek into the unforgiving heat of his leather-clad leg.
The blush in your face burned so hot it felt feverish, and when you dared to look up, you found his expression just as flushed. His brows furrowed, his lips parted slightly, and one of his hands hovered awkwardly above your head as if he’d frozen mid-step.
“Don’t take it off,” you begged, your voice trembling with urgency. You adjusted, propping your chin onto his thigh like you were afraid he’d shake you off. Your eyes widened up at him, pleading, desperate, “no-no-no, don’t take it off, don’t take it off…”
His throat worked, and he blinked down at you, uncertain.
“Then—” He hesitated, his gaze darting away for a moment before returning to yours, steady but searching, “what are you laughing about?”
Oh God. How were you supposed to explain this? That he looked so ridiculously hot your body had simply short-circuited? That your only defense against the overwhelming cocktail of lust and disbelief was to laugh like an idiot? Mortification twisted sharp in your chest, tangled with giddiness that made you squeal inside like a lovesick teenager.
“Um… I—” The words tangled uselessly on your tongue, your pulse hammering harder under the weight of his gaze. You swallowed, throat dry, every inch of your body tightening with nerves, “I just…You look—” Your voice cracked, breaking into a whisper, “fuck, Zayne…”
He arched a brow, slow and deliberate, the curve of it so composed it only made your heart race harder.
“…You look so hot,” you finally peeped, voice small, embarrassed, your eyes darting away the second the confession left your lips.
“What?” His voice was calm, but firm, velvet lined with command, “speak up.”
You nearly toppled back down to the floor when he bent toward you, one gloved hand reaching down, hooking a finger under your chin. He tilted your face back up to his with ease, making you meet his eyes. The black leather gleamed faintly in the red glow, cold and smooth against your flushed skin.
“…You’re so hot,” you blurted, stupidly, helplessly, without a second’s thought. The words slipped free raw and unfiltered, and by the time you realized what you’d done, it was far too late to snatch them back.
Zayne’s eyes lit instantly, his composure softening into pleasant surprise, a glow of warmth breaking through his cool veneer. Your face burned hotter, impossibly hotter, your entire body feeling like it might combust under the way he looked at you now.
“…Oh,” he murmured, the single syllable colored with delight as he shifted toward you, his body angling closer, “…Do you really like it? Truly?”
You loved it. Loved every sinful inch of it. Hell, you wanted to spread your legs right there on the floor and beg him to take you. But your eyes betrayed you, sliding downward—down to the obscene bulge barely restrained in his pants, inches from your face.
Christ. The leather did nothing to hide him. His cock pressed thick and heavy against his thigh, the shape so clear you could see it twitch. The glossy fabric strained, hugging the swell of him like a second skin, and the sight alone had your mouth going wet. Heat pooled through you, sharp and unbearable, until you swore you were beginning to sweat under the red glow.
Your hand moved on instinct, almost without your permission, fingers creeping slowly up his thigh. The leather was smooth and hot beneath your touch, every shift of his muscles beneath it thrilling against your palm. You reached higher, until the tips of your fingers brushed the blunt head straining under the tight fabric.
You smiled up at him, wicked and desperate all at once, “fits you perfectly…”
But Zayne was quicker. His gloved hand caught yours, steady but unyielding, pulling it away before you could tempt him too far.
“Hold on, hold on…” His voice was calm, soft, threaded with that patience that made you want to scream.
He lifted you gently off the floor, setting you on your feet as though you weighed nothing. His hands slid to your shoulders, steadying you, before he turned, slowly spinning you to face the rest of the room.
His lips brushed close to your ear as he leaned in behind you, “you didn’t even look at anything else.”
It hit you all at once—the room itself, alive in ways you hadn’t noticed before. The overhead glow was gone, replaced with the wash of sultry crimson light that bathed every surface in warmth, deep and dangerous from the strip lights. Shadows flickered along the walls from candles set carefully around the room, their flames dancing with every whisper of movement. And the scent—how had you not registered it before? Jasmine, lush and intoxicating, curling into your lungs with every breath. It was romance, and danger, and hunger all at once.
Zayne’s hands were firm and guiding on your shoulders as he walked you slowly from behind, his body close enough that you could feel his warmth seeping through the bare skin of your back. Each step forward felt like sinking deeper into some fantasy he had carefully spun into reality just for you. God, he truly was a romantic. That thought alone nearly brought your knees out from under you again.
The bed sprawled large and inviting before you, scattered with rose petals so vivid they looked like spilled drops of wine against the dark sheets. A tray waited at the foot—your bowl of strawberries now joined by a folded towel, neat and deliberate, like part of some ritual. And then—oh God—the rest. Lined across the duvet like artifacts, gleaming in the red light, were the untouched treasures you’d bought together only two weeks ago. Things you’d giggled over in the shop, daring each other, imagining their use but not yet taking the leap. Until tonight.
The sleek black crop. The leather whip. And—oh God—there, bold and undeniable: the sub collar and leash. Beside them sat your little at-home clit vibrator, its innocent shape made obscene by context alone. Your breath hitched, your thighs clenching as a fresh wave of heat coursed through you. Oh yes. Tonight, you weren’t just going to be loved. You were going to be wrecked.
“Ta-dah,” his voice was quiet, unhurried, almost tender as he turned you, guiding your back toward the bed. His hands pressed gently but firmly on your shoulders until you sank down onto the mattress, rose petals crackling softly beneath you. He tilted his head, studying you in the low crimson light, “well? Is the mood to your liking? Does it make you want to finally start behaving better for me?”
Oh, it made you want to do lots of things for him. To him. Behaving wasn’t anywhere near the top of the list.
“Or…” His eyes glinted as he turned slightly, a deliberate test woven into the question, “does it make you want to be an even bigger brat than you already have been today?”
He moved toward the spread of toys at the foot of the bed, the candles making the gleam of leather and metal wink as though alive. Your heart stuttered when he reached for the collar and leash, his fingers smooth and sure as he lifted them. The faint clink of the buckle being unfastened sent a ripple of heat down your spine.
He walked back toward you slowly, each step heavy with purpose. The collar dangled from his hands, black leather gleaming in the red glow, a symbol of everything you’d been teasing him for, aching for. Excitement surged in your veins until you could hardly sit still. You smiled up at him, your lips parting, unable to disguise your hunger.
“Depends,” you whispered, voice sweet but electric with mischief, “what do I have to do to get that around my neck?”
He stopped in front of you, towering, the collar held steady in his grip. His expression softened with something you couldn’t name—affection, possession, reverence—and he stepped closer until the space between you seemed to vanish.
“What, your collar?” His voice dropped low, steady as a heartbeat, his eyes locked unblinking on yours. The leather brushed your collarbone as he brought it up, his knuckles grazing your skin, “nothing. You’ve already met the right requirements.”
Your heart raced at every brush of his fingers, each touch deliberate, claiming. Your knees squeezed together, trembling, your breath catching in shallow stutters.
“Which are?” You whispered, voice barely audible, as though afraid to disturb the gravity of the moment.
The click echoed in your skull, sharp and final as the buckle fastened snug at your throat. He slid two fingers between the leather and your skin, testing with careful precision, the cool press of his knuckles making you shiver. Satisfied, he hooked the leash to the ring at your collar, the metal clasp snapping closed with an intimate weight. And then he stepped back.
The collar sat heavy around your neck—not in discomfort, but in meaning. A tangible symbol of surrender, of trust, of the unspoken bond tying you to him. Your pulse thudded wildly beneath it, a drumbeat of submission and exhilaration. You stared up at him, caught between the soft curve of his smile—innocent, almost boyish—and the hunger written all over his body. That straining bulge, those taut lines, the restless energy radiating from him like static.
The air shifted, thickened. Something deeper curled at the edges of his expression. Darker. His gaze swept down your body in an unhurried drag, cataloguing every inch of you—the pert ache of your nipples, the curve of your hips, the fullness of your thighs. You felt flayed open under the weight of it, exposed and owned in equal measure.
“To be my pretty little pet rabbit,” he murmured, flicking the leash once, the leather taut against his fist. His voice was deceptively light, but the meaning was carved deep, “that’s all.”
The words hadn’t even finished sinking in before you felt the tug. A sharp pull jerked you forward, forcing you off the bed. You stumbled, breathless, following the leash until you collided abruptly with his chest. His free arm swept around your waist in the same motion, catching you, drawing you in so close you nearly folded against him. The movement almost dipped you, and the dizzying mix of control and tenderness made your head spin.
His mouth was on yours before you could recover, hot and demanding. The kiss stole the air from your lungs, flooding you with vertigo, your nails digging helplessly into the solid planes of his chest and the nape of his neck. He kissed you like a storm—consuming, overwhelming, claiming—until you swore you might melt into his arms completely.
And then, too soon, he pulled back. His lips parted from yours, leaving you panting, dazed, aching. His eyes softened for only a heartbeat, then hardened with something steadier, sharper. A look that made your stomach flip with equal parts fear and want.
“And maybe one more thing,” he whispered, voice still gentle, but lined with steel.
Your adrenaline spiked, heart kicking hard against your ribs.
“What?” You breathed, barely holding his gaze.
“I want you to be on your knees for me,” his eyes flicked pointedly to the floor, and in that instant everything changed. The atmosphere thickened, charged. He shifted, and so did you, your body instinctively tense and trembling under the new weight of his authority.
His hand rose, hooking a single finger beneath your collar. The leather bit lightly against your throat as he guided you down, steady but undeniable, making space on the plush rug so your knees wouldn’t bruise against the hardwood. The motion was effortless for him, commanding yet considerate, and the duality made your insides twist even tighter.
You sank lower, thighs already searing, the ache between your legs intensifying before your knees even touched the floor. Electricity zipped through your veins, every nerve alight with the thrill of surrender, your breath catching as you finally looked up at him from below.
“Oh, so that’s how I can get you to listen the first time,” Zayne mused, almost idly, his gaze flicking from your face to the leash curled in his hand. The quiet amusement in his tone was laced with something darker, heavier, “you’ve been so bad today, I started to think you only wanted punishment, not reward. You enjoy running your tongue, don’t you?”
Ah, yes…The words, the tone, the composure in his voice—it all made your pussy clench helplessly around nothing, fluttering with need. His calm only made you burn hotter, a cruel contrast to the chaos unraveling in your body. He reached beneath your chin, tilting your face higher, his thumb dragging slow over your lower lip. The touch was maddeningly tender, reverent, but you could feel the restraint coiled in it.
“I do,” you murmured, but your voice lilted with challenge as you slipped your tongue out, deliberately offering it to him like a brat showing off.
“Is that so?” His voice stayed soft, measured, but his hand guided you closer, pulling until your cheek brushed against the rigid line of his thigh. You were inches from the straining bulge in his pants, close enough to feel the heat radiating through the leather. The smell of him—warm skin, faint spice, something darker stirred by lust—wrapped around you, dizzying, “do you think you’ll get something for it other than leather marks and hand prints?”
Oh fuck. You couldn’t tell anymore what you wanted more—his cock driving into you until you broke apart, or his hand coming down hard until you learned how to behave. Both burned in you like fever.
“Maybe?” You offered, voice slipping into sweetness, batting your lashes as you dared a glance toward his cock. You leaned in, nuzzling against his thigh, edging yourself closer to temptation with a smile tugging at your lips.
“Hm….What do you think you’ll get?” His other hand slid up, palm cradling your cheek, steadying you in place as though he owned the angle of your gaze.
“Your cock,” you answered, the words escaping in a whispery rush, “since I’m so practiced…With my tongue.”
“I’m not thoroughly convinced. Nor do I reward bad behavior,” he said evenly, though you could see the faint curve of thought tugging at his lips. His eyes swept down your face with quiet authority as he mused aloud, “hm…Show me how much you want it. How well you can follow directions.”
Your breath stuttered.
“How?” You asked, lifting your cheek from the hard press of his thigh, eyes wide as you searched his face, “what do you want me to do?”
“Take half punishment, half reward,” his fingers gave the leash a gentle pull, drawing you closer by an inch. The leather creaked faintly, the sound making your heart thud, “lick. Run your tongue one more time, since you love to test my patience.”
Oh, he was killing you. You didn’t want games. You didn’t want teasing. You wanted him buried down your throat, raw and merciless, until you couldn’t think straight. You wanted him to fuck you out of your mind, no preamble, no restraint. But Zayne—your maddeningly patient, unshakably composed Zayne—had other plans. He always had to torment you first.
“You want me to lick you over the pants?” You whined, your voice pitching with disbelief as you stared at the shiny leather stretched tight around his cock. Even through the fabric you could see the outline, the thickness, the heavy press of it straining for release. Your lips parted, heat pooling in your belly at the sheer obscenity of it.
“Yes,” he nodded once, calm, decisive.
You groaned, the sound spilling from your chest in a mix of frustration and hunger, “but I want your bare cock already…Please?”
His head tilted, his gaze steady, “what do you want to do with it?”
The words rushed out of you, shameless, wrecked with need, “I wanna put it in me…”
“Mm,” his voice was soft, thoughtful, his hand lowering to stroke gently over your hair, “okay. And what do you have to do in order for that to happen?”
Oh, and how you melted. His palm—warm, steady, stroking you like you were delicate. The leash tugging faintly against your throat. The collar snug around your neck, the pressure reminding you who held you. The sheer submission and bliss of being on your knees, staring up at him while he looked down with that calm, affectionate authority. It broke something open in you, made your stomach twist with fire and sweetness at once.
You tipped your chin onto his thigh, your pouty lips grazing the heat beneath. Your hands fell limply over the sides of his leg as you looked up at him with wide eyes.
“Can’t we just skip to the fun part?” You whined, your voice thick with desperation, your pout turning into something shamelessly bratty.
“No,” he shook his head slowly, his gloved hand stroking through your hair, smoothing it back in a way that made your eyelids flutter half-shut. His touch was warm, soothing, tender—yet his words came steady, edged with iron, “what, do you think you can just bat your eyelashes up at me and pout your way out of this?”
You hesitated, biting back your grin before it spilled. But it was useless—the smile cracked through, sheepish and giddy, and you buried your face against his thigh as though the black leather could hide your expression, “I can try…”
A laugh escaped him—honest, candid, the sound sending a fresh flush of warmth to your cheeks. The moment you giggled in response, your forehead dropped fully against his thigh, blood rushing hot to your face. His hand petted the back of your head with affectionate fondness, his amusement clear in the way his fingers lingered.
“You can, and I have no objections,” he murmured, his fingers grazing over your scalp, slow and steady, “but it won’t work. I have to be firm with you. I know all of your clever little tricks by now…”
“Mmm,” you hummed, your smirk wicked as your hand slipped higher, fingertips trailing up the taut line of his inner thigh, “do you?”
His composure didn’t crack—but his patience sharpened.
“Young lady,” his tone dropped low, warning, as his hand snapped around your wrist.
He held you still, firm but not cruel, his other hand curling the leash into his fist. The leather flicked taut, pulling you back just enough to remind you of your place.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing?” His eyes fixed on yours, unblinking, “I told you to lick. I never said anything about touching.”
The calm in his voice was devastating, more damning than any raised volume.
“See? You’re still misbehaving. Actively misbehaving,” he tilted his head, studying you, “you enjoy this.”
You couldn’t help it—the laugh bubbled out of you, high and breathless, as your trapped wrist wiggled rebelliously in his hold, “ooh, you’re cute when you’re mad, Zaynie…”
The instant the words left your lips, your stomach dropped. Shit. You were going to get it now.
“Oh, I’m cute, am I?” His brows arched as he looked down at you from under those lashes, his composure razor-sharp, “let’s see how cute I am while I have you leashed.”
Your pulse spiked so hard you swore he could feel it against the leather strap. Your pupils blew wide, adrenaline flooding hot and dizzy into your bloodstream. He saw it. Of course he saw it—how much you were enjoying this, how much the threat itself made you quake. His gaze sharpened knowingly.
Then came the tug. A swift pull on the leash yanked you forward until your face was pressed up against the swell of his crotch, the rigid length beneath leather filling your vision. A startled gasp escaped you before you could stop it, your breath warming the shiny fabric stretched tight over him.
“Solve a conundrum for me, and maybe I won’t pull you up to your feet and bend you over the bed for a whipping,” he said, calm as ever, his voice threaded with quiet command that made the hairs at your nape prickle. His tone was soft, steady—but immovable, carrying weight enough to sink straight through you, “what does Y/n have to be for Zayne in order to get what she wants from him?”
You knew the answer. God, it was obvious. A good girl. His good girl. But your mind snagged, caught in the sinful tangle of his words. Zayne whipping you? The image alone made your body throb. And those pants—those impossibly tight leather pants—he’d be forced to keep them on even longer. Each passing second would drive him madder, hotter, his self-control a knife’s edge. He enjoyed this too, the hypocrite. Oh, he loved it.
“Hmm, let me think…” You tilted your head, feigning innocence that you didn’t feel for a second, “cute and needy?”
He let out a long, thin sigh, the sound edged with patience stretched taut. He knew exactly what you were doing. And God, that made it all the sweeter.
“Oh no…” You pressed your cheek against his thigh dramatically, your hand cupping his leg as though in mock despair, “was that not the right answer?”
“No, it wasn’t.”
His hand tightened on the leash, the faint tug of leather sharp against your collar. He began to pull you upward, his composure unwavering—until your panicked little voice cut through.
“Wait!”
Zayne paused, the leash taut between you, his gaze scanning over your sheepish expression with quiet precision. He didn’t say a word, but the weight of his silence pressed down on you harder than if he had barked a command.
“…You wouldn’t let me just…” You shifted closer, closer, until your lips hovered at the rigid bulge in his pants. Your breath spilled warm against the leather, each exhale fogging faintly on its surface, “…Take it back and redeem myself, right?”
Oh, you fucking tease. You let your lower lip drag, slow, deliberate, up the outline of his cock, tracing the defined swell of his head beneath the leather. The obscene act was enough to make even Zayne’s composure waver. You saw it—the crack in his stillness, the faint tremor that rippled through him, subtle but undeniable.
But before you could revel in it, his free hand threaded into the back of your hair, firm and unyielding. With one smooth motion, he guided you back up to your feet, denying you the chance to push further.
“It wouldn’t be very cute if I did,” his voice was steady, but the warmth in it was gone, replaced by something heavier, darker.
He stepped into your space, crowding you, making you back up with each advance. His hand slid up the length of the leash until his finger hooked into the ring at your collar, the cool leather biting lightly into your throat as he steered you. Step by step, he walked you toward the bed, every inch of your space consumed by him.
“Right?” The word rolled soft and final from his lips, yet it left no room for argument.
He spun you around so swiftly the air caught in your throat, and the next thing you knew, you were tumbling forward onto the bed. The mattress dipped beneath you as his body bore down, deliciously heavy. That giant frame caged you, his cock pressing hard and unyielding against the curve of your ass through leather, the weight of it unmistakable.
Your wrists were caught in one of his hands, both pinned easily against the mattress, in front of you. The pressure wasn’t cruel—it was simply immovable, the sure strength of a man who knew exactly how much control he held. With his free hand, he stroked your hair back, fingers threading gently behind your ear, tenderness contrasting the restraint. His mouth hovered close, his lips ghosting the shell of your ear, every word a rush of heat on your skin.
“When you’re ready to answer my question correctly,” he whispered, low and measured, “that’s when I’ll let you redeem yourself. And only then. Am I understood?”
The timbre of his voice, that deceptive calm, melted straight into your veins. You grinned against the sheets despite yourself, heat pooling low and thick inside you. His words alone set you aflame.
“Mm…Yes,” you breathed, your voice melting with delight, “yes, yes, if I must be punished, now, Doctor Zayne…”
“You must,” he affirmed, unflinching, the leash still taut in his hand. His weight pressed more firmly down as his lips grazed your ear, his voice velvet-wrapped steel, “you’ve been a very bad girl today.”
When he said it like that—calm, certain, commanding—you wanted nothing but to be bad. To tempt him. To test him. To see just how far his patience could stretch before it snapped.
He eased off you, and the mattress rose in his absence, leaving your skin tingling where his weight had been. You twisted to glance back, only to see him reach for the crop laid neatly with the other tools. Black leather, sleek and flexible, catching the red glow of the room as he turned it in his hand. With his other hand, he swept your hair aside, baring the elegant line of your nape and the soft plane of your back to him. The crop kissed your flushed skin and slid downward, unhurried, tracing the curve of your spine in a straight, deliberate line. Smooth, cold, it made every nerve beneath your skin twitch awake, goosebumps racing down your arms. You squirmed under the sensation, restless, already writhing for more.
Then came the first smack. Light. Sharp. Just enough to make your muscles jolt and your breath catch.
“Up on your forearms.”
You obeyed, propping yourself up with your elbows on the mattress. The shift tilted your hips higher, your back arched, your breasts hanging forward. And that’s when you saw it. The body mirror across the wall. Your own reflection stared back at you—flushed, bare, collared, your leash trailing, your ass arched just so. And behind you…Zayne. Chains glinting against his chest, leather hugging his body like sin, crop poised in his gloved hand. Your stomach flipped at the sight, a flush creeping higher up your throat.
He stepped back, admiring the view in front of him for a beat, before lowering the crop. You felt the cool tip snake downward, brushing between your knees. It trailed upward, slow, deliberate, along the soft inside of your thigh. The tease made you arch, made your hips wiggle, your body instinctively begging for more contact.
“Spread for me,” his voice was patient, almost gentle, but the repeated tap of the crop against your skin brooked no disobedience. You shifted your knees apart, inch by inch, until the sting of the taps stopped.
“Stop.”
Relief curled low in your belly.
“Good.”
You felt the crop drag upward, its leather tip tracing the back of your thigh, lingering as it slid over the swell of your ass. Slow, deliberate, taunting. Every inch of you tightened in anticipation. He was toying with you, savoring the power of the wait.
“I wonder how much you enjoy acting out,” Zayne mused, his voice calm, steady, a whisper that vibrated against your bones, “mouthing off…Just for my attention…”
Then came the thwack. The crop landed sharp and precise against your sex, a sting of leather that made you jolt, your breath hitching on a half-suppressed smile. Oh God—it felt good. Too good.
Before you could recover, he pressed the tip back to your cunt, dragging it slowly upward, spreading the wetness along your folds. The leather slid smooth, obscene, your body arching at the sensation. Fuck. Zayne was already driving you mad, and he had barely even started.
“Look at you, Miss Hunter,” he said slowly, almost clinical in his observation. His wrist rolled, smearing the evidence of your arousal with excruciating precision, “shh…Do you hear it?”
And you did. The lewd, slippery sound of your own arousal, magnified by the silence of the room, by the weight of his voice, by the mirror reflecting every delicious detail back at you.
“What do you suppose the sound of that is?”
“Wet pussy,” you giggled, unable to stop yourself, giving your hips a little shake, your ass wiggling back toward him in playful defiance.
He only hummed, unhurried. Then he lifted the crop into your line of sight, holding it up before you. The leather gleamed under the red light, slick and glistening, a mirror of your body’s betrayal.
“All of this,” he murmured, almost contemplative, “over testing my patience…”
His eyes flicked to yours in the mirror, calm but unreadable.
“I don’t know if I’m flattered or insulted, frankly,” he lifted the crop, bringing the center of its length before your lips, “won’t you hold this for me for a moment?”
You opened your mouth obediently, teeth parting as you let the leather slide between your lips.
“Good,” he praised, his voice low and certain. The single word sank into you like warmth, curling in your chest.
Your eyes flicked to the mirror just as he turned, reaching for the whip laid out neatly on the bed. He took his time, unhurried, testing the weight of it in his hand. The sound of the falls shifting against one another was soft but sharp in the quiet room, setting every nerve in your body on edge. He paced slowly behind you, back and forth, his measured footfalls nearly as maddening as the silence. Thinking. Contemplating. The deliberate calm of a man who never rushed, who knew the power of patience.
“What am I going to do with you?” He murmured, almost to himself, the words exhaled in a sigh that raised goosebumps along your arms.
Then he was close again. The air shifted with his presence, and a moment later you felt the soft tickle of leather falls spilling over your upper back. You shivered, the sensation featherlight but electric, every strand whispering against your skin.
He began to drag the whip downward—slow, meticulous. Each pass traced the length of your spine, the cool strands contrasting with the feverish heat of your skin. You trembled, your body arching subtly as though pulled by invisible strings.
“More,” he encouraged softly, and his free hand pressed firm between your shoulder blades, guiding you lower, “keep your thoracic still…”
His voice was patient, coaxing, but unyielding. The pressure anchored you even as the falls of leather slipped lower, pooling behind your waist.
“All I want is that arch in your lower back…”
You obeyed, adjusting with a shiver, your hips tipping higher, your ass curving perfectly into position.
He stepped back again to look, and the silence stretched, weighted with his appraisal. Then, a single word, spoken like a benediction, “beautiful.”
Then you felt it—the whip trailing lower, strands cascading over the curve of your ass, spilling like a dark waterfall between your cheeks, over the tender spread of your pussy. The touch was light, teasing, unbearably erotic. Oh fuck…That felt good. Too good. And then—
SMACK!
You jolted violently, a startled cry escaping as the sting bloomed hot and sharp across your ass. It burned, thrumming under your skin, precise as a blade. Zayne’s aim was flawless—nowhere near your sex, but close enough to make every nerve in your body stand on end. Apparently all those stories he told you about cracking his whip against evol-forged ice pillars in the Arctic hadn’t been exaggerations. That had been a clean strike.
“Pay attention,” his tone was maddeningly calm, as if he hadn’t just sent you jumping with a single lash. He wrapped the leather falls around his hand, winding and unwinding them idly, toying with the weapon like it was simply another tool in his surgeon’s kit, “I’m only going to give you instructions once.”
The whip unspooled again, hissing softly through the air.
“We’re going to play a game together. I ask, you answer. If you’re wrong…”
SMACK!
Another clean hit snapped across your other cheek, the sting blooming instantly, heat spreading under your skin. You gasped, your body jerking forward on your forearms as the throb reverberated through your core.
“..You get whipped.”
The whip fell silent, curling in his grip again. You panted, nerves blazing, waiting.
“If you’re right…”
His footsteps shifted. The sound of him walking away sent a cold thread of frustration through you—until you heard the faint clink of porcelain. He returned, bowl in hand, the rich scent of chocolate and strawberries spilling into the air. He placed it neatly on its tray at the edge of the bed, just in front of you. Just close enough to tempt. Just out of reach.
“…You get sugar,” his voice was smooth, almost indulgent, as he set the bowl down with precise care, plucking a single strawberry.
Then he reached down, taking the crop from your mouth with unhurried fingers, and set it aside. Your jaw felt empty without it, your lips tingling where the leather had pressed. He came to your side, the heat of his body brushing close as he lifted a chocolate covered strawberry to your lips. His gloved fingers cradled your jaw, gently turning your face toward him. You parted obediently, teeth sinking into the glossy fruit.
God, it was juicy. Sweet and tart at once, the coldness bursting against your tongue in contrast to the fever burning through your veins. Indulgent, decadent—and made ten times hotter by the way he fed it to you, by the quiet intimacy of it, by the way his gaze lingered as you chewed.
Through the mirror’s corner, you caught a glimpse of him stepping away. His reflection passed behind you, and then came the scrape of your vanity chair against the floor as he dragged it into place. The sound alone made your stomach knot. He positioned it directly behind you, close enough that you could feel the gravity of his presence at your back. He sat. You heard the creak of leather, the faint clink of the whip’s tails shifting in his grip. When you dared a glance in the mirror, your stomach dropped.
Zayne leaned back in the chair, his long frame sprawling with ease, a forearm draped over its back. From that angle, he had an unobstructed view—your body bent forward, your ass and pussy presented to him like an offering, bared and vulnerable in the red glow. Exposed like a heart on an open palm.
He ate the rest of the strawberry himself, lips closing around the fruit with maddening composure. You watched him chew, swallow, wipe his mouth casually against his gloved fist. Nothing hurried. Nothing indulgent. Just…Calm. Patient. Collected. A man plotting every move with surgeon’s precision.
“I trust you can handle that,” his words carried no question, only certainty.
The whip swung lazily in his other hand, strands hissing softly through the air as he tested its weight.
“Very well, Miss Fairy…” He leaned back further, settling in as though for a show, eyes never leaving the mirror where you trembled and waited, “let’s begin.”
“Wait,” you twisted your torso, looking back at him with wide eyes, “you can’t quiz me on hospital stuff or anything! That’d be cheating—“
SMACK!
You jumped, yelping as the whip landed sharply across your ass, the sting blooming hot and immediate. Zayne let out a long, weary sigh, his gloved fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as though your antics were giving him a headache. The annoyance etched in his brow made your stomach swoop, “amazing. You can be a brat without even thinking about it. Without even trying. Really, I’m impressed.”
You bit your lip against a nervous giggle.
He flicked his fingers, motioning curtly, “turn back around. Face the mirror again.”
You obeyed, repositioning yourself on your forearms, eyes locking on your reflection. Your ass still burned from the strike, heat radiating beneath your skin. Zayne’s reflection loomed in the chair behind you, whip coiled languidly in his hand, his expression infuriatingly calm.
“We haven’t even started yet, and you’re already making me whip you…” His voice was level, maddeningly patient, “and to think you really believed I’d give myself an easy win here by cheating…Where’s the fun in that?”
You swallowed, heat climbing your throat as you refocused on the mirror, wondering—half dreading, half excited—what he was going to ask.
“First question,” he began, “what was the first plushie I ever won for you?”
Oh. Oh! You knew this one! The memory lit up instantly in your mind, warm and vivid.
“Mister Fleecy,” you blurted proudly, grinning even as your body trembled from restraint.
“Correct,” Zayne rose slowly from the chair, unfolding his long frame with unhurried elegance. He came to your side, every step measured, whip dangling casually from one hand. With the other, he reached into the bowl, plucking out a ripe strawberry, “I won you Mister Fleecy at the Linkon Mall Arcade.”
The words were soft, almost affectionate, and when he brought the berry to your lips you parted without hesitation. The sweetness burst across your tongue—cold, juicy, indulgent—and your insides fluttered with more than sugar. He ate the rest himself, the quiet sound of his teeth piercing the fruit making you shiver. Then he turned back, strolling calmly to the chair, settling in again as though resuming a performance.
“Which brings me to my next question…” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, his green eyes catching yours in the mirror, “what date number was that night?”
Shit. Your confidence fizzled immediately, replaced with a panicked rush of memory fragments. It wasn’t the first. No—first was that coffee shop. Not the second either, that had been the riverside walk, right? And third…God, third had been sushi. Your stomach flipped. So what was the arcade then? Fourth? Or fifth? The pizza place was early too—was that fifth? Your mind spun, the red glow of the room pressing in around you as your pulse hammered. Zayne waited with infuriating calm, whip swaying idly between his fingers, his expression patient but unreadable. The silence was unbearable.
“…Date number five?” You guessed, hesitant.
SMACK!
You yelped as the whip cracked against your ass, the sting radiating through your skin.
“Wrong. It was our fourth date,” Zayne corrected, his tone maddeningly calm, almost instructional, “our fifth date was when I took you to Pepe’s Pizza Parlor and you proceeded to unscrew the Parmesan shaker and dump the entire contents onto your half of the pizza after I specifically told you not to. And then…” He let out a faint sigh, almost fond, “…You complained about your stomach the entire night until we came back to my house to get you some lactose pills.”
Oh. Right. How could you forget that? The way you’d stared him dead in the eye as you defiantly emptied the jar, covering your half of the pie in a snowfall of cheese. Zayne’s exasperation. His quiet warnings. And then, of course, the inevitable stomachache that left you curled miserably in his passenger seat. He’d driven you home for the first time that night, one hand steady on the wheel, the other brushing your knee between gentle lectures. He’d brewed you tea, found his little bottle of medicine, and sat with you until the ache passed. A doctor, even off duty.
“Ugh, I knew it!” You groaned, dragging your hands against the sheets, “that was my first instinct…I should’ve just gone with it. Whatever.”
“Next question, little mouse,” his voice slid smooth as silk, calm but edged with intent. The nickname curled around you, making your stomach twist, “what underwear were you wearing the first time we made love?”
Oh, shit. You remembered that one instantly. How could you not? It had been during that impossible stretch when you were going crazy with wanting him, when you’d been throwing yourself into pretty matching sets under your clothes every day just in case he’d finally give in. He never had. Not until that night. Not until a single chocolate liquor candy knocked his restraint just slightly askew.
You remembered how one moment you’d been laughing, kissing, teasing—and then you were at his place. His medical books swept off his table with one sharp shove, you perched on the cleared surface as he pressed between your thighs, his kisses turning frantic. You remembered the wall at your back as he held you up against it, your legs around his waist, his breath unsteady in your ear before he finally carried you to his bedroom. God, you could never forget. Every detail of that night was seared into your bones—the raw passion, the shattering of every boundary, the beautiful chaos of it. You didn’t just lose your virginities together. You destroyed them, your bodies claiming each other so completely there was no going back.
“It was a little light blue thong with the lace bralette,” you admitted with a breathless smile, the memory bubbling warm through you. A giggle slipped out before you could stop it, “I scrubbed every nook and cranny with exfoliating bath salt before I came over that day.”
Your lashes fluttered as you glanced toward him, watching as he rose from the chair and crossed to the bowl of strawberries with deliberate calm.
“…I was dying to sleep with you,” you admit.
“I know you were,” his acknowledgment was quiet, but sure, his tone carrying a weight of recollection that made your belly twist. He plucked a chocolate-covered strawberry from the bowl and returned to you, pressing the glossy fruit against your lips. You opened obediently, teeth sinking through the cold, sweet shell into the burst of tart berry inside. He held your gaze, steady and molten, as he added, “I could always feel it. You had this…Tension about you. And it made it so hard for me to control myself.”
A hum slipped from you as you chewed, your lips stained with chocolate, “I was starting to think you were gonna make me wait until marriage or something.”
That earned you a laugh—unexpected, candid, bright against the dim red glow. He leaned back into the chair again, whip still coiled loosely in his hand, the other holding the remainder of the strawberry, “we didn’t even wait that long. It was only a few months.”
“Yeah, of fucking torture!” You griped, spinning halfway toward him, your glare only half-serious as heat crept into your cheeks.
He chewed with infuriating composure, the corners of his mouth curving smugly as he swallowed. His eyes slid over you leisurely—your flushed face, the curve of your arched back, the rosy swell of your ass. The smirk deepened.
“Try being a man,” he pointed out, leaning forward toward the edge of the chair. His tone was quiet, unflappable, but the glint in his eyes betrayed the weight behind his words. One last piece of strawberry gleamed in his gloved fingers, “you have no idea how many times I had to relieve myself because of you.”
The cool, wet fruit slid suddenly against your overheated skin, pressing into the welted curve of your ass. The contrast made you jolt with a sharp inhale—cold sweetness dragged over searing heat, the sting of leather now kissed by sugar. Oh fuck. Your body shuddered as he shamelessly rolled the berry lower, wiping it slowly across your lips, collecting your slick like it belonged there.
“I’d always do it at home,” he continued evenly, as though confessing something as simple as the weather, “before I’d come spend the night. Or before you would.”
He leaned close enough that you felt the warmth of his breath fan over the wet trail the strawberry left behind, cooling it to a shiver.
His voice dropped, velvety and steady, “…So I could retain at least some of my sanity.”
The strawberry disappeared between his lips, his teeth piercing the fruit with a wet snap. You heard the sound of him chewing, the quiet swallow behind you.
“Ah,” he exhaled like a man savoring the last taste of something decadent, “perfect for my next question.”
You froze, every nerve straining to listen.
“Can you take one guess at what I fantasized about doing to you the most?” His words flowed soft as silk, but heavy as chains. The whip dangled loosely from his other hand, its leather whispering across the floor as he toyed with it, “since you have to guess…If you get it right, you get a surprise.”
A pause. His eyes caught yours in the mirror, molten and merciless.
“If you get it wrong…You get nothing,” he leaned back into the chair, composed as a king upon his throne, “not even a whipping.”
Oh, that one was easy.
“Let me guess,” you said with a little smirk, “eating me out?”
He hummed low in his throat, as if weighing the answer, then bent to press a slow, sticky kiss against the welted globe of your ass. A literal smooch. You gasped, the wet sound obscene in the quiet room, your cheeks burning hotter as he pulled back just enough to murmur, “be more specific.”
Oh, you knew. You knew exactly what he meant. The sensation of his tongue flicking out, warm and deliberate, lapping the streak of strawberry juice off your reddened skin made you shudder violently. He followed it with another kiss, exaggerated and lewd, as if savoring you. The indulgence of it made your insides clench with molten need.
“S-sitting on your face,” you whispered breathlessly, the words escaping you like a confession.
“You know me so well,” he praised softly.
His voice was velvet over steel, dripping affection and dominance at once. His hands spread you wider, palms pushing high on your cheeks, baring you to him completely. His face came closer, his breath searing across the wet heat of your exposed cunt.
“I would obsessively wonder,” he admitted, his tone lowering until it was almost reverent, “what you tasted like…”
The words alone made your core flutter, your body trembling on the edge of collapse just from his calm honesty. You felt it—the deliberate drag of his tongue, hot and wet, sliding along the slick seam of your folds. The contact was perfect and devastating, his need pouring into every stroke. A cry caught in your throat, trembling on its way out.
“I’d fantasize,” he sighed against you, the vibration buzzing through your swollen flesh, “about having my head crushed between your thighs…”
His hands moved lower, gloved palms heavy and possessive as they gripped the outer swell of your thighs. His touch was all-consuming, kneading firmly as though testing the strength of the muscles he craved to be trapped beneath. Slowly, he slid upward again, his grip spreading you open with obscene care. His fingers stretched over the curve of your ass, holding you wide, exposing you utterly.
“I’d go insane thinking about,” he murmured, “how warm and soft your thighs would feel…Smothering me from every direction.”
The confession made your stomach flip, your walls clench, your breath break. Then his lips closed around your clit, and the sudden suction tore a sharp whine from your chest, your hips twitching helplessly against the relentless heat of his mouth.
“Every time you wore those flimsy little shorts to bed,” he went on, licking with purpose, his tongue stroking fire into you with each pass, “every time you let them ride up and made me spoon you, I had to pray for strength,” his words fell between kisses, between hot, unyielding flicks of his tongue, each syllable a caress and a lash all at once, “you’d do it on purpose, wouldn’t you?”
The accusation curled like smoke into your ear, equal parts tender and damning. You did. God, you did.
“I did,” you admitted, the words tumbling out in a breathless rush as you arched back into his mouth, greedy for more, “I-I was dying for you to finally just bend me over and rail me.”
“Dirty girl,” his laugh was warm, indulgent, vibrating against your cunt as he suckled your clit one last time—slow, lingering, obscene in its tenderness. The sound that tore out of you bordered on a plea. But then he drew back, leaving your body aching, empty.
You whined at the sudden absence, your hips twitching in search of his mouth, “come back, Zaynie…”
But he was already moving. You heard the scrape of the chair as he repositioned it where it had been before, settling back into his seat with maddening calm. The faint creak of leather announced his weight, followed by the soft hiss of the whip unwinding in his hand.
“You’re hard to resist,” he confessed evenly, his voice steady but thickened with the edges of his own hunger.
He spun the whip once, lazily, the strands cutting the air with a sharp whoosh. The breeze of it kissed your heated skin, making you shiver, making your body light up all over again.
“But I won’t let you distract me,” his green eyes gleamed in the mirror, pinning your reflection, “I haven’t forgotten about our game. Or the directions you refused to follow that got you into trouble in the first place.”
Oh God. You almost had forgotten. That infuriating man—how dare he leave you like this, trembling and slick, only to return to his maddening patience?
“Next question,” Zayne said smoothly, his tone sharpening just enough to make your stomach flip, “we’re upping the stakes. A wrong answer will earn you a whipping session, longer, harder, until you can learn from your mistakes and correct your misbehavior. The right answer…” His lips curved faintly, knowingly, as he stood, “…Will let you skip to the fun part, like you wanted. How about it?”
“…Okay,” your pulse kicked hard, equal parts dread and thrill surging through your veins, “bring it.”
He stepped closer and leaned in, his presence blotting out everything else. One hand braced against the mattress beside you, steady and commanding, while the other brushed your hair back behind your ear. The touch was tender, intimate. Then his gloved fingers pinched your chin, not harshly, but firmly enough to lift your gaze up to his. His green eyes gleamed, patient yet merciless.
“Think hard,” he murmured, his breath warm against your ear, “what was the first bedtime story I ever read aloud to you at the hospital when we were children?”
Your chest tightened…Shit. There had been so many. Countless nights, countless stories. Your memory of childhood was spotty at best, fuzzy fragments blurred together. Your mouth went dry.
“…Was it about a boy trapped in a tower?” You guessed, voice small, hopeful.
Zayne’s sigh was long, feigned disappointment painted across his face, but you knew instantly you’d missed the mark. Shit. Wrong answer.
“I can’t believe you don’t remember such an obscure, specific old memory of our childhood,” he said lightly, straightening to his full, imposing height. His hand slipped from your chin, leaving your skin chilled in its absence. His voice was calm, too calm, carrying the exact weight of inevitability, “no, dear…That’s incorrect.”
You heard his footsteps behind you—slow, deliberate, each one dragging anticipation tighter through your body. The faint scrape of wood against the floor followed, the vanity chair pushed back with the nudge of his foot. He was making room. Not to sit back down. To keep standing. Shit. The whip hissed as he swung it lazily through the air, testing its weight, strands cutting the silence with a low whoosh. You watched him in the mirror as he took his place behind you, positioning himself at just the right distance. Tall. Composed. Predatory. His eyes flicked downward, focused with surgeon’s precision on the curve of your bare ass.
“It was about a wolf and a rabbit,” he reminded you, voice as steady as his grip.
The whip cracked down.
SMACK!
The strike landed across the round swell of your ass, sharp and searing. You yelped, the sound small but helpless, your body jolting forward against the sheets as heat bloomed in a hot welt. The sting lingered, spreading, biting deeper the longer it burned.
“I first heard it from my mom,” Zayne continued, his voice maddeningly calm as though he weren’t branding fire into your skin. He swung again, smooth and practiced, his movements efficient as a scalpel.
SMACK!
You cried out louder this time, your fingers knotting into the sheets, gripping so tightly your knuckles whitened. Every muscle in your body tensed, bracing for the inevitable, delicious next blow.
“And then,” he said, composure unwavering, “when I met you, the little girl who was afraid of me at first, you reminded me of it.”
SMACK!
The words landed as hard as the whip, weaving memory and punishment into one unbearable knot. In the mirror, you saw him: tall, devastatingly beautiful, his body loose with patience, his expression unreadable but for the sharp intent in his eyes. Utterly sinful. Utterly controlled. And you—arched, trembling, bared—his perfect target.
“A rabbit runs into a wolf in the snow. She’s certain he’ll eat her, because it’s in his nature to do so. Why wouldn’t he?” Zayne’s voice carried low and steady, even as his hand toyed with the falls of the whip, twisting the leather slowly between his fingers.
SMACK!
The strike cracked across your ass, sharper this time, biting down into skin already tender. A pained moan tore from you before you could swallow it, your knees buckling in, thighs squeezing tight as one foot lifted instinctively, toes curling. The sting spread molten through your nerves, but with it came a dizzying rush, endorphins flooding your bloodstream, numbing and heightening everything at once.
“The wolf had been wandering the wilderness alone,” he went on, as if lecturing calmly while you writhed before him, “without any company to keep his heart warm during the winter.”
He stepped forward, closing the distance until his body hovered close at your back. His hand slid over the welted curve of your ass, warm and grounding, before a cool rush ghosted over your skin. His evol—soft, delicate frost blooming across the sting—met the angry heat of your welts. Steam all but hissed between the extremes, relief pouring in so sudden it made your eyes sting with tears. The ache softened, dulled to a sweet throb, and his presence—solid, tall, unshakably warm—melted into you like shelter against the storm. He gave you a fond squeeze, affectionate in its claim, and you nearly broke from the juxtaposition of it: whip in one hand, tenderness in the other. Then he stepped back. The whip unfurled again.
“He tells the rabbit that he won’t eat her,” Zayne continued, his voice threaded with quiet inevitability, “and that he will keep her safe from the harsh winds…So long as she keeps him company. Until the snow stops. Until the winter passes.”
SMACK!
The lash landed harder this time, snapping fire across your already-burning skin. Your jaw dropped open, teeth clamping over your lower lip as a strangled cry escaped anyway. The sting was unbearable, exquisite, a heat so sharp it blurred into pleasure as the rush of endorphins surged higher, pulling you deeper, softer, floatier. Your head spun. Your body arched. The world shrank to the sound of his voice, the crack of the whip, and the overwhelming storm of pain and sweetness twisting together inside you.
“But long after the cold finally lifts,” Zayne went on, his tone unhurried, his voice wrapping around you like the steady warmth of a hearth, “they’re inseparable from each other.”
He swung the whip gently, not to strike but to let the weighted falls crest over your body before dropping them onto you with a dull, padded thud across your upper back. No sting this time—just the presence of leather, heavy and certain. He let it linger, dragging it slowly down your arched spine, following the dip of each vertebra with deliberate care. In the mirror, his eyes locked on yours, watching closely—the flush of your cheeks, the slack parting of your lips, the way pleasure and surrender tangled across your face. He was measuring you, making certain you were still swimming in bliss and not drowning in pain.
“He never eats her,” Zayne finished softly, the faintest trace of a smile touching his lips, “and she never lets him be lonely. The end.”
SMACK!
The final strike cracked across your ass, sharp and decisive, like punctuation at the end of his story. The sound echoed in the room, swallowed by your gasp, your body jolting forward against the mattress. And then silence. Your breath came hard, ragged, each inhale shaky as it tried to steady itself. Your skin was welted, burning in streaks that sang beneath the surface, but you felt…God, you felt high. Your body buzzed, every nerve fizzing with warmth. The edges of the world blurred, softened, colors hazing in the candlelight. It was as if you were melting into the mattress, your limbs heavy, your chest loose, your mind floating. Warmth and fuzziness wrapped around you like a cocoon, untethering you from everything but the lingering echo of his voice.
It was only after a long, suspended moment that you realized how deeply you’d collapsed onto your forearms, chest sagging against the bed, your head light and dreamy. Awareness returned in fragments—the cool leather still brushing your skin, the heat of your welts. Zayne had taken you exactly where he wanted you: pliant, floating, undone.
Hcame up behind you, the heat of his body engulfing yours as he pressed close. Oh God—every inch of you was alive, raw and trembling, your skin buzzing as though every nerve had been strung tight and tuned to him alone. The mere brush of him against you was enough to pull a moan from your chest, to make your body cave inward with want. Anything he touched, anywhere his presence pressed, it all made you ache to submit.
He curled himself over you, tall frame folding until you felt his breath fanning hot against your ear. His fingers trailed down the length of your arm, slow and claiming, before threading through yours and holding your hand against the mattress. That single gesture, so simple, so steady, had you melting, boneless in his grasp.
“What does Y/n have to be for Zayne to get what she wants from him?” He murmured, his voice warm velvet against the shell of your ear. The question. The very one that had set this entire storm in motion. The one you had refused to answer. The one you were desperate, dying, begging inside to finally give him now.
“A good girl,” you whispered, molten and small, the words spilling out of you like confession. Your insides clenched hot and tight at the admission, your body betraying how deeply it thrilled you to say it aloud.
Zayne sighed, long and low, like a man finally hearing what he’d waited for. His hips ground forward, rutting himself slowly against the curve of your ass, leather scraping across your hypersensitive skin. The friction drew a gasp from your lips, sharp and needy.
“Show me,” he breathed.
One arm wrapped solidly around your waist, anchoring you, lifting you with ease until your trembling body was pulled up with him. His hands moved everywhere at once, sliding over the slick heat of your skin, greedy but purposeful, until you were pliant and limp in his hold, strung up on nothing but obedience.
“I want to see you on your very best behavior,” he whispered, voice low but threaded with steel. His hand crawled up the front of your throat, steady and firm, until his fingers pinched your jaw. He guided your head back, flicking you around with practiced ease until you met his gaze—those green eyes staring down at you from above, molten and merciless, “you’re going to be so good at doing what you’re told this time, aren’t you?”
The question pressed into you like a brand, molten and binding, leaving you no room to be anything but his.
“Uh-huh,” you nodded, lids heavy, voice gone small and sweet.
Then, without hesitation, you slid down to your knees for him and faced him.
“Let me see your pretty tongue, now.”
You obeyed, opening wide, your tongue flicking out as he cradled your head back with one large hand. His gloved fingers pinched lightly at the tip, holding it still, inspecting it with maddening calm.
“Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?” He mused, speaking more to your tongue than to you. His voice was low, indulgent, like he was considering how best to wield a fine instrument, “I’m going to make good use out of you. Come closer…”
The leash tugged lightly as he coaxed you in. You leaned forward until your lips brushed the outline of him, dragging your tongue over the thick ridge that pressed so obscenely against his leather pants. He held you steady by the roots of your hair, guiding you along his length. The warmth of him radiated through the material, hard and straining, each pass across your tongue only making him feel larger. The sheer size of him—his cock looking downright obnoxious as it bulged beneath the leather—made your stomach twist with need. You couldn’t stop yourself; you suckled at the broad head where it pressed against your mouth, drawing a quiet sigh from him above you.
Then came the sound, slow, deliberate. The clink of his belt buckle coming undone, the pop of his button, the faint metallic zzzip as he drew down his zipper. You swore you could feel the relief in the air itself, the loosening of restraint. An undercurrent of urgency broke through his composure, subtle but undeniable. And then you realized—he had no underwear on at all.
Your eyes flicked upward at the same instant he reached a gloved hand into his pants. You saw the exposed skin above the base of his cock—taut, smooth, shaved clean over lean muscle. The sight alone made your breath hitch. Fuck. Looking was a mistake. Because the next moment, he freed himself, and your eyes were dragged back down to the thick weight of his cock inches from your parted lips. And when you looked up again, caught, you met Zayne’s eyes directly. His gaze pinned you in place, calm and molten, watching you as though he owned every breath you took.
“Come here,” he said softly, his voice coaxing yet commanding. His cock was heavy in his hand as he guided you closer, “stick your tongue out for me.”
You obeyed, lips parting, tongue extending for him, and then froze as he brought his cock down against it with a firm smack. Oh, fuck. Ohhhh, fuck. The blunt heat of him against your tongue sent a shock all the way down your spine, so hot and obscene you immediately tore your gaze away, cheeks blazing. You couldn’t look. You couldn’t look at his cock, couldn’t look at him, not with the way he was being so openly lustful, so shamelessly indulgent about you.
God, sometimes you cursed the fact that you were engaged to a man like Zayne. Sometimes, you almost wished he were just…Average. That his cock wasn’t thick and magnificent. That his body wasn’t sculpted like something out of myth. That his face wasn’t devastatingly handsome, his height towering, his presence so overwhelming. An average man, an easy man, someone who wouldn’t unravel you with a single look. But no. You hadn’t just gotten lucky. You’d been blessed—cursed, maybe—with a fiancé who was both the sweetest, gentlest soul you had ever known…And the most beautiful man you had ever laid eyes on. And in moments like this, it was too much. You couldn’t look.
“Look up at me,” his hand slid into your hair, gloved fingers curling firmly at the roots to tilt your head back. No escape. His green gaze caught yours, holding it fast, pulling you out of your bashfulness as easily as he’d leash a rabbit, “don’t be shy…”
His cock rubbed against the flat of your drooly tongue, the weight of it pressing down as he dragged the head slowly across the slick surface. The contact was filthy, humiliating, and so hot you felt your insides clench just from the sight of him. Fuck. You couldn’t help it—you were mortified by how hot he looked in that outfit. Mortified by how much you loved it. The black leather pants clinging to his hips, now slouched lower. The chains draped across his muscled chest, catching the red light with every subtle sway. The ridges of his abs shifting with each controlled breath. And then there was his cock—thick, flushed, impossibly heavy in your mouth as he slowly guided himself between your lips.
Your cheeks burned crimson as you sealed your lips around him, suctioning tight. The embarrassment only made it hotter—the way you had no choice but to look up, meeting his stare as he pressed deeper, making your tongue flatten beneath his weight.
“You were so brave a moment ago,” he murmured, his voice dipping with velvet cruelty as he pulled free with a wet pop. Strings of spit glistened between you before he slid back in, slow, filling, deliberate, “what happened to that, hm? Can’t put on a front while you’re down on your knees with my cock in your mouth, can you, love?”
Godddddd. Hearing him talk dirty, hearing that rare lust bleed into his words, set your insides ablaze. His teasing, his taunts, his control. The way he asserted himself over you with nothing more than his tone and the way he handled your head. But you weren’t about to let Zayne win yet. Not without a fight.
Your hands slid slowly up the firm lines of his thighs, savoring the way the leather stretched over his muscle. You planted your palms high against him, steadying yourself, before inching him deeper into your mouth. Hollowing your cheeks, you wrapped him in wet suction, rolling your eyes back with theatrical bliss as your jaw began to ache from accommodating his size. It was obscene. Shameless. A display meant for him alone, his eyes catching every lewd angle as your lips stretched around him. All for him to watch.
Zayne groaned low in his throat, the sound thick and unguarded, as his head tipped back with momentary bliss. When his gaze returned to you, it was softened with something more than lust—something tender, reverent. His gloved fingers stroked your hair back over the crown of your head, smoothing each strand as though you were delicate even now. He cupped the back of your head in his palm, steady and warm.
“Good girl…” He praised, his voice hushed, molten, “you’re being so sweet for me…”
The words made your chest squeeze, made your thighs press together as a pulse of heat bloomed deep in your core. The leash flicked again, leather coiling over his fist as he kept it taut, tethering you to him. Each bob of your head fell into the rhythm of his guidance—the slow, steady pressure of his hand controlling your pace, controlling you. And God, it made you weak. How were you supposed to tease, to brat, when he made surrender feel like this? Your knees felt boneless, your body melting, the ache between your legs sharpening into something desperate.
Then his hand shifted. His grip on the collar stiffened, steadying it firmly in place. When you tried to withdraw, the pressure at your throat held you still, denying you escape. Your eyes flew up to him, startled, pleading, your lashes wet.
“Deeper for me,” he coaxed softly, unhurried. The leash tightened by a subtle pull, his other hand guiding at the back of your head, drawing you closer with tender inevitability. And you obeyed. Inch by inch, you took him deeper, the stretch thick and unrelenting. Your brows knit together as your throat opened around him, your lips sliding lower until the weight of him pressed into you fully.
He watched you closely, every twitch, every breath, every shift of your body. Not to punish, but to guard you, to savor you, to take you exactly to the edge of your limit without ever letting you break. And then he was there, buried in your throat. The sensation overwhelmed—his heat, his weight, the impossibility of his size filling you until tears pricked your eyes and your body quivered with the raw intimacy of it.
“Squeeze your thumb,” his voice was calm, measured, the tone of a man guiding rather than demanding. His free hand pried gently at yours where it clutched his thigh, folding your fingers into a fist, balling it for you, “deep breaths…Keep your eyes on me. Don’t look away.”
You obeyed, pressing your thumb tight into your palm, grounding yourself the way he’d taught you. The air trembled in your chest as you drew it in, shaky but obedient, filling your lungs around the thick weight filling your throat. His hand stroked back through your hair once more, the gentleness of it pouring honey over steel.
“Good girl,” he praised, voice velvet. The contrast melted you further, made you ache to please, ache to hold still for him.
A small sound, half whimper, half moan, spilled from you around his cock as your throat stretched, tears pricking hot at the corners of your eyes. Your lashes fluttered, vision going glassy as you blinked up at him. Each swallow, each gag-threatening tremor only seemed to pull his gaze tighter onto you. And God—he looked so good like that. Staring down at you with that reverent ownership in his eyes, like you were something sacred and obscene all at once. His hand smoothed your hair back again, tender, affectionate, betraying the firmness of the other that gripped your leash. The leather hung taut, just high enough for you to see it wrapped over his gloved fist in your periphery. A reminder. A promise.
“Eyes on me,” he whispered again, the command soft but irresistible. His hand slid from your hair to your cheek, the leather of his glove brushing tenderly across your flushed skin as he coaxed your gaze back to his. You obeyed, blinking up at him through tears, and his mouth curved faintly into a smile—subtle, reverent, as if he were drinking in the sight of you.
His eyes traced every detail: the glassy sheen of your lashes, the wet shimmer clinging to your parted lips, the helpless drop of your jaw. His gaze dragged downward, lingering over the proud arch of your bare breasts, your nipples stiff and begging for touch. Then to your trembling hand clutching the meat of his thigh, the other clenched in a fist just as he’d instructed, pressed against him like a desperate talisman.
“You’re such a good pet, pretty girl,” he murmured, his voice low, weighted with praise. His hand returned to stroke the crown of your head, petting you with deliberate tenderness. The gesture made your knees weaken, a warmth spreading through your belly and between your thighs, threatening to drop you limp to the floor, “look at you…Following orders, behaving…Keeping my cock warm in your tiny little throat…”
Your throat spasmed around him, a helpless swallow at the saliva pooling in your mouth. The sudden clamp of your muscles drew a guttural moan from him above you. The sound burned into your veins. You gagged lightly, your body twitching, a strangled whimper bubbling around his cock.
“What, too much?” His hand guided his cock partly back, sliding from the tight clutch of your throat, granting you air, granting you relief. His thumb brushed carefully beneath your eye, catching your tears with infinite gentleness, “poor baby…”
It wasn’t mocking. Wasn’t cruel. The way he said it made your heart ache, his voice soaked in love, reverence, worship. His gaze softened, his chin tipping lower, brows raised slightly in question. He hushed his voice into a whisper, so intimate it was for you alone.
“Do you want me to fuck your mouth instead? Hm?” His thumb smoothed your cheek again, his eyes searching your face as if every micro-expression mattered, “would that make you happy?”
“Mhmm,” you hummed over his cock, helpless, drooling, swallowing around the thick weight still heavy on your tongue.
Zayne withdrew slowly, giving you space, his hand shifting to cradle your jaw as though you were fragile glass. He studied you with patient intensity—your spit-slick lips parted and glistening, your lashes heavy over hooded eyes, the bright flush spread high across your cheeks, the rise and fall of your chest as your breasts strained with each breath.
The leash tugged gently, coaxing you closer until your cheek rested against the firm plane of his thigh. He stroked your head, petting over your hair with tender rhythm, grounding you with every pass. You blinked up at him, wide-eyed, undone, the picture of surrender. That helpless look of submission—God, it wasn’t even something you tried to wear. It just happened when he treated you like this.
Because in his hands, with his voice wrapping around you, you felt so wholly taken care of. So spoiled. So loved. His words, his touch—they stripped you down to something simple, something precious. You weren’t bratting, weren’t testing. Not now. You were his personal little pet rabbit, curled up obediently at his feet, basking in the warmth of his control.
“Use your words, dear,” his tone was soft, loving, his thumb brushing circles into your scalp as though urging you gently awake, “I want to hear you ask for it yourself.”
You hesitated, but only for a breath. The bashfulness was just that, bashfulness, a blush over how good it felt to want him this openly. To let the words fall unguarded.
“Can you fuck my mouth, please?” You asked quietly, the plea slipping out molten, naked, shameless in its need.
God, who even were you? One soft question from him, and you melted into this—pliant, needy, shamelessly submissive.
He smiled at your words, a smile steeped in pleasure, in satisfaction, “and would that make you happy?”
Your chest fluttered, your insides clenching. How could he make you fall so easily, so willingly, every single time?
“Yeah,” you breathed, nodding against his thigh, nuzzling into the firm muscle like a rabbit burrowing for warmth, “it’d make me very happy…”
And God, he looked at you then like you were his entire world. Enamored. Pleased. Lust shining beneath the softness, burning brighter with every heartbeat. He lifted your chin from his thigh with deliberate care, guiding you until you were positioned squarely in front of his cock. He gripped himself by the base, his other hand sliding to the back of your head, warm and steady, holding you like something precious. Your lips parted for him instinctively, the leash swaying faintly beneath your collar as it fell, as though tethering you to the moment itself.
“Wider,” he coaxed, his voice low, unhurried.
You obeyed, jaw falling open, eyes wide as you looked up at him through glassy lashes. His cock hovered within an inch of your lips, so close you could taste the heat radiating from him.
“Very good…” He murmured, approval lacing the words, and God, that praise melted you deeper than the sting of the whip ever could.
He slid into your mouth slowly, savoring the wet heat of your lips sealing around him—then withdrew fully, his cock slipping free with a wet, obscene pop. The sound made your cheeks burn, your stomach tighten. And then he was back again, pushing forward, filling your mouth, only to retreat once more. Again. And again. Each push and pull built into a rhythm, steady at first, deliberate, then quickening as your own body fell into sync with his. Your hands slipped around to the backs of his thighs, grasping him with hungry need, anchoring yourself against the rhythm of his thrusts.
That simple gesture, your fingers clutching him tighter, lit something in him. A ragged, breathy groan escaped his chest, his fist tightening in your hair. The pressure was firm, guiding, but never cruel. Still, it anchored you in place as he began to move faster, driving his cock deeper with every stroke. The rhythm sharpened: hollow and pop, hollow and pop, wet suction clinging and releasing, your cheeks sinking in, your lips shining.
“Tongue out,” he ordered huskily, pulling himself free with a sharp inhale, his cock gleaming with your spit. He guided your head lower, his grip directing you to the base, “lick it from bottom to top.”
You rolled out your tongue long and flat, the warm breath of your exhale ghosting over his skin as you pressed the tip to the root of him. Slowly, obediently, you dragged upward, lapping along the thick length of him. His hand fisted tighter in your hair, guiding you, while his other hand steadied himself, holding his cock for your mouth. His hips angled out, his eyes never leaving you as you worshipped him with long, deliberate strokes of your tongue. Again and again, you licked from base to tip, painting him with your spit like he was something to be savored.
Zayne’s face was a portrait of heaven undone, lust and tenderness colliding. His pupils were blown wide, his jaw slackening, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard against the groan threatening to escape. He looked utterly enthralled, utterly yours even as he held you captive on your knees. Then, with a shiver of impatience, he reached for the waist of his loosened leather pants. His gloved fingers trembled faintly as he tried to shove them further down, fumbling with one hand while the other refused to release its hold on you.
You released his thighs and helped him, your fingers urgent as they hooked beneath the leather and pulled them down, inch by inch. The slick material clung stubbornly to his skin before sliding lower, over his knees, until he shifted his weight onto your shoulder to step free. You steadied him, guiding his balance, before he kicked them aside. Your hands instinctively returned to his thighs, anchoring yourself against him, when he brought his cock back to your lips with that steady, irresistible pull.
“Again,” he whispered, the single word ragged with restraint as he guided himself in between your lips, “let me feel the warmth of your mouth…”
You obeyed, swirling your tongue around the swollen head, savoring the taste of him, the salt of fresh precum blooming sharp and hot across your taste buds. Then you drew him in deeper, lips sliding past your cheeks, sucking hard as the thick weight filled your mouth. You repeated the motion, deliberate and languid: swirling and sucking, swirling and sucking, each rhythm tighter, wetter, more devoted. A groan broke from him, low and raw, his composure fracturing as the need in his voice bled through.
“Oh, fuck…Just like that…” His head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat as his lashes fluttered shut, his breath shuddering toward the ceiling. His hand in your hair tightened, not cruel, but desperate, steadying himself against the dizzying rush of pleasure.
His other hand reached for yours, pulling it higher, coaxing your touch up his body. You spread your fingers wide, tracing the deep cut of his pelvic line, mapping every tense muscle with reverent care. His abs flexed and shuddered beneath your palm, taut with need, each ridge of him begging to be touched. And Zayne—God, he leaned into it greedily, taking every stroke of your hand, every slide of your mouth, as if he couldn’t get enough of you.
“You’re so good with your mouth,” he breathed, the words rough and reverent all at once, “it’s criminal…”
You were a mess. A horny, desperate mess between the velvet weight of his cock filling your mouth, the molten praise dripping from his lips, and the sight of him—God, him. The hard cut of his pelvis guiding your hands like rails, the ridges of his abs tensing and shuddering with every breath you wrung out of him. His stomach fluttered, the faintest tremor betraying just how much control you were stealing from him.
You gave in to the ache in your hands, to the greedy need to feel every inch of him. Your hand rose to explore, splaying over the sculpted lines of his torso, fingers tracing upward as though memorizing him by touch alone. You felt his upper abdomen rise sharp against your palm as you worked him into your throat, your mouth and hands conspiring to undo him completely. The sound he made in return, a moan, ragged and low, shot straight through your spine. His fist tightened in your hair, hips rolling as he fed himself deeper into your mouth.
“Take more of me, baby,” he sighed, his words trembling on the edge of composure. His features were pleasure-flushed, green eyes blown as he watched you, completely undone, “I know you can…”
Fuck. You couldn’t resist. You couldn’t even think about being bratty when he looked like this—so breathtakingly gorgeous, his composure fraying, his control cracking open under the weight of your devotion. A moan hummed through your throat, vibrating along his cock as your hands wrapped tighter around his hips. You pulled him closer, squeezing, urging him deeper, greedy for him.
He gasped, the sound sharp and guttural, and you almost choked. Your throat clamped, your eyes watered, but you forced yourself to fight it down. You bore it willingly, desperately, because you saw what it did to him. The ecstasy it lit across his features, the bliss of feeling your need, your compliance, your hungry demand for him.
Zayne’s hand closed around the leash again, his gaze flicking past you to the bed in one quick calculation, “come here…”
He stepped back, leather whispering as he flicked the leash tight around his fist. The line snapped taut, pulling you forward with undeniable force. You clung to his thighs for balance, but your mouth never left his cock, lips still sealed around him as he moved you where he wanted. Dear God. He was literally pulling you on a leash and collar—walking you across the floor on your knees while you sucked him off. The mortifying devotion of it only made your arousal spike, hot and wild, spilling into a needy moan that vibrated down his length. Each step he took forced you to shuffle forward, your body surrendering to his lead as he moved with you tethered to him, obedient and hungry.
“Good little pet,” he praised, his voice breathless with pleasure, the words slipping out like reverent sighs. He backed himself toward the tall bed, the carved wood pressing at the backs of his thighs, “come, get up on the bed.”
The leash drew upward, summoning you from kneeling. You obeyed instantly, rising for him. But before you could climb up, his hand yanked you flush against his body. His mouth crashed into yours in a kiss so sudden, so passionate, that it stole the air from your lungs. Dizzying, dizzying—your head spun as he kissed you like he was starved, his lips greedy, his tongue claiming, his breath hot and unrelenting. His hands were everywhere at once, cupping your breast, squeezing your ass, stroking your cheek as though he couldn’t decide what to touch first, what to own first. You clutched at him in return, lost in his heat, drowning in his hunger.
And then—just as abruptly—he broke away, dragging in ragged air as though he’d forced himself to stop. His hands swept down, catching your hips, and in one smooth motion he swung you around. The world tilted, and then you were lifted—hauled easily onto the bed beneath his towering frame.
“Lay down. Face up,” Zayne instructed softly, his tone calm but threaded with a need that burned through the steadiness, “just like this…”
You didn’t question. Didn’t hesitate. You only followed, your body yielding to his every word like it was instinct, like you were born for obedience under his hand. The urgency in his touch gave you no room to think—only to respond. He reached over you, his tall frame eclipsing the candlelight as his hands slid firm around your sides. With a swift pull, he dragged you down the mattress, positioning you exactly where he wanted. Your head tipped over the edge of the bed, your hair spilling down, the room suddenly tilting in your vision.
Oh God. Your pulse spiked. Then his hand came, careful, steady, cradling your skull until your neck rested in the angle he wanted. Not harsh, not careless—he adjusted you like something precious, his palm under your nape until the stretch was just right. Comfortable. Sustainable.
He didn’t need to tell you what came next. You figured. You knew from the hungry flicker of his gaze, from the way his eyes lingered on the elegant column of your throat, from the way his cock twitched heavy in his grasp as he stood over you. The anticipation made your pulse hammer harder against the very place he stared at, your veins singing with adrenaline. Zayne’s fingers brushed the latch at your collar, unclicking the leash with a muted snap. The leather strip slid away, discarded for now, the weight of it gone. But you didn’t feel free. No—you felt tethered more tightly than ever by the intensity of his focus, by the inevitability of what he was about to do with you, to you.
“Do you trust me?” He asked, his voice quieter than candlelight, reverence softening every syllable. His hand glided down the elegant stretch of your throat, pausing briefly at the base before trailing lower, settling between your breasts. His palm lingered there, warm and heavy, before he traced back up, fingers curling to squeeze the tender weight of one breast. He leaned to the side, angling himself so he could see your face from above, needing your answer.
“I do,” you breathed, your upside-down view of him only making him look more impossibly beautiful. You reached for him weakly, tugging him closer with your eyes, with your body, with every ounce of trembling devotion you could give.
Zayne’s hand spread over your throat again, holding you steady, reverent but firm. His other guided his cock down, angling to your waiting lips. And then—ecstasy. He slid in carefully, deliberately, the blunt head parting your mouth, pushing over your tongue, filling you inch by inch. His breath caught, his jaw tightening, as though he was holding it all in, his restraint, his hunger, his reverence, just to make sure he didn’t hurt you. Only when the thick weight of him pressed lightly against the back of your throat did he exhale, a shaky release that made your heart stutter.
He didn’t move right away. He stayed there, steady, testing the depth, letting you adjust, his thumb brushing along your jaw like a grounding tether. The stretch burned in the sweetest way, your throat fluttering, the weight of him making your eyes water, your body arch.
And then his voice—low, coaxing, molten: “spread your legs and play with yourself.”
Your stomach clenched at the command just as he reached off to the side, his focus never leaving you. A moment later, something small and familiar was pressed into your hand. Your toy.
He closed your fingers around it, his touch steady, deliberate, “I want to watch you in the mirror…”
Oh, good God—your sinful, sinful devil. The realization hit you in a rush: the tall mirror closet directly before him, at the other side of the room, beyond the bed. He’d angled you on purpose. Your fiancé was about to fuck your throat while watching you touch yourself, every obscene angle reflected back at him. The thought alone made adrenaline roar through your veins, so sharp and hot it almost knocked the breath from your lungs. Mortification tangled with hunger, and it left you trembling. Because if Zayne was this insatiable, this shameless, then what did that make you, flushed and needy at the very thought of it?
Your thighs fell open, baring yourself to him in the mirror’s glow. The toy buzzed softly as you switched it on, the vibration humming through your hand. His sigh followed immediately, quiet but edged with need, when you dragged it down your belly. Slowly. Deliberately. You teased him cruelly, skipping where you both knew you wanted it most. Instead, you pulled it down the soft inside of your thigh, letting the hum linger there, exaggerating every movement for his eyes. Putting on a show.
“You minx,” he whispered, the word breaking out nearly breathless. His hands slid beneath your head, lifting and cradling it with reverence, his fingers tangling in your hair as though he needed both control and closeness at once, “don’t test my patience while I have you like this…”
Then the pressure at your throat shifted, his cock pushing deeper—not cruel, not punishing, but enough to make your body spasm around a gag. The sudden choke left your lashes wet, your chest shuddering, your throat stretched and clenching around him. It was gentle. Deliberate. Measured. He was reminding you without hurting you, staking claim with precision.
His voice dropped low again, quiet and molten against the heat of your skin, “be a good girl for me and put the vibrator over your clit, Y/n.”
Oh God—his tone, your name, the weight of it rolling off his lips. Fuck. You didn’t even fight it. Couldn’t. Not when every nerve in your body was alight with arousal, every breath steeped in exhilaration, every part of you trembling under the sheer gravity of his control. His power. His restraint.
Your hand obeyed without hesitation, sliding the toy lower, lower, until it pressed between your slick folds. The silicone glided easily, coated with your wetness as you dragged it over yourself, circling your swollen clit. The vibration jolted through you like a live current, and a moan spilled unbidden from your chest, muffled, desperate, around the thick weight of his cock filling your mouth. The sound of it, the sight of it, broke him.
“That’s beautiful,” he said, and it wasn’t casual—it was raw, aching, reverent. His voice fell down over you as though trying to brand the moment into eternity. He was watching you, watching your lips stretched around him, your throat opening for him as he withdrew with slow precision, only to press back in again, testing you, savoring you.
“God, you’re beautiful, angel…” A moan rattled out of him, low and guttural, as his composure snapped thread by thread.
His sanity, his control, both frayed by the impossible sight before him: you, undone beneath him, pleasuring yourself while he owned your mouth. His hips began to move with greater purpose, slow plunges into your throat, measured yet relentless. Each slide pushed him deeper into you, each retreat coated him with your spit before he sank into you again.
“I wish you could see how pretty your neck looks like this,” he whispered, and the words were a blade of love, cutting through the filth with tenderness so sharp it nearly broke you. His fingers tightened around your head—not cruel, but steady, cradling, holding you as though you were both fragile and unbreakable all at once.
“God…” His voice cracked, thick with awe, “…I don’t even know where to look.”
Another moan tore from deep within him—ragged, guttural, so raw it vibrated through his chest. Zayne sounded like a man at war with himself, fighting tooth and nail against the primal urge to lose all restraint, to plow through you and empty every ounce of himself down your throat.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, voice cracking with need. One hand stayed knotted in your hair, but the other slid lower, wrapping firmly over the front of your throat. His palm pressed warm and solid against the very place his eyes had lingered on before, fingers spanning the elegant column of your neck as though it belonged only to him. “This is so erotic…”
God, was it. The obscene intimacy of it, the way he touched you with both ownership and awe—it made you burn from the inside out.
“Deeper,” he coaxed, his voice hushed and reverent, a plea and a command in one, “let me feel more of myself inside your throat…”
Your lashes fluttered. You drew in a sharp breath through your nose, steadying yourself, remembering the little trick he’d taught you—fist your thumb, ground yourself, and breathe through your nose. You obeyed, lips stretched wide around him as you let yourself relax, surrendering completely. Oh God. Ohhh, God. This position opened you to him in a way nothing else had before. With your head tilted back over the bed’s edge, gravity and his careful control aligned. He inched deeper, slow and patient, testing the limits of your throat. Each push was deliberate, calculated, as though he were guiding you through it step by step.
And then—you felt it. The weight of him pressed so far down your throat that the blunt head nudged low, brushing where no one should ever be able to reach. And Zayne felt it too. A shudder ripped through him, his groan cracked open into something desperate, broken. His palm tightened faintly against your throat, and you realized in a rush of dizzy arousal, his cock was pressing so low inside you that he could feel himself through the barrier of your flesh, pulsing against his own hand beneath your collar.
“Oh my God…” The words cracked out of him, jagged and trembling, “I don’t know what you’re—doing to me—I don’t—fuck…!”
He could barely speak. Barely string words together under the weight of it. And that—hearing him reduced to broken fragments of sound, a man usually so precise, so composed—sent molten heat straight to your core. You pressed the toy harder against your clit, circling, grinding, wanting to give him everything, wanting to feel everything as he lost himself above you.
“I’m not sane anymore…” He mumbled, half to himself, half to you, the words dissolving in a haze of pleasure. His voice was distant, wrecked, as though his thoughts were spilling unchecked from his lips, “you’ve ruined me…”
Slowly, agonizingly, he withdrew. The wet drag of his cock pulling free from your throat was almost as obscene as the weight of it. His breath caught, shuddering, before he pushed back in, careful but relentless. And then the sound—the deep, broken moan that tore out of him when he felt it again. The moment his cock pressed low enough inside you that his palm registered the blunt head pulsing against your throat. You gagged faintly, your body jerking, but you took it. You fucking took it. And Zayne came undone. You’d never seen him like this. Never heard him like this.
The man was right. He was utterly wrecked—far beyond the meticulous surgeon, the protective fiancé, the patient, careful lover you once knew. You’d corrupted him, pulled him under into filth, into sin. You’d broken his mind and shown him how much he craved it. Tonight, you’d dragged him deeper into obscenity than even that first time you two had explored bondage and toys together. And it was the hottest side of him you’d ever witnessed. Dominant, yes—his control still iron around you—but utterly stripped bare, undone beneath it. Filthy. Soiled in pleasure and sin in a way you both knew there would be no return from.
And God, you didn’t want to return. You loved it. You loved him. Because this wasn’t just sex. This was two people horrifically, desperately, beautifully sick in love with each other—ruining each other and clinging tighter with every fall.
Zayne slipped his cock from the clutch of your throat, his hand leaving your neck to return to the other beneath your head. Both palms cradled you once more, steadying, as though he needed to remind himself that even like this, especially like this, you were precious. He eased back, slow, deliberate, until at last you felt the hollowed pop as his cock slid free of your lips, your spit webbing between you before breaking.
He stared down at you then, chest rising hard, his gaze devouring you. Your face was flushed and wet, your lips swollen, strands of hair plastered to your damp temples. Pleasure painted you in strokes of debauchery, and for a moment, it looked as though the sight was too much for him. His jaw tightened. He had to turn his face slightly, as though looking directly at you would set him aflame.
“Damn it,” he cursed under his breath, his voice raw, strained. His hand wrapped around himself again, cock twitching in his grip as he guided the tip back to your spit-slick lips, aligning with you just as you caught your first steady breath. His composure cracked open further, his confession slipping free before he could stop it, “you’re enjoying it just as much, aren’t you?”
Your answer was helpless, honest, unashamed.
“Mmhmm…” You hummed around him, your throat vibrating as the blunt head of him pushed back past your lips.
His hands closed firmly around your head, cupping your face in his palms, holding you steady as he drove forward—not into the dangerous depths of your throat this time, but just enough. He thrust shallowly, filling your mouth, his cock slipping over your tongue and pressing just inside the entrance of your throat. Easy to take. Easy to allow without the threat of gagging. His rhythm built, unhurried but insistent, his groans spilling above you as his hips rolled with desperate control. Each plunge coated him with more spit, each retreat dragging strings of slick between your lips before he pushed forward again.
“You’re insane…” He hissed through clenched teeth, voice fraying under the strain of holding himself together. One hand slipped free to clutch at your breast, fingers tightening greedily over your soft flesh, while the other pressed against the mattress beside your head, bracing his weight as his body loomed above you. He bowed his head, neck hanging low in surrender, dark hair curtaining his face as his breath washed hot over your spit-slick lips.
You whimpered beneath him, the sound broken, helpless, vibrating around his cock as your eyes watered and your chest arched up into his palm.
“You’ve completely lost your mind…”
The words sent a shock of heat lancing through your belly, coiling tighter and tighter. The timbre of his voice, the way it cracked with awe and desperation, set every hair on your body standing on end. Goosebumps prickled across your skin even as the vibrator thrummed mercilessly against your clit, blurring the line between unbearable and divine.
“Made me lose mine too…” He admitted on a ragged exhale, his chest heaving as though the heat of you, the sight of you, was toasting his very brain from the inside out.
You moaned for him, the sound spilling raw and needy as your thighs trembled, the toy buzzing harder against you, driving you higher, closer, closer.
“I love it,” he finished, the confession breathed out like gospel, like surrender, like worship.
His voice—wrecked and reverent all at once—was the final spark tossed into the wildfire already consuming you. But just before that tidal wave of pleasure could crest and crash over you, Zayne moved. With a sudden urgency, he pulled his cock from your mouth, the wet pop loud and obscene in the candlelit room.
“Put your legs up for me to grab,” he said, low, urgent, commanding.
The words alone snapped through your fogged brain like lightning. You dropped the vibrator instantly, forgotten, your breath shaky as your body scrambled to obey. Your knees tucked up, and then his hands were there—large, steady, guiding, folding you in half with practiced strength.
“Oh shit—” Your thought cut short as his broad shoulders wedged over your thighs, his arms sweeping around to lock tight at the small of your back.
Your heart stopped. Your eyes went wide.
“Zayne?!” You gasped, half in disbelief, half in breathless anticipation.
Who the hell was this man? Because in the next instant, you were airborne. He hauled you up in one decisive motion, his strength unshakable, your upside-down body cradled against him like you weighed nothing. You bounced once in his iron grip, your calves trembling as they pressed behind his head, your ankles crossing before you even realized what you were doing. Instinct. Pure instinct.
And then it hit you—what was happening. Your hands braced against his thighs for balance, but your mouth was already seeking, already finding him. His cock was right there, flushed and wet, perfectly aligned with your lips in this impossible, gravity-defying position. Without hesitation, without thought, you opened for him, and he was back in your mouth.
You were really doing this. You were hanging upside down in sixty-nine, your fiancé holding you aloft like a prize while his tongue buried into your cunt with desperate hunger. He was eating you like a man starved, groaning into your slick folds as though the taste of you was the only thing keeping him alive. And you? You were choking on him with gravity pulling his cock deeper down your throat, the position obscene, filthy, perfect.
You clamped your thighs tighter around his neck, the muscles in his shoulders flexing as your calves locked tighter behind his head, caging him there. Your nails dug into the dense muscle of his thighs, his body solid as a pillar beneath your frantic clutch. He held you aloft like you were nothing, like gravity itself bent to his will, and the sheer strength of it sent a shiver down your spine even as your lips worked feverishly around his cock.
One hand wrapped firm around the base of him, the other braced, and you devoured him fast and sloppy, drool sliding, lips stretched, sucking with unrestrained need. Your moans vibrated along his length, desperate, greedy, shaking as heat coiled low in your belly with a velocity that stole your breath. You didn’t see it coming—it was too fast, too sharp, too overwhelming. It hit you like lightning. Your orgasm ripped through you before you could brace for it, hard and merciless. You moaned loudly around his cock, your rhythm faltering, breaking into frantic suction as your body convulsed in his arms. Gravity dragged the blood to your head until your mind felt feverishly hot, spinning as though the earth had tipped sideways beneath you. And still, he held you.
Zayne groaned into your cunt, his mouth and tongue working you with unholy hunger, ravaging you like a man starved of oxygen who had finally filled his lungs with the only thing he ever wanted to breathe: you. His moans reverberated through your sex, molten, relentless, his face buried deep as if he meant to drown in your pleasure.
Your vision scattered into fireworks, every nerve flaring into colors and sound, your mind obliterated by wave after punishing wave of euphoria radiating out from your center. You thrashed weakly, convulsing against the iron bars of his arms as he anchored you in place, unshakable, immovable. He held you tightly, firmly, with that paradoxical gentleness only he had—making sure you were safe even as he destroyed you.
And through it all, he resisted. You felt it—the hard, insistent twitch of his cock in your mouth, the strain in his muscles, the trembling restraint in his groans. He fought off his own undoing, holding himself back, refusing to break before he was ready, even as you shattered again and again in his grasp.
You knew nothing—nothing but the rush of gravity tilting, the sudden shift as your body swung and landed against the mattress, his cock slipping free from your swollen lips. The world was a blur. Your mind didn’t work. Couldn’t work. There was no thought left in you but Zayne. No sensation but the lingering burn of ecstasy in your veins, passion sparking through your every nerve, need clawing at your insides until you were breathless, and laughing. Giddy laughter tumbled from your lips like you were drunk on him, drunk on lust, high on everything he’d just wrung out of you. Your chest rose and fell too quickly, your skin slick with sweat, your voice trembling with joy even as your cunt throbbed with unbearable hunger.
But Zayne wasted no time. He pulled you up with a strength that left you weightless, spun you with such dizzying speed you yelped, and pressed you back down flat on the bed—this time facing him. You barely had time to gasp before his hands clamped your hips, dragging you down the mattress until your ass hit the very edge. Your legs opened instinctively, falling wide, your feet curling onto the edge of the bed.
And there he was—slotting himself between your thighs, towering, unyielding. Zayne’s expression was…God, it nearly stole your breath. He looked utterly consumed. His face was flushed, lips parted, his pupils wide as coins. It was an intensity so fierce it almost looked like anger, but you knew better. You knew the truth. That look wasn’t wrath. It was lust. Ferocious, mind-fucking, all-consuming lust that stripped him bare, driving him to the brink of insanity.
The way he stared down at you seared goosebumps across your body. Your laughter faltered, dwindled into silence, until the only sound was your breath hitching and your heart slamming against your ribs. Your nipples hardened into aching points, your skin alive under the weight of his gaze. He laid a broad palm against your stomach, hot and firm, pinning you in place with nothing but touch. Slowly, deliberately, it began to climb—dragging up your trembling skin, tracing the rise of your chest, gliding between your breasts. He never looked away. Not once. His eyes burned into yours, speechless, wordless, his expression unreadable save for the hunger written deep across every line of him.
And then his hand curved higher. Slid over the base of your throat. Oh God. Your breath hitched sharp. Your pulse jumped violently beneath his palm. Was he actually—? Was Zayne about to choke you? Really choke you? Dear lord. Your adrenaline spiked so violently it made your lip tremble.
The plea tumbled out of you raw and shaky, “please cho—ugh!”
Your words were cut short. The blunt head of his cock breached you at the same instant his hand tightened, sinking into you in one long, unbroken stroke that stole your breath and your voice. His palm clamped firm around your throat, thumb and fingers pressing against the delicate pulse points at either side. The pressure wasn’t crushing, wasn’t reckless—he avoided your windpipe with surgical care—but it was enough. Enough to slow the river of blood, enough to pinch your breath into shallow gasps, enough to make your words collapse into silence.
Your jaw fell slack around the iron grip of his hand, eyes rolling back as your brows twitched upward, pulling together in an expression of rapture. Zayne was choking you. Your Zayne. A doctor. He was choking you expertly, safely, like a man who knew the limits of the body, knew how to skirt the line between ecstasy and danger with terrifying precision. And yet, God, the look on his face…It betrayed every ounce of composure. His gaze burned, unrestrained, something dark and unholy shining through as though he wasn’t your gentle surgeon anymore but a feral, lust-crazed creature bent on your ruin. It almost frightened you—so good, so sharp, that you damn near came on the spot. Your pussy clamped down on him like a vice, spasming around his length as he drove into you. No preamble. No teasing build-up. Just raw, unfiltered need.
He fucked you hard from the very first thrust, hips crashing against your underside with primal force, every push a declaration that you were his to own, to dominate, to bend beneath his will. His cock speared into you, deeper and deeper as your entire body shook against the mattress.
Your hands scrambled upward, clutching at his arm. That magnificent, scarred arm. The muscle was rigid under your nails, every tendon drawn taut with strain as he held your throat steady, unwavering. You dug your nails in, desperate, clinging like you’d never let him take that hand away—that you’d rather stop breathing than lose the heat of his dominance, the divine ecstasy of his grip.
You moaned loud and raw, the sound breaking apart into gasps and whimpers as his hand clutched your throat, choking every syllable into jagged fragments. Each thrust drove upward with merciless force, pinning you flat against the mattress as though your body was nothing but something for him to claim.
The room was alive with it—the heavy slam of his hips colliding with you, the wet slap of skin against skin, the obscene squelch of your pussy gripping him greedily. Every brutal noise echoed off the walls, amplified by the red glow of the bedroom, until it felt like sin itself was painted into the air around you.
Your legs spread wider, higher, trembling as you bared yourself for him, as though your body was begging to be consumed whole. His eyes devoured you, feverish and unrelenting, drinking in every ripple of your breasts as you shook under him, every twitch of your thighs as you fought to hold yourself open for him.
It was madness. Pure, filthy, beautiful madness. Something beyond language, beyond restraint. The two of you weren’t lovers in that moment—you were instinct, you were need, you were animal hunger clothed in sweat and ecstasy. And then—his voice.
“Whose filthy little slut are you?”
Your insides clenched violently around him, spasming, fluttering against the brutal pistoning of his cock stretching you wider, deeper, breaking you apart.
“Yours!” The word tore out of you in sheer glee, rising above the moans, your body arching as though the claim itself was its own climax.
Your hands hooked behind your calves, dragging them higher, locking them wide so they couldn’t collapse from the force of his thrusts. You held yourself open for him, trembling and shameless, offering yourself as nothing but his.
“Yours, honey! Yours! I’m all yours!” You cried out, the desperation spilling with every slam of his hips. Your breasts rippled, your lungs fought against his choking grip, but all you could do was beg, loud, delirious, hungry, “Zayne, don’t stop, please! Please, I’m—”
Before the words could even leave your lips, your body betrayed you. Your pelvic floor seized, bearing down helplessly against his brutal rhythm, and then it happened—your cunt convulsed hard around him, a violent spasm that you couldn’t have stopped if you tried.
“Zayne!” You screamed, voice shredded under the clutch of his large hand around your throat.
And then it poured. A hot rush burst out of you in a sudden, uncontrollable spray, the liquid streaming in powerful jets that splashed over your fiancé’s abs, his thighs, the bed, even the polished wood floor below. The sheets grew slick beneath you, soaking through, while he groaned deep, guttural, powering through without missing a single savage thrust. The sound of him, the hunger in his voice as he groaned at the heat of your release, made your head spin.
He loved this. Loved the mess. Loved the filth. Loved the unbearable wetness of you coating him as though you existed solely to drench him in ecstasy. You were gone. Desperate. Your free hand shot down between your thighs, frantic fingers rubbing your swollen clit with pure, blinding need. The pressure broke you wider open, harder, and your body gave again, streams of euphoria spraying wildly with each stroke of his cock hammering into your spasming cunt.
The wet slap of your flesh against his was now soaked, obscene beyond comprehension. The bed was drenched. The air smelled of sex and candles, sticky and raw and floral. Your thighs, your stomach, your breasts—it was everywhere. You were everywhere. And it was glorious. But even when the squirt finally slowed, dripping from you in messy rivulets, your orgasm did not. It kept pulsing, rolling, stretching long past your limit until it didn’t feel possible, until it blurred into something new. Longer. Stronger. Each thrust drove it deeper, each rub of your clit sustained it, and impossibly, your body just kept going. Your clit never dulled. Never tipped into sensitivity. It remained insatiable under your desperate fingers, humming with endless hunger, as though you could cum again and again and never stop.
“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop!” You sobbed, your voice high and broken, trembling as the pleasure tore through you in relentless waves. Your lip quivered, your chest heaving with more than just exertion—emotion cracked wide open inside you. You couldn’t hold it back. The tears spilled hot down your temples, streaking into your hair, dripping into the soaked sheets.
It felt so good—so impossibly deep in your body, so overwhelming in your soul—that it made you cry.
“Please!” You choked, a hiccup of desperate bliss, “please, don’t cum yet! Don’t cum, Zayne!”
His jaw clenched as he bit savagely into his lower lip, his whole body tight with strain. You forced your eyes open through the blur of tears, and the sight above you stole what little breath you had left. Zayne was wrecked. His chest flushed scarlet even under the glow of the red light, slick with sweat that glistened over every sculpted inch of him beneath the swaying chains. Each brutal slam of his hips snapped through his core, muscles taut and trembling, veins raised along his arms where they flexed with strength and desperation. His hair clung in straight, wet clumps to his forehead, falling over furrowed brows as his eyes squeezed shut against the flood overtaking him. He looked feral. A mess of beauty and carnality, so primal and undone that for a moment you almost didn’t recognize him. This wasn’t your careful, gentle Zayne. This was something deeper, darker—something primal that you had unleashed.
“I can’t!” He gasped, his voice cracking under the strain, his throat slick and tight as though every sound cost him. His head tipped back, exposing his neck to you in helpless abandon as his control shattered piece by piece.
Then his hand released your throat, both hands snapping around your waist instead. He crushed you down against him, forcing you flush to the ferocity of his thrusts as his hips slammed into you harder, faster, reckless.
“Oh my—! Y/n!” He cried out raggedly, desperation tearing through every syllable, “I can’t! I—!”
You let go of your legs at last, your trembling arms reaching down with a mindless urgency to seize him by the ass. You pulled him in, holding him there, locking him deep inside your spasming cunt. He fell forward over you with a ragged gasp, his palms slamming into the mattress beside your shoulders as though he needed the earth itself to anchor him. And then he broke. A helpless, shuddering groan ripped from his chest as his body convulsed, and you felt the hot flood of him erupt inside you. Pulse after pulse, his seed spilled into you, thick and molten, filling you until you could do nothing but clutch him tighter, your nails digging into the hard planes of his ass to keep him buried as your pussy fluttered frantically around him.
You wordlessly watched. Stared. Your tear-streaked eyes drank him in, the sight burning itself into you: Zayne, utterly undone, every line of restraint obliterated, his dripping face wrecked with bliss and desperation. You etched the image into your soul, knowing this would be one of those core memories you would replay again and again for the rest of your life. The night your fiancé lost himself inside you. The night you both descended into madness and love all at once.
His body finally gave, collapsing down onto you, heavy and trembling. You caught him, arms wrapping instinctively around his damp back, your fingers skimming over the slick sheen of sweat and muscle. The two of you nearly tumbled off the bed together, your ass dangling perilously close to the edge while his feet still braced on the floor.
But even wrecked, even drained, his instinct was to protect you. With a strained wince, he pulled on every last thread of his shaking strength, arms banding around your waist to drag you both further up the mattress. He groaned with the effort, but he got you there, hauling you safely into the center before finally letting himself fall beside you with a heavy thud.
Every inch of you and Zayne was dripping—slick with sweat, cum, and the unnamable cocktail of your shared ruin. The sheets were soaked, your thighs sticky, your skin glistening under the red glow like you’d both been baptized in sin itself. Your head spun so fast you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even remember your name. The world was gone. All that existed was him—your fiancé, your anchor, your undoing.
He shifted weakly closer, trembling as though his muscles had nothing left to give, and yet he still wrapped his arms around you, still pulled you flush against him. His chest pressed to yours, his heart thundered against your ribcage, syncing with yours in a chaotic, frantic rhythm. And then—cold. It rolled over you in an instant, delicious and shocking, like plunging into icy water after being boiled alive. His evol. He was cooling you both down, lowering the fever of your bodies until the steam rising from your sweat met the chill in the air and left you gasping. Relief rippled through you, cooling your skin even as heat still pulsed between your thighs. You melted against him, delirious with gratitude.
You didn’t know how long you lied there. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. It was impossible to tell. Time didn’t exist. Thought barely existed. You felt high—giddy, drunk, your mind moving thick and slow like molasses. Every sound was muted, every sensation heightened. Even the weight of his arms around you was enough to keep you grounded when the rest of you floated away. His hand came up, cool from his power, cupping the side of your face. The chill of it made your skin tingle, dragged you half-back into awareness, though your eyes still struggled to focus. You blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted.
“You okay?” He asked softly, his voice hoarse but steady, green eyes sweeping across your expression like he could read every flicker of sensation written there.
You managed half a smile, your lips trembling, your head bobbing in the barest ghost of a nod. You couldn’t form words, couldn’t string thoughts together—except one. That you were hopelessly, irretrievably smitten with the man beside you. The man you were going to marry. The man you were going to make babies with—lots and lots of babies, the wild thought flickered through your fogged brain, and you couldn’t help it. A giggle bubbled out of you, soft and delirious.
Zayne’s brows pulled, his expression softened with worry and love.
“Water?” He murmured. His voice was ragged, frayed, but careful, “let me get you your water…Let me clean you up, hold on…”
Your arms fell limp when he shifted you aside, gently, laying them at your sides as though you were fragile porcelain. He moved like a man at the edge of collapse himself, shaking, lethargic, his tall body trembling with every step. Even still, he bent, dragged a towel over, shimmied it beneath your hips with painstaking care, every action deliberate despite the exhaustion weighing him down.
You let him help you up, though your head lolled against his shoulder, your body pliant in his grip. The cold glass pressed to your lips was heaven, but your coordination was gone. Water spilled down your chin, wetting your throat, your chest, and you laughed weakly at the mess of it. Zayne didn’t care. Not at all. He caught the cup when you lost hold, finishing what you couldn’t drink himself, his throat bobbing as he swallowed.
“I…” You mumbled, your voice sluggish, barely a whisper. You rested your cheek against the warmth of his shoulder, and he caught you, an arm tight around you to keep you upright. But you were too tired, too spent to fight the pull of gravity. You pushed at his hand until you slid down, curling onto his lap, your head pillowed against his thigh. You didn’t care about the stickiness, the sweat tangling your hair against him. You didn’t care about anything but being near him.
“I think…” You slurred with a tiny, crooked smile, your voice muffled by his skin, “…I think we need to go to church after that…”
Zayne let out a weak laugh, his chest rising and falling beneath your cheek.
“You know I don’t believe in God. But…The devil, on the other hand?” His voice dropped lower, raspier, his lips curling faintly, “I think he just might exist. And I think he might’ve possessed me tonight.”
You laughed outright, rolling onto your back so you could peer up at him, your face still damp with sweat and tears, “I was about to say that! At one point you were acting downright possessed!”
Color rose high in his cheeks, a flush deeper than the heat of exertion. He looked almost boyish in that moment, guilty and bashful despite the wreckage he’d just unleashed.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured, reaching out to brush your damp hair back from your face with a tenderness that nearly undid you all over again, “I swear, I don’t know what got into me.”
“Well, I sure know what got into me,” you teased, breathless and giddy. A giggle slipped from you as your fingertip traced mischievously down the sheen of his chest, skating over the hard muscle still slick with sweat, tracing his chains. You felt his abs twitch beneath your touch, “listen, about that bedtime story? I’ll be your sacrificial rabbit any day. Even if you’re the devil. Especially if you’re the devil.”
“Unfortunately, I’m not,” he said softly, his voice shaded with endearment. He caught your hand before it could wander lower, lifting it instead to his lips. He kissed your knuckles reverently, lingering there as though he could press his soul into your skin, “sorry to disappoint you. I’m merely just a man.”
No. He wasn’t. Not to you. To you, he was an angel on earth. Kind. Worshipful. Reverent. And somehow—miraculously—he was yours. Entirely yours. And then, just as you were sinking into the haze of his warmth, you saw it—a flicker in his expression, the quick flash of thought catching fire behind his golden-green eyes. Zayne looked like a lightbulb had just gone off in his head.
His smile widened, soft and boyish now, tugging at the corners of his lips, “you know what sounds perfect right now?”
You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes in mock suspicion.
“What?” You asked, already bracing yourself—because if there was one thing you knew about him, it was that his answers after sex somehow always circled back to sugar.
“Baskin Robbins,” he said, with all the gravity of a surgeon announcing a life-saving procedure, “I think the drive-through is still open.”
A laugh ripped out of you so suddenly and forcefully you almost rolled off the bed, clutching your sore stomach.
“You’re such a fatass!” You gasped, your voice breaking on the giggles, “we have ice cream here.”
“But I don’t want home ice cream,” he countered with a soft chuckle, already moving to tug you upright against him. His eyes were so earnest, shining in the red-tinged light, “I want fancy ice cream. I want the hot fudge drizzled on top with Oreo crumbles. Oh, and chocolate sprinkles.”
You groaned, laughing again as you sprawled against him, shaking your head. God, how did this man exist? How did he still have abs like carved marble when he had the appetite of a child let loose in a candy shop? He was ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous. And yet the sight of him—flushed from head to chest, hair sticking in sweaty clumps to his forehead, voice hoarse from moaning your name—and then, seconds later, looking at you with that wide-eyed excitement over dessert? God, it broke you. It was like looking at two different people. The feral man who had just choked and railed you into oblivion. And the sweet, playful fiancé who wanted sprinkles on his icecream.
Maybe he had been possessed tonight. And maybe the devil had vacated, leaving you with your sugar-hungry, gentle giant of a man again. Not that you minded one fucking bit.
“Come,” he said, sliding off the bed and tugging your limp hand gently into his. His body was trembling but determined, his voice steady despite the exhaustion, “let’s clean up, take a quick shower, and go before they close. And then we can pick a show to catch up on and cuddle up on the couch.”
“Ooh, can we watch The Great British Baking Show?” You caved with a grin, letting him guide you down off the bed, your legs still shaky.
His answering smile was soft, tired but golden, and he bent to brush a kiss against your damp forehead, “I was hoping you’d pick that.”
So you went together, slowly, every step weighted with fatigue. His arm circled your waist, steadying you as you leaned into him, his shadow falling over you protectively. The two of you shuffled toward the master bathroom, still sticky, still dripping, but unwilling to let go of each other for even a breath.
“I want to try making Mark’s blueberry scones from last episode,” Zayne murmured above you, voice low and warm as the kiss he’d left on your skin, “we can choose a recipe together and go grocery shopping tomorrow morning, if you want.”
“Ooh!” You gasped, excitement breaking through your haze of exhaustion, “yes! We should spend the whole day baking tomorrow. And if they turn out good, maybe you can take some to work on Monday for Doctor Grayson and Yvonne.”
The thought made him laugh quietly, pressing another kiss into your hair as the two of you reached the bathroom door. And with that simple plan, ice cream and sprinkles and a show, you both carried glee in your hearts. It was almost childish, the way you clung to each other as you moved, your fingers locked, your bodies pressed close even in the smallest motions. In that moment, you felt like a little girl again, caught in the safety of a love so pure it was like sugar after sin.
It was impossible to reconcile—the same man who had just been gut-deep inside you, his hand around your throat, commanding, feral—was now the one cradling you with reverence, checking on you with every glance, dreaming of baking pastries at your side. But you wouldn’t have it any other way. You had an angel and a demon all in one extraordinary man. And the miracle was that you could happily, proudly say he was yours—your Zayne, your fiancé, your forever.
credits to me. feel free to use and save. of course credit would be appreciated but it is not required. I’m just making these for fun <3 dividers I’ve made to fics and things that are sitting in my drafts and decided to share.
xavier x sick!reader | content warning: suggestive
you’re starting to run hot. no matter how many bowls of soup xavier feeds you, or cold towels he places on your head, or spoonfuls of medication he gives you, nothing seems to be working. you can’t help but to toss and turn in bed, uncomfortable by the pressure building up in your nose and the itch in the back of your throat.
xavier frowns as he watches over you. his hand touches your cheek and his thumb ever so gently, circles your flush skin.
“xaiver, stop. your gonna make it worse,” you whimper, trying to flee from his touch.
“aww baby,” xavier coos. he stops you from moving away by snaking his arm around your waist and settling himself between your legs. “i’m just trying to take care of you.”
you can’t argue against that because xavier really has been at your service, foot and hand. being so diligent to help you recover. but you can hear the mischief pooling at the edge of his words, and you know that once you give in you won’t want him to stop.
you shake your head and place you hand on xavier’s chest, going for a second attempt to impede his plan before he actualize it.
“you’re gonna get sick!”
xavier let’s put a deep chuckle. he moves his arm from around your waist and trails his hand down your side, pressing his eager fingers into your hip. he then leans down and runs his lips over the shell of your ear.
“you’ll just have to take care of me, then.” he whispers, pulling your ear in between his teeth.
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