"Off the Record" (M)
Pairing: Bodyguard!Jeno x Model!Fem!Reader
Genre(s): Smut, pwp, slow burn (kinda), celebrity/bodyguard AU, domestic AU, slight fluff & angst, humor (occasional)
Word Count: 4.7k
Content Warnings/Tags: explict smut (mature audiences only/mdni!), strong language, sexual tension, suggestive themes, mutual attraction/ pining, bodyguard x cilent dynamic, celebrity lifestyle, glasses!jeno, mentions of past manipulative relationships, cat allergy, Jeno smokes and vapes (reader doesn't like it), social media/public attention, sexual fantasies, rimming, masturbation (both male and female), dubcon, kissing, unprotected sex (be safe irl!), spanking, hair pulling, breeding kink, daddy kink, reader innocence kink, overstimulation, squirting, I think that's it.
Author's Note: If you're here for bodyguard!Jeno, forced proximity, quiet domestic moments, and an unhealthy amount of yearning... welcome!! I hope this fic is your cup of tea. As always, this is purely a work of fiction—please read responsibly! 🤍
Summary: You've spent your entire life surrounded by cameras, fans, and people who wanted something from you. Lee Jeno is different. He's there to protect you—not use you. Somewhere between shared mornings, quiet evenings, and a home that begins to feel less lonely, the line between client and bodyguard starts to disappear.
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The transition from your chaotic professional life to the sanctuary of your penthouse had always been your favorite part of the day. As a supermodel and actress with over 45 million eyes watching your every move on Instagram, the pressure to be the perfect, sensual icon was immense. But inside these walls, you were just you—sweet, a bit clumsy, and deeply affectionate.
And for the past few weeks, you hadn't been alone in that sanctuary.
Lee Jeno was a constant, silent presence. Your father, a man whose influence stretched far beyond the legitimate business world into the dark underbelly of the mafia, had insisted on 24/7 protection. He had seen how your innocence had been weaponized against you by predatory actors and models in the past; he had cleaned up those messes with a brutality that would terrify the public, but for you, it was just Dad being protective.
Jeno was the gold standard of protection. A former military man with over six years of service, he carried himself with a disciplined rigidity that made your heart flutter. He was towering, with broad shoulders that seemed to fill every doorway and a muscular build that strained against the fabric of his professional attire. His hair was a pitch-black void, and his jawline was so sharp it looked like it could cut glass. Occasionally, he wore glasses that gave him a scholarly look, though the intensity in his eyes remained lethal.
"Miss Y/N, your schedule for tomorrow is confirmed. Your manager will be here at 8:00 AM," Jeno said, his voice a deep, resonant rumble that vibrated in your chest.
You looked up at him, leaning against the kitchen island. You had already changed into your favorite cherry-red silk robe. It was short—dangerously so—barely skimming the tops of your thighs. Because you were in the privacy of your own home, you had opted for total comfort, leaving your bra and panties off. The silk felt cool against your skin, though the friction of the fabric against your nipples was starting to make them peak.
"I told you, Jeno, please just call me Y/N," you murmured, giving him a sweet, genuine smile. "We're going to be spending every waking hour together. 'Miss Y/N' makes me feel like I'm in a boardroom."
Jeno’s gaze flickered down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes. He cleared his throat, his posture remaining stiff. "I will try, Y/N."
The way your name sounded in his low voice made a sudden, sharp heat bloom between your thighs. You shifted your weight, the robe sliding slightly open to reveal a glimpse of your toned leg. You weren't trying to be provocative—you were genuinely just relaxed—but you noticed the way Jeno’s throat bobbed as he swallowed hard.
You found yourself wondering, not for the first time, what lay beneath those professional trousers. You imagined the sheer bulk of him, wondering if he was as packed downstairs as he was in the shoulders. The thought hit you with such intensity that you felt a wave of guilt. How could I think that about my bodyguard? you scolded yourself, though the curiosity remained, a persistent itch you couldn't scratch.
As the days passed, you noticed a pattern. Whenever Pearl, your beautiful blue-eyed ragdoll cat, leaped onto your lap or brushed against Jeno’s legs, he would suddenly freeze. His eyes would grow watery, and a series of muffled sneezes would escape him.
"Oh no," you whispered, scooping Pearl up into your arms and hugging her to your chest, which only served to push your large breasts together. "You're allergic to her, aren't you?"
Jeno rubbed his nose, looking slightly embarrassed. "It is a minor inconvenience, Y/N. Please, do not change your routine on my account."
"I can't let you suffer," you insisted, your caring nature taking over. From that day on, you made sure Pearl was in a different room whenever Jeno was nearby. It was a small gesture, but you saw the way he looked at you—with a mixture of gratitude and a hunger he was desperately trying to suppress.
One rainy afternoon, the sexual frustration you had been ignoring for weeks reached a breaking point. You were lounging on your oversized velvet sofa, the red robe draped loosely over your curves. You were scrolling through your phone, but your mind wasn't on the comments of your latest post. Instead, you were thinking about Jeno. You wondered if he had a wife, or a girlfriend—someone who got to feel the weight of him, someone who got to taste him.
The thought triggered an oral fixation you'd been struggling with; you found yourself chewing on your lower lip, imagining the taste of him, the scent of his skin and expensive cologne.
Unable to help yourself, you shifted on the sofa, sliding a plush pillow beneath your hips. You began to rub yourself against the fabric, a soft moan escaping your lips as you arched your back, the robe riding up to expose your bare, rounded ass to the air. You were lost in the sensation, your eyes closed, imagining it was Jeno’s hard thigh instead of a pillow.
"Y/N?"
Your eyes snapped open. Jeno was standing at the entrance of the living room, holding a tray of tea. His eyes were wide, fixed directly on the sight of you—flushed, breathless, and grinding your hips into the cushion with your legs spread wide. The red silk of your robe had fallen open, leaving nothing to the imagination.
The silence in the room was suffocating. You froze, your heart hammering against your ribs, your pussy still throbbing from the friction.
Jeno didn't move. His gaze traveled slowly from your face, down to the swell of your breasts, and finally to the wetness glistening between your thighs. You could see the visible strain in his jaw, the way his knuckles turned white as he gripped the tray.
"I... I'm sorry," he rasped, his voice sounding an octave lower than usual. "I didn't realize you were... occupied."
He turned and walked away quickly, but not before you caught a glimpse of the prominent bulge stretching the fabric of his slacks. He was hard. He was incredibly hard just from looking at you.
Later that night, while you were asleep, Jeno sat in the security room, the blue light of the monitors illuminating his face. He opened Instagram and searched for your profile. He scrolled to your most recent post—a bikini shoot that had gone viral. You were wearing strings of gold fabric that barely covered your nipples and the curve of your hips.
He scrolled through the comments.
“I would do anything to be inside her.”
“God, those tits are perfect, I want to drown in them.”
“Look at that ass, she’s a literal goddess.”
Jeno let out a low, guttural curse, his hand sliding down to his trousers. He closed his eyes and imagined the reality instead of the photo. He imagined you not as the global icon, but as the sweet girl who cared about his allergies. He fantasized about pulling that red robe off your shoulders, pinning your wrists above your head, and burying his face in your breasts until he couldn't breathe. He imagined your thick thighs bracketing his face, the scent of your arousal filling his lungs as he licked every inch of you.
He almost let himself go, his fingers tightening around his length, but he stopped abruptly, breathing heavily.
"Fuck," he whispered into the empty room. "She's my client."
But as he looked back at the screen, at the innocent expression on your face contrasted with the sheer sexiness of your body, he knew his professional boundaries were beginning to crumble.
The following few days in the penthouse were a blur of comfortable domesticity and a tension so thick it felt like a physical weight in the air. You had a rare day off, a precious gap in your grueling schedule of shoots and press tours, and you decided to spend it doing something you actually enjoyed: cooking.
You weren't exactly a professional chef—in fact, you were a disaster in the kitchen—but you loved the process. By the time you finished preparing a simple pasta with a creamy garlic sauce and a side of roasted vegetables, the kitchen looked like a war zone. Flour was dusted across the marble countertops, a splash of tomato sauce decorated the backsplash, and you had a smudge of cream on your cheek.
"Jeno! Lunch is ready!" you called out, beaming as you plated the food.
Jeno entered the kitchen, his eyes immediately scanning the chaos of the room before landing on you. You looked small and endearing, wearing an oversized white t-shirt that hung off one shoulder and a pair of tiny lounge shorts that barely covered the swell of your cheeks. He looked at the mess, then at your hopeful, sparkling eyes, and his expression softened.
"You've been busy, Y/N," he remarked, his voice a low rumble.
"I tried my best!" you giggled, sliding a plate toward him.
He ate every single bite. Even though the meal was basic, the fact that you had put so much effort into it—and the sight of you humming happily while you cleaned up the mess—made it the best meal he’d had in years. As he watched you reach up to put a pot away, the hem of your shirt riding up to reveal the smooth, pale skin of your lower back, Jeno had to look away, his jaw tightening.
Later that afternoon, the restlessness hit you. You felt a surge of energy, the kind that usually resulted in a viral post. You retreated to one of the spacious guest rooms that you used as a makeshift studio, turning on a heavy, bass-driven track that made the floor vibrate.
You set up your phone on a tripod and began to move. You weren't thinking about the millions of people who would eventually see it; you were just feeling the music. You rolled your hips in slow, sensual circles, your body undulating with a natural grace. As the beat dropped, you turned around, bending your knees slightly and throwing your ass back with a rhythmic, provocative snap. You ground your hips into the air, imagining the friction, your hair whipping around your face as you let yourself go, completely carefree and lost in the rhythm.
You didn't notice the door crack open. You didn't see Jeno standing there, frozen, his breath hitching in his throat. He watched for only a few seconds—the sight of your plump ass shaking and throwing back toward him was almost too much to bear. He vanished before you could turn around, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped animal.
An hour later, the reel was live.
You had retreated to your master suite, slipping into a steaming hot bath to relax. While you were soaking in the bubbles, smelling of vanilla and almond body wash, Jeno was on the living room couch, staring at his phone.
The video had already exploded. 500k likes and 2 million views in sixty minutes. He watched it on a loop, the high-definition quality capturing every jiggle of your cheeks, every roll of your hips. He felt his cock surge, straining violently against the fabric of his trousers. He shifted uncomfortably, his breath coming in shallow gasps.
He scrolled down to the comments, and his blood began to boil.
“I would pay a million dollars just to see that ass move in person.”
“God, imagine getting that thickness behind you. I’d be a lucky man.”
“I want to bury my face in that. I bet she tastes like heaven. I’d eat that ass for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“Anal on a goddess like her? I’d ruin her.”
Jeno let out a sharp, hissed breath. "Fuck," he whispered, his voice raw. "Those filthy pieces of shit."
But as he looked back at the video, the anger morphed into a dark, consuming hunger. He closed his eyes, and a vivid fantasy took hold. He imagined you giving him a private show, just for him. He imagined the music playing in the penthouse, and as you threw your ass back, he wouldn't be standing at a distance. He would be right there.
In his mind, he reached out, his large hands gripping your waist with a bruising force, pulling you back against his hard chest. He imagined bending you over the edge of the sofa, forcing your ass high into the air. He could almost feel the heat radiating from your skin. He imagined parting your cheeks with his fingers, exposing the tight, pink ring of your asshole.
He fantasized about burying his face in you, his tongue lashing out to lick your ring, sucking your asshole deep into his mouth with a hungry, desperate vacuum. He imagined tongue-fucking you, swirling his tongue inside you while his other hand reached around to find your clit, rubbing it relentlessly until you were screaming his name.
His hand drifted down, resting heavily on the massive bulge in his pants. He didn't touch himself—his discipline was a wall—but he squeezed the fabric, imagining it was your soft, yielding flesh.
"God, Y/N... you have no idea what I want to do to you," he groaned, his eyes clouded with lust.
"Jeno?"
The voice snapped him back to reality. He jumped slightly, his eyes flying open to see you standing beside him. You had just stepped out of the bath; your skin was glowing and damp, and your long hair was wet, clinging to the curves of your shoulders. You were wearing a thin, white silk slip that left nothing to the imagination, the fabric clinging to your large breasts and the curve of your hips. You smelled like fresh shampoo and warm skin, a scent that hit him like a physical blow.
You had reached out and tapped his shoulder, your expression sweet and curious. As you looked down, your eyes landed on his phone screen. The video was still playing—the exact moment where you were grinding your hips and throwing your ass back.
You paused, noticing the video, and then you noticed the way Jeno was breathing—heavy, ragged—and the unmistakable, towering tent in his trousers.
You didn't say anything. You didn't tease him or ask why he was watching. Instead, a small, shy flush crept up your neck, and you felt a sudden, sharp throb of wetness between your legs. The sight of him so affected by you, so visibly hard, sent a jolt of electricity through your core.
Jeno stood up abruptly, his face a mask of professional neutrality, though his eyes were still dark with lingering desire.
"I'll be checking the perimeter, Y/N," he said, his voice sounding strained and gravelly.
He turned and walked away, his stride stiff. As soon as he was out of your sight, he leaned against the wall of the hallway and closed his eyes, letting out a long, shaky exhale.
"Fuck me," he muttered to himself, his mind still filled with the image of your wet hair and the memory of your ass shaking on his screen. He was a professional, but as he felt his cock pulse painfully against his zipper, he knew he was losing the war against his own desire.
It was five weeks in when you really tested him.
You'd just come back from a shoot—exhausted, makeup still on, hair pinned up in a messy bun. You'd stripped off your designer clothes in the bathroom and emerged in a short silk robe, cherry red, tied loosely at the waist. The V-neck plunged to your navel, and the hem barely covered your ass.
Jeno was in the living room, reviewing security footage on his tablet. He looked up when you entered.
"Jeno." You flopped onto the couch beside him, close enough that your thigh brushed his. "I'm so tired. My feet hurt. You should massage them."
His hand stilled on the tablet. "I don't think that's part of my job description."
"Your job is to keep me safe and happy, right?" You batted your lashes. "I'm not happy when my feet hurt."
"You need rest, Y/N." His voice was strained. "And perhaps more appropriate attire."
You looked down at yourself, genuinely confused. "What's wrong with this? It's just a robe, Jeno."
"You're practically naked."
"It's comfortable." You stretched, arching your back, the robe pulling tight across your breasts. "Don't be such a prude. We're friends now, right? Friends can be comfortable around each other, Jeno."
He didn't answer. But you caught him staring at the curve of your thigh before he looked away.
That night, he took an extra-long cold shower.
The tension shifted one afternoon when you stepped out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. You found Jeno standing there, his back to you, a thin cloud of vapor escaping his lips. In his hand was a vape, and on the railing sat a pack of cigarettes.
You didn't scream or get angry. You simply stood there, looking at him with a soft, disappointed pout.
"Jeno?"
He jumped, nearly dropping the device, and quickly hid it behind his back, his expression returning to its stoic mask. "Miss Y/N. I apologize. I'll dispose of it immediately."
You walked closer, the scent of mint and tobacco clinging to him. You reached out, gently touching his forearm. "You don't have to hide it. I just... I don't really like guys who smoke or vape, Jeno. It ruins your health."
He looked down at you, surprised by the lack of judgment in your voice.
"I'm not telling you what to do," you continued softly, your eyes wide and innocent. "But it makes me a little sad. There are so many other ways to relieve stress, you know? Healthier ways. Ways that actually burn calories and make you feel... good."
You gave him a shy, fluttering look, implying something you didn't have the words to say directly, but the suggestion hung heavy in the air. You leaned in a bit closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "And... I've read that smoking can cause fertility problems. It's not very good for... um... a man's performance either."
Jeno felt a surge of heat rush to his groin. The idea of his "performance" being discussed by a woman as pure and breathtaking as you sent his mind spiraling. He imagined his cum filling you, the thought of breeding you becoming an obsession that outweighed any nicotine craving.
That afternoon, while you were cleaning the living room, you tripped over a rug—a classic Y/N move. You tumbled forward, landing face-first on the plush carpet, your legs splayed wide and your robe sliding open to reveal your soaking wet pussy, completely exposed to Jeno's line of sight.
"Oh! I'm so clumsy!" you giggled, looking back at him from the floor, your ass hiked up in the air.
Jeno didn't move. He stared at the pink, plump folds of your center, the sight of your innocence paired with such a provocative body driving him to the edge. He reached into his pocket, feeling the vape, and suddenly felt a wave of disgust. He didn't want chemicals in his system. He wanted to be clean. He wanted to be the strongest, most potent version of himself for when he finally broke.
The accident happened on a Saturday.
You'd been cooking—badly. Flour was everywhere, a pan was smoking, and you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. Jeno had rushed in when the smoke alarm went off, found you covered in white dust, spatula in hand, looking like a disaster.
"What are you doing?" he asked, exasperated.
"Making pancakes, Jeno. Obviously."
"Pancakes don't require the smoke alarm."
You shrugged, grinning. "I'm a model, not a chef."
He sighed, rolled up his sleeves, and took over. You watched him—the way his forearms flexed, the way he moved with practiced efficiency. His glasses had slipped down his nose, and he pushed them up with the back of his hand.
"You're good at that," you said, leaning against the counter.
"I'm good at a lot of things."
It was the first time he'd said anything remotely suggestive. You blinked, surprised, and a flush crept up his neck.
"I mean—" he started.
"Jeno." You stepped closer, suddenly aware of how close you were. "What kind of things?"
He turned off the stove. Set down the spatula. Turned to face you, and for a moment, his mask slipped. You saw hunger in his dark eyes, raw and barely contained.
"You should go change," he said quietly. "You have flour on your chest."
You looked down. The flour was dusted over the thin tank top you wore—no bra underneath, the fabric clinging to your curves. Your nipples were visible through the white powder.
"Oh." You laughed, light and careless. "I'll clean up later. You didn't answer my question, Jeno."
"Y/N."
"What are you good at?"
He stepped forward. Close enough that you could smell his cologne—woodsy, clean, masculine. His hand came up, and before you could react, he brushed a thumb across your collarbone, wiping away a smudge of flour.
The touch was electric.
"Jeno?" Your voice came out smaller than intended.
His eyes dropped to your lips. Held there. Then he stepped back, hand falling to his side.
"Go change," he repeated, his voice rough. "I'll finish breakfast."
You left the kitchen in a daze, your heart pounding for reasons you couldn't name.
The night it finally happened was unremarkable in every way except for the weight of everything that came before.
You'd come home late from a charity gala, wearing a red dress that hugged every curve like a second skin. Your heels were killing you, your hair was falling from its updo, and you were pleasantly tipsy from champagne. Jeno had been at your side all night—close, watchful, professional. But you'd caught him staring at you when you danced with the event's host. You'd seen the muscle jump in his jaw when some CEO's hand slipped too low on your waist.
Now he was trailing you into your bedroom, a shadow in the dim light.
"Jeno, you can go," you said, fumbling with your earrings. "I'm safe now, Jeno. Home sweet home."
"I'll do a sweep of the apartment first."
"You're so diligent, Jeno." You turned to face him, wobbling slightly on your heels. "What would I do without you?"
"Hopefully never find out."
You laughed, but it died in your throat when you saw the way he was looking at you. His glasses were off—he'd taken them off at some point, and without them, his eyes were darker, more intense. The sharp lines of his face seemed sharper. Hungrier.
"Jeno?" You took a step back. Your knees hit the edge of the bed. "Is everything okay?"
"No." His voice was low, almost a growl. "Everything is not okay, Y/N. Everything has not been okay since the day I walked into this apartment."
"What do you mean?"
"You walk around in silk that shows everything. You say my name like it's a prayer. You lean into me, touch me, breathe on me, and you act like you have no idea what you're doing."
"I—" Your mouth went dry. "I don't—"
"Don't lie to me." He stepped forward, closing the distance between you. "Don't stand there in that dress, looking like a fucking goddess, and tell me you don't know what you've been doing to. me."
"I wasn't—" But even as you said it, you remembered. The short robes. The suggestive jokes. The way you'd called for him constantly, demanded his attention, parade around half-naked without a second thought.
"God, you're so naive," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only frustration. Only want. "Men have been using you your whole life, haven't they? Taking what they wanted and leaving you confused. And here I am, trying to be the one man who doesn't—who won't—"
"Why won't you?"
The question hung between you.
"Because if I start," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "I won't stop. I'll ruin you. I'll fill every hole you have until you can't remember your own name. I'll break every boundary you have, and you'll beg me for more."
Your breath caught. Heat flooded your body, pooling between your legs.
"Jeno—"
"Say my name one more time," he said, stepping forward until his chest brushed yours. "Say it like you mean it."
Your lips parted. Your heart was a wild drum.
"Jeno."
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed onto yours.
It wasn't gentle. It was claiming—teeth and tongue and desperation. His hands found your waist, gripped the silk of your dress, and tore. The sound of fabric ripping sent a thrill through you, and you moaned into his mouth.
"Fuck," he breathed, pulling back just enough to look at you. Your dress was ruined, hanging open, revealing your breasts, your stomach, the lace of your panties. "You're so fucking beautiful."
"Jeno, please—"
He silenced you with another kiss, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You fell onto the mattress, and he followed, covering your body with his. His mouth traced down your neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing. His hands found your breasts, palming them, pinching your nipples until you cried out.
"You like that?" He pulled back, watching your face. "You like your bodyguard touching you like this?"
"Yes, Jeno—yes—"
He flipped you onto your stomach in one smooth motion, yanking your hips up. Your dress pooled around your waist, your ass bared to him, and you heard his sharp intake of breath.
"Look at you," he murmured. "All this time you've been teasing me with your robes, and now I finally get to see what's underneath."
He ran a hand over your ass, squeezing, spreading you open. His fingers found your cunt through the lace of your panties, already soaked.
"Fuck, Y/N. You're dripping."
"Please," you whimpered. "Please, Jeno, I need—"
"I know what you need." He pulled your panties aside, exposing you completely. The cool air hit your wet folds, and you shivered. "You need to be filled. You need someone to fuck that innocent look right out of your eyes."
He didn't wait. He freed his cock—thick, heavy, the head glistening—and ran it through your folds. The sensation made you gasp, pushing back against him.
"Beg for it," he said, his voice rough. "Beg me to fuck you."
"Please, Jeno—please, Daddy—I need your cock so bad—"
He pushed in.
The stretch was exquisite—a burn that bordered on pain before melting into pure pleasure. He filled you completely, his hips flush against your ass, and you felt so full.
"Fuck," he groaned, dropping his forehead to your back. "You're so tight. So goddamn tight. This pussy was made for me."
He started moving. Slow at first, deep and deliberate, letting you feel every inch of him. But soon the pace turned brutal—his hips slamming into you, the bed rocking, the headboard hitting the wall with a rhythm that matched your screams.
His hand found your hair, yanking your head back. "Look at you," he growled. "Taking my cock like a good little slut. And you pretended to be so innocent."
"I'm sorry, Daddy—I'm sorry—"
"You're not sorry." He slapped your ass hard, leaving a red handprint. "You love this. You love being my whore."
"I do—I love it—"
He wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you upright, his chest pressed to your back. This new angle drove him deeper, and you felt him hit that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"Right there," you sobbed. "Don't stop, Jeno, please—"
His hand snaked around to your clit, rubbing in tight circles. The dual stimulation was too much. You felt the pressure building, your orgasm coiling tight.
"Come for me," he ordered, his voice right by your ear. "Come all over my cock. I want to feel you squeeze me."
"I'm—I'm—"
"Come, baby. Now."
The world shattered. You screamed his name as your release crashed over you, your body convulsing, your pussy clenching around him in waves. And then you felt it—the gush of liquid, hot and sudden, soaking his cock and your thighs.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, fucking you through it. "Squirt for me. Let it all out."
You were trembling, oversensitive, but he didn't stop. He kept pounding into you, chasing his own release.
"I'm going to fill you up," he said, his voice strained. "Pump you full of my cum until you're dripping with it. Everyone's going to know you belong to me."
"Yes, Daddy—please—breed me—"
His hips stuttered, and you felt the first hot pulse of his release. It was endless—stream after stream, flooding your cunt, filling you so full that it leaked around his cock. He kept grinding, stirring his seed deeper, and you moaned at the feeling of being so completely claimed.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you panting, sweaty, trembling.
"Don't move," he said finally, his voice hoarse. "I want to feel you like this for a while."
You obeyed, your body limp, his cock still buried inside you. You could feel him softening, but he didn't pull out.
"Jeno," you whispered, your voice muffled by the pillow.
"Mm?"
"I don't think I ever want you to leave."
He turned your face toward him, kissing you softly—a stark contrast to the brutality of the past hour.
"Good," he said against your lips. "Because I'm not going anywhere."
And when he stirred inside you, already hardening again, you realized he meant it. This was only the beginning.
─── ✩ ───
feedback and reblog are always appreciated! ♡
Que rico
