Tucked away in a snowy retreat, your honeymoon with Zayne begins not with rest, but with laughter, lingering touches, and the slow unraveling of everything you’d been waiting for.
Continuation from this fluff 👀
Pairing: Zayne x MC/Reader
CW: Smut, shameless smut actually, married couple, first night, not their first time, multiple sex position, multiple sex place, oral sex, creampie, teasing, banter, body worship.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The snow crunches softly beneath your boots as you step out of the car, the chill brushing your skin even through your coat. You tug it tighter—not just from the cold. Zayne’s right behind you, and somehow, his presence makes even the winter night feel still and calm.
The cabin is tucked into the trees, lights glowing faintly through frosted windows. Smoke curls lazily from the chimney. It looks like it was pulled from some quiet dream, and for a second you just stare.
Zayne rests a hand on your lower back. “Too cold to linger, darling,” he murmurs, then leans in a little closer. “Unless you’re hoping to give our hosts a show.”
You snort, elbowing him gently as you head for the front door. “Says the one who packs three scarves like we’re summiting a mountain.”
“You’re the one with silk under fleece,” he says calmly.
You stumble on the last step.
You definitely didn’t tell him about the lingerie.
The suite inside is warm, quiet. There’s a flickering fire already lit in the stone hearth, casting a golden glow across the polished wood floor and the thick, dark rugs. Your luggage is here too—someone must’ve dropped it off while you were still at the reception. Everything’s as it should be, every detail taken care of.
You slide your coat off slowly, fingers brushing over the fastenings beneath your sweater—where travel layers hide something far more delicate. You’re still wearing soft travel pants and a cozy knit sweater, but underneath... you’re ready.
Zayne’s moved to check something by the fireplace, shrugging out of his jacket and rolling his sleeves with slow, deliberate care. When he turns back, his gaze flickers down your form—and pauses, like he can see right through the layers.
“You look warm,” he says, voice mild, but his eyes are anything but.
You smile, heart kicking up just a little. “Mm. Cozy.”
He steps toward you, stopping close. “Comfortable?”
His hand brushes your hip. “How long do you plan to stay dressed like that?”
“That depends,” you murmur, tilting your chin up. “How long do you plan to keep looking at me like that without doing anything?”
There’s a flicker in his expression—something soft, something dangerous.
His fingers slide beneath the hem of your sweater—slow, testing—and when you don’t stop him, he lifts it higher, revealing the thin lace strap beneath. His breath catches, just a little.
“You were planning this,” he says, low.
“You didn’t think I’d notice?”
“I hoped you would.” You arch a brow at him, the boldness only half-played. “Though I wasn’t expecting you to comment on it in the snow.”
“You were fidgeting,” he murmurs, inching the fabric up more. “It gave you away.”
You let him lift the sweater the rest of the way. His touch is gentle, reverent even, but his eyes—his eyes are already devouring you.
The lingerie is delicate, a soft ivory that mirrors your wedding dress from earlier—like you never quite let the ceremony end—trimmed with faint gold shimmer that catches the firelight. He looks at you like you’re something unearthly. Something he can’t believe belongs to him.
He lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles along the line of your bra. “You wore this the whole evening?”
You smile, stepping back just enough to start undoing the drawstring of your pants. “And you’re slow.”
He’s on you in the next step, his hands replacing yours as he finishes pulling the pants down—slowly, deliberately. You feel the way his knuckles skim your thighs as he slides them off, the coolness of his breath as he lowers himself to his knees.
Zayne doesn’t speak—not right away. He just looks. At you, like you’re art—posed in lace and gold, glowing in the firelight. His hands come to rest at the backs of your thighs, and for a second, he doesn’t move at all. Just breathes you in.
You laugh. “And you still said I do.”
He kisses your hip in answer.
And then he rises again, slowly, wrapping his arms around your waist, lifting you with the same quiet grace he always carries—and yet somehow, now, it feels entirely different. Like the whole world has narrowed down to this: his arms around you, your bare skin against his chest, the rustle of lace and breath and heat.
Instinctively, you loop your arms around his neck, heart stuttering.
“You’re carrying me?” you murmur, caught off guard by how natural it feels.
Zayne hums, calm and matter-of-fact. “Wouldn’t be right not to.”
The bed dips beneath your back as he lowers you gently onto the sheets. The firelight catches the shimmer in your lingerie again, and when his eyes trail over your body this time, it’s slower. Focused. He doesn’t move for a long moment—just takes you in, like he’s memorizing everything from the curve of your waist to the way the lace clings to your chest.
His gaze lingers there, and then—
“…You wore something like this before,” he murmurs. “Didn’t you?”
Your lips twitch into a small smile. “Might’ve crossed your mind a few times?”
His fingers brush over the edge of the lace, ghosting the outline of your breast without touching too directly. “The one with the built-in opening.”
He looks up at you again, slower this time. “You picked something similar on purpose.”
“Well,” you say lightly, dragging your nail along his forearm where he’s leaning over you, “you didn’t seem to mind it last time. Thought I’d wear something just as easy to work with.”
Zayne’s expression shifts—faintly strained at the edges, like he’s holding back too much at once. And then he finally slips a finger beneath the lace, pulling it down—not even bothering to take it off. Just enough to bare your breasts to the open air. Just enough to ruin you with how carefully he’s watching.
His gaze drops, darkening as he exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate.
“I like this one even more.”
His hands come up to cradle the weight of your chest, fingers splaying as his thumbs drag lightly over your nipples. They’re already stiff from the chill and anticipation, and his touch is maddeningly delicate—just enough pressure to tease, not satisfy.
His mouth is cool when it closes over your breast, the soft sharpness of it dragging a gasp straight from your throat. His tongue flicks against your nipple first, almost lazy, then circles it with slow, measured care. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t press harder. He just lingers, tasting you like he’s learning something from every movement.
One hand remains on your other breast, thumb brushing steady circles over the sensitive peak while he sucks gently, steadily, on the one in his mouth. His tongue swirls again—slow and wet—and your body jolts, hips shifting without your permission.
You arch toward him, breath catching. “Zayne—”
He doesn’t answer. Just moves to the other side with maddening control. His mouth closes around your other nipple just as slowly, just as gently, and you feel the wet drag of his tongue before he pulls back to nip at the soft skin just beneath. The sharpness makes you flinch—but he soothes the sting instantly, tongue flattening over the spot before trailing up again, dragging heat in his wake.
He returns to your nipple with a hum—quiet, pleased—and takes it between his lips again, sucking until your toes curl.
Then his fingers come back, cruel in their contrast. One hand pinches lightly, rolling the sensitive bud between his fingers until it swells, oversensitive and aching. The other hand cups you, thumb rubbing in slow, purposeful circles. Your breath stutters, your thighs shifting under the weight of his mouth—but his focus never wavers.
“I’ve barely touched you,” he murmurs, his lips brushing across your skin as he moves from one breast to the other, dragging his mouth messily across your chest, “and you’re already shaking.”
“I—It’s sensitive—” you breathe, voice already fraying.
“I know,” he says, and his tone is soft, dangerously pleased. He kisses your breast again, slower this time, like drawing breath from you. “You always are. But tonight…”
He pulls back just far enough to watch your reaction as he pinches again, just a bit firmer this time—measured, intentional. Your body twitches, hips rising, and a shiver rolls through you.
“…I want to see how far I can take you.”
Alternates between lips and tongue, hand and mouth, just enough to keep you desperate—and never enough to let you settle.
He kisses lower first, returning to your breasts with wet, open-mouthed attention. One nipple disappears into his mouth while his fingers roll the other. You jolt when he pinches, a broken moan spilling out, and he groans softly around you like he feels it too. His tongue flicks quick, teasing strokes—then slows again, dragging in a broad, flat circle that makes your breath stutter.
Then he shifts, mouth lifting from your chest, trailing coolness to the center of your body.
He kisses your collarbone. Your throat. The underside of your jaw.
His hand never leaves your chest.
It keeps moving, fingertips grazing over your flushed skin, thumb stroking your nipple in tight, rhythmic circles while he finds the hollow of your throat and lingers there with his lips. You feel his breath against your skin, cool and steady, just before his mouth finds yours in a kiss that feels almost cruel with how sweet it is.
You moan into it, helpless and breathless, hips shifting under him, thighs pressing together as your body begs for more friction. But he just kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue sliding past your lips in a way that makes you dizzy.
Your hands wrap around his neck, pulling him closer.
And while his mouth claims yours, both hands move on your breasts again—palming them, squeezing just enough to keep you panting. One hand pinches, sharper this time, and your whole body jerks. He swallows the sound you make and drags his lips away from yours just to murmur, “That’s it,” against your mouth.
Then he kisses lower again. Not rushed. Almost like he’s indulging himself.
He sucks hard the moment he reaches you again, and your back lifts sharply from the bed.
You cry out—raw, startled—because it’s too much now, and he doesn’t stop. He licks over the swollen peak in broad strokes, easing it briefly, but then his hand closes around the other and starts all over again—pinching, rolling, coaxing every last tremor from your body.
He breaks away from your breast just to kiss you again, like he can’t decide what he wants most.
And it’s that—that—that ruins you.
The way he keeps switching—cool mouth, sharp hands, unrelenting rhythm. The way he doesn’t let up. The way he gives you everything except what you’re squirming for.
You’re moaning openly now, voice cracking, body shaking under the weight of his mouth and touch. Your hands in his hair tighten. Your thighs tremble, hips twitching with no rhythm, and he stays exactly where he is—kissing your chest again, sucking until your skin feels like it might bruise, his hand tweaking your nipple just a little too hard.
And it hits you before you even realize it.
Release hits you with a gasp—sharp, unsteady—your back arching high off the bed as he sucks hard one final time, sealing it in, locking it deep. Your whole body pulses with it, shudders rolling through you, and he just…keeps going, gentle now. Tongue soothing, lips soft. Like he’s drawing it out, helping you ride the wave until you melt against the sheets.
He doesn’t stop right away. Lets the aftershocks roll through you while his hand strokes your side, grounding. Gentle. Worshipful.
When you finally open your eyes again, he’s still watching you.
“My wife,” Zayne murmurs, voice low and reverent—like he’s saying something holy.
The word hits you deeper than you expect. Like it sinks into your skin and nests in your chest, warming everything from the inside. It makes you feel wanted, claimed, but more than that—loved. All of you. In every possible way.
You don’t even have time to reply before he leans down and kisses you—soft at first, lips slow against yours, then deeper, his tongue sweeping over yours like he’s drinking you in. His mouth trails from there, down your jaw, along the slope of your neck. He kisses you like he’s charting a path, each press of his lips deliberate, slow, each breath he draws puffing coolness against your skin.
He doesn’t stop. Your collarbone, then the top of your chest. He kisses around the edge of the lace he pushed aside earlier, brushing his nose against the line where fabric meets bare skin. But instead of lingering there, he keeps going—down, lower, his mouth brushing the soft curve of your stomach still underneath the lace, the dip of your navel, then even lower, until he settles between your legs.
His hands curl under your thighs, gently lifting and parting them. He kisses the inside of one, then the other—slow, open-mouthed kisses that sting slightly from the coolness of his breath. His tongue flicks a sensitive spot near your knee, and you twitch, breath catching.
When his eyes meet yours again, they’re dark with hunger, intense and unblinking.
He trails lower. His lips brush down the inside of your thigh, cool and deliberate, like he’s memorizing every inch. He pauses to mouth at the skin just beside the edge of the sheer opening, letting his breath fan against the wet heat of your folds without touching. His nose skims over the fabric, inhaling deeply. You feel it everywhere.
“Zayne—” you manage, already breathless, but he doesn’t answer.
The first lick is slow. From the very bottom of your slit all the way up, his tongue presses flat, dragging against you without mercy. He stops just shy of your clit, close enough that your hips twitch upward on instinct.
You suck in a sharp breath, fingers threading into his hair as he repeats the motion—painfully controlled, always avoiding the one spot you ache for. His hands grip your thighs tighter when you shift, holding you steady as he licks you open with maddening precision.
“You just came,” he murmurs against you. “So isn’t me going slow helpful?”
You exhale, legs trembling around him. You’re still sensitive—every drag of his tongue sends sparks through your spine—but that doesn’t dull the heat building again. If anything, it sharpens it.
“Y-you call this helping?” you choke out, hips twitching despite yourself.
He doesn’t answer. Just flattens his tongue against your slit once more, firmer this time—unapologetic.
A gasp rips from you as your hands fly to his shoulders, trying to anchor yourself, but his mouth only presses closer—hot, wet, and relentless, exactly like the pulse deep in your core. Your thighs twitch against his grip, already too close again and nowhere near satisfied.
When he finally gives your clit a passing flick, you cry out, only for him to retreat again, teasing the edge of it with barely-there touches, as if by accident. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s dragging it out on purpose.
Your back arches helplessly, thighs trembling and clenching around his shoulders, but he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps working you open—slow, thorough, wicked. His fingers return to your breasts, pinching lightly at your nipples, rolling them in time with the maddening pace of his tongue.
The heat, the attention, the way he gives and withholds all at once—it’s dizzying. Your breath comes in short, broken gasps. Your hips twitch, trying to chase his mouth, but he keeps you pinned easily, mouth dragging another slow stroke right past where you want him most.
“Zayne—” you breathe, fingers tightening in his hair, tugging harder this time. “Do I—god—do I get my turn now?”
It comes out shaky, pleading, already fraying at the edges. You don’t even know if you’re asking to touch him or for him to finally let you come again—maybe both. Either way, you’re falling apart, and he hasn’t even let up.
Zayne hums against you, thoughtful but unbothered, his tongue still working. “Later,” he says, voice vibrating straight through your skin. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
And with that, he parts the fabric opening even further, thumbs slipping beneath the lace to hold you open for him.
The vibration of his voice as he speaks again is too much. It makes your stomach tense, your hips roll upward. You don’t even get to tease him back—because his tongue slides inside you next, wet and hot and slow.
A startled moan escapes your throat. Your legs tremble in his grip, but he’s not letting you close them. One hand glides up and down your thigh in calming motions while the other presses lightly against the top of your leg, holding you open just the way he wants.
And then—oh fuck—his thumb flicks your clit. A quick, knowing swipe that leaves you gasping. He circles it slowly after, matching the pace of his tongue. You’re squirming under him now, moaning his name again and again, but his grip never loosens.
You can’t move. Can’t breathe. All you can do is feel.
His mouth leaves you only for a second, and then his fingers slide into you—two of them, slow, stretching you with unbearable patience. The drag of his knuckles has your toes curling.
There’s no break. He shifts lower on the bed tucking one of his legs beneath yours, spreading you wider. The new angle makes the slide of his fingers deeper, fuller, and his other hand returns to your chest, thumb brushing over your nipple again.
“Seriously?” you groan, voice caught somewhere between a moan and a laugh.
Zayne tilts his head, feigning innocence—but his eyes are dark, lips slick and curled in quiet amusement.
“Something wrong?” he murmurs, like he’s not deliberately driving you insane. His voice is hoarse now, raw with arousal, and his gaze flickers from your chest to your face like he’s committing every reaction to memory.
You’re about to answer—say something—but he adds another finger, and your hips jerk before he presses a hand to your stomach, pinning you down.
“Hm?” He doesn’t even pretend to stop. His thumb finds your clit again and circles, slow and precise.
Your breath stutters. You don’t know if you’re frustrated or overwhelmed. Probably both. He leans up again, latches onto your nipple without warning, and you hiss from the sharp edge of sensation. He sucks, then releases with a wet pop before kissing up to your mouth again.
You wrap your arms around his shoulders and back, pulling him closer. He’s still fingering you, slowly, and you take your chance—grind your hips up just enough to feel the solid heat of his cock pressed to your stomach.
He groans low, pulling back from the kiss, eyes flashing with need.
“Does it feel good?” he murmurs, even as his fingers keep working inside you.
Your breath hitches. You tilt your head to let him kiss your neck again. “Feels good…”
Before you gently guide his face up so you can really see him.
“But I want to make you feel good too.”
He pauses, eyes flicking over your face. Then he kisses your lips again. Once. Twice. A third time—slower, softer.
“People do say happy wife, happy life,” he murmurs against your mouth.
You snort, shaking your head, biting your lip to hide your smile. “Exactly. So let me return the favor.”
You nip at his lower lip before trailing your hand down—slow, deliberate. Pulling his fingers from you with a moan. He doesn’t stop you. When your fingers close over the thick outline of his cock, he groans, the sound rumbling from his chest as he lets you push him back onto the bed.
He follows easily, lips curving as you guide him down.
You shift up, straddling his hips, and tug at the hem of his sweater. “Way too many clothes.”
He lifts his arms obligingly, and you drag the fabric up—slow, teasing. It lifts over his stomach, then his chest, then off completely. You toss it aside.
“Much better already,” you murmur, eyes roaming over him.
Your hands move lower. You strip his pants next, then his boxers, baring him entirely. His cock springs free, flushed and hard, already glistening at the tip.
Your mouth goes dry. You lick your lips without realizing it.
He watches you the entire time. Like he wants to see exactly what you’re going to do.
You trail your fingers from the base of his length to the tip, slow and teasing. He shudders beneath you, his jaw tightening just slightly. Still, his eyes never leave yours.
You grip him at the base, slow and sure, and drag your hand upward in a slick stroke. The way his breath hitches—how his abs tighten just slightly beneath your thigh—sends a thrill straight through you. He’s so hard, heavy and hot in your hand, and you feel a jolt of satisfaction when you brush your thumb across the head and his hips twitch upward.
"You're enjoying this," you murmur, fingers working a little faster now, tightening your grip on the down stroke.
Zayne’s eyes stay locked on yours, dark with hunger. “Of course. I have a gorgeous wife sitting on top of me, making me feel like this. What’s not to enjoy?”
You smile, leaning down to kiss his chest, your strokes still smooth and steady. You press your lips to the center of his sternum, then lower, trailing kisses down until you're hovering just above his cock. You exhale purposefully, watching him twitch in response. Your tongue flicks out, giving the head a teasing lick, and Zayne's hand slides into your hair instantly, not pushing, just holding.
But just as you’re about to take him into your mouth—just as your lips brush the tip—
“Up here,” he murmurs, voice a little rougher now. “And turn around.”
His thumb brushes behind your ear, coaxing you gently back up. “I want your thighs around my head,” he says simply, eyes gleaming. “Turn. Face down.”
You stare at him for a beat, then raise a brow. “This is my turn.”
Zayne smiles, lazy and knowing. “Are you saying you can’t focus on sucking me off if I’m also eating you out, darling?”
You huff. The second the words leave his mouth, you feel the heat flare in your stomach—and your pride flaring right along with it.
“Oh really,” you mutter, already shifting your position.
Zayne doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. The way he watches you move—like he’s already won—says it all.
You crawl up, straddling his chest before slowly turning yourself around. You adjust your knees on either side of his ribs, the faint graze of your skin over his chest making him hum low in his throat. Now you’re facing his cock again, but this time you feel his hands gripping your thighs, guiding your folds down to his mouth. His breath still cool, between your legs, and your own stutters just from the anticipation.
You lower your mouth onto him, just the tip at first—wet, warm, your tongue circling slowly around the head. Beneath you, a rough sound slips from him. The sound vibrates against your skin, and then his mouth is on you too—tongue dragging a slow line up your slit before dipping in and curling upward.
You gasp around him, choking slightly, but you recover quickly. You slide more of him into your mouth, your hand stroking what you can’t take yet, and suck harder.
Zayne groans again. This time it’s hoarse, breathless. His hips lift slightly into your mouth, but his hands are steady on your thighs, spreading you wider.
He dives in deeper now, licking you open with long, practiced strokes. His tongue parts your folds, tracing every inch before focusing on your clit—short flicks at first, then slow circles that make your thighs tremble. He doesn’t rush. He’s savoring. Enjoying every reaction you give him.
You try to keep your rhythm, try to stay focused—but your own moans are getting harder to swallow.
You lower yourself further on his cock, feeling the stretch in your jaw, and the weight of him on your tongue makes your core clench, aching for more.. You hum around him instinctively, and Zayne lets out a ragged breath, deeper this time, the sound vibrating straight into your core.
Then his tongue thrusts into you—slow, deliberate, in rhythm with his hands pushing your thighs slowly, making your hip drop down as you gasp in shock, before he grips your hips, holding you in place.
Your legs tighten uncontrollably. Your hips roll against his face without meaning to, and your moan turns into something breathless, wet around his cock.
You can’t focus anymore. Not fully.
Your pace falters as he starts to suck your clit—hard—and your arms shake around him, breast fully flush against his skin. Your mouth leaves his cock for a second, panting, your cheek pressing to his thigh.
He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even pause. He just licks deeper, faster, tongue flicking cruelly over your clit, and your entire body shudders.
You try to go back to sucking him off, but the second you take him in again, he drags his tongue over that sensitive spot just beneath your clit—and you whimper, your hips grinding down helplessly.
He's doing this on purpose.
You fall apart slowly, losing that edge of competition bit by bit. Your jaw slackens, your strokes uneven now, more instinct than focus. Your fingers tremble as they wrap around him again, but your body—your body isn’t yours anymore. It’s his. It’s reacting to him.
Because Zayne is still feasting on you like a man starved. Like tasting you is a privilege. Like he wants to bury himself in your body, through his tongue if nothing else.
You whimper again, unable to stop yourself, your hips beginning to stutter.
You try—you really try—to keep stroking him, licking him, to not let your body collapse entirely from the heat winding tighter in your belly. Your hand pumps his cock steadily, slick with your spit, and you give him a few more messy licks, mouth trembling around him. Every time he twitches in your grasp, it pushes you to keep going. To match him, if only a little.
But Zayne doesn’t let up. Not for a second.
His hands grip your hips, anchoring you in place while his tongue works you mercilessly—flicking and curling, dragging across your clit again and again. He knows your body too well. Knows exactly how to keep you on the edge, how to push you right past it.
“Z-Zayne—fuck, I’m—” your voice breaks around the words, muffled by his cock resting heavy on your tongue.
Your thighs quake around his head, and you cry out around his cock, the sound vibrating through your throat. Your hips grind instinctively against his mouth, riding out every wave as his tongue keeps moving, keeps coaxing, even as your body clenches and shudders above him.
But your hand doesn’t stop either. More instinct than anything now.
Even while your body spirals through orgasm, you keep your hand on him, still pumping his cock in shaky, determined strokes. Your lips part again, dragging your tongue along the underside of his length as best you can. It’s messy. Desperate. A cry breaks from your lips freely against his skin, humming around him as the aftershocks pulse through you.
Zayne groans into you in return—low and rough, a sound of pure satisfaction.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even pause to catch his breath. He just holds you tighter, mouth sealed to you like he’s drinking you down, licking and sucking through every twitch of your orgasm. The wet sounds between your legs only get louder, filthier, and your entire body feels flushed, dizzy, wrung out in the best way.
You collapse forward, still breathing heavily, face against his thigh, lips brushing the base of his cock as your fingers keep stroking him slow, tender now. Worshipful. You’re too spent to do more, but you want to give him everything. Even like this.
He finally slows, tongue giving you one last languid lick before he gently kisses the inside of your thigh. One of his hands rubs soothing circles against your hip.
“…That’s two,” he murmurs, voice hoarse.
You groan tiredly against him. “Not the counting again.”
Zayne’s chuckle is quiet, his breath cool against your sensitive skin. “I’ll count it in my head then.”
You shift, still catching your breath, then glance down at his cock, still flushed and hard and glistening. You wrap your hand around him again with a weak smile.
“Still my turn, you know.”
He hums, fingertips skimming your thigh. “Mm. No one stopping you, wife.”
Your lips twitch at the word. You’ve been hearing it a lot today, but it still sends another ripple through your chest, even with your body still boneless.
You lift yourself slowly, dragging your lips up his cock in a languid, open-mouthed kiss before pulling back entirely. Zayne’s breath hitches as you shift to crawl off him, but you don’t go far—just enough to turn and straddle him, placing your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart beneath your palms.
His eyes trail over you, from the sweat-slick curve of your body to the lace clinging to your hips, barely concealing anything now.
“You planning to sit on me like that and not ride me?” he asks, voice husky but teasing.
You lean down, lips ghosting over his, your breath brushing his skin. “Trying to decide if you deserve it.” Even though you both know it that you’re just trying to catch your breath.
His lips curve grows, but there's something else in his gaze too—something warmer, more undone. “Wife,” he says again, quieter this time, like the word means more than a title. Like it’s a promise.
Your heart trips. Your thighs tighten around him.
You shift your hips, dragging your soaked folds over the length of his cock without taking him in yet. Just letting him feel how ready you are. How wet he’s made you. His head tips back at the contact, a low groan curling from his throat as his hands come up to rest on your waist—but he doesn’t guide you. Doesn’t push.
He always does, when it matters.
You lift yourself slightly and reach between your bodies, lining him up with your entrance. You’re still sensitive—aching in the best way—but the stretch is familiar, hot and welcome as you start to sink down on him.
Zayne lets out a sharp breath, his fingers pressing a little harder into your skin.
You moan softly, bottoming out with a slow roll of your hips. “Feel good?”
His eyes flutter open. “Always.” He reaches up and brushes a strand of hair from your face, his thumb grazing your cheek. “You’re incredible.”
You lean into his touch for just a second before bracing your hands on his chest again, lifting your hips just a little and then rocking back down. Slow. Deep. Making sure he feels every inch.
Zayne groan again, low and reverent, his jaw clenching as you keep your pace deliberate. He’s watching you—always watching you—with that same look from earlier. Like he can’t believe this is real. That you are his.
You roll your hips again, adjusting your angle until the pressure hits just right. You gasp, tightening around him. His fingers twitch on your waist in response.
“You like that?” he murmurs.
You nod, breathless. “Yeah. But I’m doing this for you.”
“Mm,” he hums, clearly amused. “Then take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”
You grin, leaning down to kiss him—slow, deep, lingering. And as your hips begin to move again, you moan into his mouth, giving him everything, just like you promised.
Zayne’s breath hitches, though not from your hips this time—his hand slides up your arm, fingers brushing your wrist before finding your left hand. He laces his fingers through yours, then lifts it slowly to his mouth.
You glance down at him, dazed and flushed, as his lips press to your knuckles. Then lower. To your ring finger. To the delicate band circling it. His gaze never leaves yours as he kisses your ring, making your gaze shift to the matching one on his own hand where it rests against your waist.
The gesture makes your chest tighten all over again. You clench around him without meaning to, and his breath stutters.
His other hand comes up to cup your breast, thumbing over your nipple, still swollen from earlier, the touch sends another spark through you. The touch sends another spark through you. You grind down a little harder, your motions still slow but more intentional now—precise. Like you know how close he is. Like you’re guiding him there, just as he guided you.
“Still doing this for me?” he murmurs, voice low, strained.
You smile through your panting. “Mhm. Every second.”
And you prove it. You grind down again, this time tightening around him deliberately, purposefully. His groan is muffled this time, jaw tightening as he grips your hand harder.
This time, Zayne’s rhythm falters.
His breath hitches—sharp, barely audible. The hand on your breast tightens slightly, fingers splaying like he’s trying to ground himself, and his other stays laced with yours, knuckles white with tension. It’s the only part of him that doesn’t move—everything else starts to unravel.
His hips jerk upward, a single, desperate thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.
And again—sharp, needy movements, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. His control is fraying, the way it always does when he’s too far gone to be quiet about it. You can feel it in every inch of him—the trembling in his thighs, the shaky exhale, the low, broken groan he bites back.
You whisper his name, low and coaxing, squeezing his hand in yours like you’re holding him together.
He groans again, deeper this time, almost pained, like your voice is what finally tips him over the edge. His hips stutter beneath you, muscles tight and shaking as he pushes as deep as he can go and stays there—buried in you, throbbing.
He comes with a soft, strangled breath of your name, his cock twitching inside you, spilling deep, and the warmth of it makes you gasp—makes you clench around him instinctively. It fills you, thick and hot, until there’s too much to hold and some of it leaks out, slick between your bodies.
But you don’t stop. You keep moving—slow now, careful—grinding gently, coaxing him through the last waves. His hand stays tight in yours until, finally, the tension starts to ease. His grip softens. His body sags beneath you like the last of the strain has drained from his muscles.
Only then does Zayne pull you down, slow and wordless. His hand slides to the back of your neck, guiding you until your forehead presses to his. He kisses you—firm, lingering, like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of your mouth. No teasing. No smug remarks.
Just slow, open-mouthed kisses. Deep and reverent.
His other hand slips from your breast to cradle your waist, holding you there—against him, around him, like he never wants to let go.
Zayne doesn’t stop kissing you, even after his breathing evens out. His lips are slower now, gentler. Like he could spend the rest of the night right here, tasting your mouth between sighs.
You murmur into the next kiss, boneless against him. Still joined. Still full of him.
Eventually, he draws back from the kiss with a soft exhale, his forehead resting against yours.
“…We should clean you up,” he says, voice hoarse but affectionate.
You huff a sleepy, reluctant sound, brushing your nose against his. “Later.”
He smiles faintly, thumb brushing your jaw. “You’ll fall asleep like this.”
You hum again, pretending to think. “And?”
Zayne laughs softly, then shifts—effortlessly lifting you, one arm cradling your back while the other supports your thighs. You make a quiet noise of protest, wrapping your arms around his neck, but you don’t complain when he carries you toward the bathroom. His cock slips out of you as he walks, and you shudder at the sensation, at the warmth leaking down your thigh.
“Messy,” he murmurs, amusement curling beneath the word.
You swat weakly at his shoulder. “Your fault.”
“I didn’t hear any complaints,” he says, brushing a kiss against your temple before nudging the bathroom door open.
The lights are soft—he must’ve dimmed them earlier—but the marble tiles still catch the gold of the overhead glow. He sets you down gently on the edge of the tub, then reaches for the taps, turning them just enough for steam to begin curling into the air. The tub starts to fill slowly, a low hum echoing in the quiet.
You sit there watching him—his bare back, the relaxed curve of his shoulders. There’s a little flush at the tips of his ears now, probably from earlier, and his hair is slightly mussed. He looks younger like this. Softer. Yours.
His gaze shifts as he turns back to you, and this time it lingers.
You’re still wearing the lingerie—barely. The lace clings to you damply, stretched and askew, doing nothing now to hide how thoroughly he’s ruined you.
Zayne kneels in front of you, hands on your knees. He leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your thigh.
“Let me take this off,” he says, fingertips ghosting over the waistband.
You lift your hips obediently, letting him peel the lace down your legs. He moves slowly, reverently. Like it’s not just clothing he’s removing—but layers.
His eyes trail over you as he slips the ruined lingerie aside. And even though he’s already seen you, touched you, tasted you—you feel bare in a different way now. Exposed. Worshipped.
When the bath is full enough, he turns off the taps. He helps you rinse first then helps you in the tub. The water is warm and welcoming, and you sigh as you sink into it. Zayne slides in behind you, pulling you gently between his legs, your back resting against his chest.
You let your head fall against his shoulder, breathing in the steam and the clean scent of him.
His arms wrap around you beneath the water. One hand brushes over your thigh, then between them—careful, soothing. Cleaning. But there’s no mistaking the heat behind his touch, the way his fingers trail just a little slower over your still-sensitive folds. The way his mouth brushes the shell of your ear.
“We’re supposed to be cleaning,” you murmur, barely holding back a smile.
“We are,” he says, utterly unconvincing.
Then his hand moves again, this time with unmistakable intent—stroking, parting, exploring you all over again.
You squirm slightly, heat coiling low in your stomach despite how thoroughly he already wrung you out. “You’re insatiable.”
Zayne’s voice is soft against the back of your neck. “I’m your husband. It’s expected.”
You twist in his arms, water sloshing softly around you both as you reach up to kiss him again. This one’s slower, deeper, lazy in a way that says you could spend hours like this—just lips and warmth and skin.
Zayne hums against your mouth, one hand stroking languid circles along your thigh beneath the water. His cock nudges your lower back as you shift closer, and you feel him twitch at the contact.
“You’re hard again,” you murmur, smiling against his lips.
He kisses you once more before replying, tone low and dry, “I’m in the bath with my naked wife.”
You snort, nipping gently at his jaw. “Flimsy excuse.”
Zayne leans in, brushing his mouth over your cheek, your ear, then lower—his lips pressing a slow kiss to the back of your neck. The same spot he always goes for. Always finds. Like instinct.
“You keep kissing me there,” you whisper, breath hitching.
He hums. “That's why you're put it there right.”
You tilt your head without thinking, offering him more. He doesn’t bite, just brushes his lips there again, slow and lingering, like he’s memorizing the shape of it all over again.
The heat in the water is nothing compared to the way your body responds to him. Even after everything, you’re already aching again.
You shift, grinding back slightly, letting him feel you. “You wanna keep playing, husband?”
Zayne's breath hitches against your neck.
Then his hand slides around your waist, gripping firmly as he pulls you up with him. Water drips from your skin as he rises, carrying you again—not all the way this time, just helping you out of the tub before following behind.
You blink, still breathless, but before you can ask where he’s going, he tugs you gently by the wrist toward the wide bathroom mirror above the sink.
“Turn around,” he says softly, stepping up behind you.
Your pulse stutters. You do as he says, standing there fully bare, flushed and dripping, your body slick from the bath. His reflection meets yours in the glass—wet hair, sharp jaw, the faintest flush on his cheeks. But it’s his eyes that catch you.
You watch as his hands slide along your waist, traveling up to cup your breasts, thumbing over your nipples, still sensitive from earlier. You gasp, arching slightly into his touch.
Then he leans in, mouth brushing that same spot again—your tattoo, still damp from the water.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice barely audible, reverent. “Look at you.”
You bite your lip, eyes flickering down to the mirror, catching sight of yourself—skin flushed, legs pressed together, body trembling already under his touch. Zayne’s cock presses firmly against the small of your back, thick and eager.
“My gorgeous wife,” he says again, kissing along the back of your neck, trailing lower. “All mine.”
You moan softly, thighs clenching. “In front of the mirror? Really?”
He chuckles low against your skin. “You’re the one who looks like a dream in it. You need to see yourself properly.”
Then he nudges your legs apart gently with his knee, bending you slightly at the waist, his hand firm on your hip as he lines himself up behind you.
The moment he sinks in, both of you groan—deep and sharp. Your hands brace against the cool counter, head falling forward, while Zayne leans into your back, bottoming out with a slow grind of his hips.
The mirror reflects all of it. Your parted lips. The way your body stretches to take him. The way Zayne’s eyes darken as he watches the way you react to every thrust.
“You feel that?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing as he rolls his hips again, deeper this time. “Look how good you take me.”
You whimper, keeping your eyes locked with his in the mirror, lips parted. “Zayne—”
His hand slides up your spine, then tangles in your damp hair, not pulling—just holding you there, keeping your gaze locked with his. The next thrust is harder, making your legs tremble.
“You going to fall apart again for me?” he asks, breath cool—even after all this time—against your ear, lips trailing across your shoulder. “Like this?”
You nod helplessly, moaning as he picks up pace, cock slamming into you with a rhythm that feels almost punishing—but it’s not. It’s perfect. His grip is firm but never rough, unless you ask him to. His voice is teasing but always full of praise.
And he never stops looking at you. At your face, your body, the way your skin shakes with each thrust.
At the way you take him so well.
The sounds filling the bathroom are obscene—wet, rhythmic, breathless. Your skin slaps against his with each thrust, your moans rising every time he drives into you from behind, each movement angled just right to make your knees threaten to buckle.
Zayne’s hand traces up your stomach, smooth as ever, deliberate, until it finds your chest again. He cups one breast gently, thumbing over the sensitive peak, and you sob softly at the sensation. The mirror shows everything—how flushed your skin is, how your lips part with each sound, how Zayne keeps watching you like you’re the only thing in the world worth looking at.
Then his other hand slides lower.
He doesn’t touch you there—not directly. Instead, he wraps his fingers around your wrist and brings your hand between your legs.
“Touch yourself for me,” he murmurs against your shoulder. “You know how. Just like that.”
But your fingers obey, slipping between your folds, already slick from the bath and everything else. The added pressure draws a choked moan from your lips as your fingers circle your clit, and you instinctively clench around him in response.
Zayne groans low, the sound nearly breaking into a growl. “That’s it,” he whispers, voice rough with restraint. “You feel what you’re doing to me?”
You nod frantically, still moving your fingers, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. Your legs shake beneath you, pleasure mounting again way too fast.
A shudder rolls through you when his cool breath brushes the back of your neck. “You’re perfect. Every part of you.” Another thrust, harder this time. “Look at you, love. How beautiful you are when you’re about to come.”
You whimper, eyes locked with his in the mirror. His gaze doesn’t waver—he watches everything. The way your body trembles. The way your mouth falls open. The way your fingers work yourself while he keeps filling you over and over again.
And the words keep coming. Quiet. Deep. Meant only for you.
Your climax crashes into you before you can speak, your body seizing around him, you brace one arm against the mirror, your forearm pressing to your lips as your cry escapes—muffled and broken—while your other hand keeps circling your clit, chasing every last pulse of pleasure that shakes through your core. You grind back against him desperately, still trembling through it, as Zayne slows—but doesn’t stop.
He holds you steady through it all, hand firm on your waist as he lets you ride out every wave, your body clenching around his cock, drawing him in deeper and deeper.
Only when your legs nearly give out does he finally pull you up against his chest, lifting you just enough to keep you steady.
Your chest heaves. Your fingers fall away from yourself, spent. And Zayne—still hard, still deep inside—presses a kiss to your jaw as he wraps both arms around you from behind.
His voice hums low against your ear. “Still with me?”
You nod faintly, the barest smile playing at your lips. “Barely.”
He chuckles, breath cool against your skin.
And you don’t get a warning for what happens next.
One second you’re still catching your breath in his arms, trembling from your last orgasm, and the next you’re being turned. Zayne shifts you gently but purposefully, and before you can even find your balance, your back meets the warm tile of the bathroom wall.
The contrast makes you gasp.
“Shh.” His voice is soft, low, too steady for someone who’s still buried inside you. “I’ve got you.”
Your legs are too weak to argue, but they part easily as he lifts you, hands firm beneath your thighs, holding your full weight against the wall as he slides into you again.
You moan—helpless, full—and into him, fingers sinking into his hair, like holding him might steady the world. Every inch of you throbs, still raw from the last high, but you can’t stop. Won’t stop. Not when he’s looking at you like that. Not when he feels this good.
His hips begin to move again, slow but deep, pushing into you with careful precision. His breath catches when you clench around him, and then he leans in—mouth finding your jaw, then your throat, and lower still.
His tongue flicks against your breast before his lips close around your nipple, drawing it between his teeth. You cry out, head tipping back against the wall, your body arching to meet his mouth.
He groans around you, the vibration shooting straight through your core. His pace quickens.
You hold onto him tighter, legs trembling around his waist, your body curling forward as the pleasure builds again—burning and blooming, one wave on top of the next. You press your face into the crook of his neck, too overwhelmed to think.
Until your eyes flick open—
The mirror. The same one that had been in front of you moments ago is now behind him, angled just enough for you to catch your reflection.
You can see everything—your back arched, your breast being sucked by his mouth, your thighs spread wide around him as he thrusts up into you. The way your body bounces with every thrust, how he holds you like you weigh nothing. The way you cling to him like you’ll fall apart if he lets go.
Your mouth falls open, but no sound comes out.
He shifts slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder, and even though he can’t see what you’re seeing, he doesn’t need to. His lips curve against your skin in a knowing smirk.
“Oh?” he murmurs, voice thick with amusement. “Finally noticing the view?”
You whimper, burying your face against him—but your hips still move with his. And it’s too late. You can’t unsee it now.
Zayne chuckles, nudging your head aside so he can kiss your throat again. “You look beautiful, love. Every time I move, you tighten around me like you’re about to come again. Watching yourself fall apart?”
You nod shakily, your voice barely audible. “It’s—too much.”
“Mmm.” He presses deeper, harder, making you cry out again. “Don’t look away.”
His thrusts grow more urgent, more focused, slamming into you with unrelenting force. The slap of skin on skin echoes with your soft cries, your moans, his heavy breaths. His mouth never stops moving—your neck, your collarbone, your breast again, reverent and hungry. One of his hands slides to your lower back, angling you to meet each thrust perfectly, while the other still holds your thigh, tight, grounded.
And he’s still watching your every reaction like it’s the only thing that matters.
Your back thuds gently against the wall with every thrust. Your body’s slick with sweat and water, still unsteady from everything he’s already taken from you—but Zayne gives you no room to recover. Not when you’re moaning like this. Not when your nails are dragging down his back. Not when your eyes keep flicking to the mirror behind him like you’re hypnotized.
You cry out, clenching around him instinctively, and that makes him groan—deep, guttural—like he’s losing control.
“Can feel you it,” he pants, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re so tight… I won’t last long like this.”
You’re not sure you will either.
Every part of you is buzzing—overstimulated and starving at once. Your legs shake around him, arms still wrapped around his neck as if anchoring yourself there could slow the inevitable.
He shifts again, hips angling upward, and you nearly sob as the pressure slams perfectly into your sweet spot. Over and over. Each thrust tearing another breathless moan from your throat.
“Zayne—Zayne, I—” You can’t even form the words.
His hand slides between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing circles just firm enough, just fast enough to send your head spinning.
“That’s it,” he whispers, still watching the way your body moves for him in the mirror. “Let go, wife. Show me how beautiful you are like this.”
Your entire body locks up, then shudders violently as your orgasm crashes through you—hot, blinding, endless. You cling to him, crying out into his neck, pulsing around his cock in endless waves.
Zayne groans, his hips jerking as your body tightens around him again and again. His fingers dig into your thighs as he loses rhythm, thrusts growing erratic.
He presses deep—so deep—and spills into you with a strangled groan, face buried in your neck, his entire body trembling as he empties himself inside you for the second time tonight. You feel the heat of it, the way he fills you so full it almost aches, but you don’t move. You just cling to him, letting him hold your weight as your bodies twitch and tremble against one another.
Neither of you speak for a long moment.
There’s only the sound of breathing. Water dripping. The soft press of Zayne’s lips against your skin—your shoulder, your neck, your collarbone. Over and over, like he’s grounding himself in you.
Finally, you breathe, voice faint. “That’s four.”
Zayne huffs a soft laugh into your skin, still pressed deep inside you. “You were keeping count after all.”
You smile, weak but pleased. “Someone has to. You said you’d do it in your head, remember?”
His lips brush your shoulder, his voice quieter now. “I did.” He lifts his head, looking at you with eyes still dark and glassy. “I’m not counting. I’m remembering.”
That makes your chest ache. In a good way.
He kisses you then—slow, thorough, adoring—before slowly letting your legs down, careful to keep you steady. You wince slightly as he slips out of you, his hands already soothing, steadying your hips as he gently helps you stand.
You sway. He catches you.
“Come on,” he murmurs, brushing sweat-damp hair from your face. “Let’s actually clean up this time.”
You nod, eyes half-lidded, leaning into his chest as he guides you back toward the tub—arms around you like you’re something breakable now.
And even if your legs still tremble, you feel safe. Cared for. Loved.
The bathwater has cooled slightly, but it’s still warm enough to soothe your aching limbs. Zayne cradles you against his chest, letting your body rest against his.
For a while, neither of you say anything. The silence is comfortable, your heart still racing—but slower now, quieter.
His fingers trail gently along your arm underwater, then drift to the bottle of body wash at the side of the tub. He pours a little into his palm, working it into a gentle lather before he begins to wash you—slow strokes over your shoulders, down your arms, then across your chest with a feather light touch.
You sigh, leaning your head back against him.
“You’re spoiling me,” you murmur sleepily.
“Good.” His voice is soft, lips brushing the top of your damp hair. “That’s what honeymoons are for.”
He doesn’t rush. When he finishes with you, he nudges you forward a little, rinsing your back with careful, thorough strokes. And then your fingers find his hand and guide it to the cloth instead.
“My turn,” you say, a little smug.
Zayne lets you wash him without protest, even tilting his head when you lather gently under his jaw, pressing a kiss there as you finish.
Eventually, he shifts behind you, one hand resting lightly on your hip. “Come on. You’ll fall asleep in here if we stay too long.”
You nod reluctantly, letting him rise first before he helps you up too, both of you a little unsteady on your feet. He grabs the towels hanging on the wall and wraps one around your body first, then takes another for himself.
It’s only once you’re both out of the tub that the air hits you—cool and a little sharp after the warmth—and you instinctively step closer to him again.
Zayne catches you without hesitation, rubbing your back through the towel. His hair is damp, curling slightly at the ends, and the sight of him wrapped in nothing but a towel, eyes soft and a little glazed, does something funny to your chest.
You shake your head with a small smile. “Nothing. Just… you look good like this.”
He tilts his head. “Like this?”
“Messy,” you clarify, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair from his forehead. “Like you’ve been ruined.”
Zayne huffs a quiet laugh, eyes crinkling. “That would imply I didn’t enjoy every second.”
You grin, but it softens as he brushes his knuckles along your cheek, the gesture almost absentminded in its tenderness. He presses a kiss to your forehead, then nudges your towel-wrapped form toward the door.
“Let’s dry off properly,” he murmurs. “Before you catch a cold.”
You follow him out of the bathroom, feet padding across the cool floor. The room is dim and warm, the soft rustle of towels and quiet footsteps the only sounds as you both move around each other with easy familiarity.
Zayne disappears into the wardrobe for a second to grab fresh clothes, then pauses when he sees you tugging at your towel. He crosses the room to grab the hair dryer from the vanity.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the plush stool.
You arch a brow. “Planning to pamper me again?”
“Of course.” His answer is immediate, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He plugs in the dryer, fingers gently guiding you down to sit. “Turn around.”
You do. The towel is still wrapped around your chest, your skin warm and damp beneath it. You hear the click of the dryer, feel the first warm gust of air hit your shoulders.
Zayne starts unhurried, running the dryer in even passes through your hair, careful not to pull. His fingers follow after, combing through the strands with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.
“I always forget how soft it is,” he murmurs eventually, more to himself than to you. “Even when it’s damp.”
You smile faintly, closing your eyes at the praise. “You do spend a lot of time with your hands in it.”
His hands pause for just a second, then resume. “Only because it’s yours,” he says simply. “I like touching anything that belongs to you. And now mine too.”
You feel a warmth crawl up your neck at that, even though you’re still wrapped in towels and raw from pleasure. There’s no smugness in his voice, just quiet certainty.
“Possessive,” you murmur, barely audible over the hum of the dryer.
Zayne leans in just a little, not missing a beat. “And yet you keep letting me.”
You turn your head just enough to catch the amused curve of his mouth.
You close your eyes, leaning slightly into his touch as he continues. There’s something absurdly intimate about the moment—more than sex, more than the teasing. It’s the quiet care, the way his fingers never tug too hard, the way he smooths every section before moving on.
When he finishes your hair, he switches off the dryer, setting it aside with a soft clunk.
“Your turn,” you offer, glancing over your shoulder.
But you’re already standing, reaching for the dryer again. “Nope. You pampered me. I’m pampering you.”
Zayne raises a brow but sits without protest, and you can see the faint smile pulling at his mouth as you plug the dryer back in and angle it toward him.
His hair is shorter, but thick—and still damp at the roots. You start gently, fingers raking through while the warm air blows over him. His eyes close after a moment, lashes resting against his cheekbones, posture loose and trusting beneath your hands.
“You’re going to fall asleep,” you murmur, amused.
He exhales through his nose. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
You grin and keep going, making sure to get them all dry properly before crouching a little to press a kiss to the top of his head.
“There,” you say, satisfied. “Now we won’t wake up shivering.”
Zayne rises, towel slipping a little on his hips. He ignores it, stepping closer until his arms slip around your waist again.
“Smart and gorgeous,” he murmurs, dipping his head to kiss you. “My perfect wife.”
You flush at the praise, hands curling at his back. There’s no urgency now, no teasing—just warmth.
“You won’t get any sweet even if you keep flattering me,” you murmur, but the way your fingers clutch at him gives you away.
He chuckles before leaning in again, slower this time, lips brushing yours like he can’t help himself. “Worth a try.”
You laugh softly, the sound muffled between kisses, your body already molding into his without a second thought. He doesn’t press further, just holds you there for a moment, letting the quiet settle between your breaths. He lets his lips linger at your temple before pulling back slightly, eyes still soft.
“Stay here,” he says, brushing his thumb along your hip. “You need water.”
Before you can argue, he’s already turning away—grabbing the fresh pajamas he took before and tugging them on before disappearing into the kitchen. You put the pajamas on as well and sit on the edge of the bed, watching the soft golden light spill through the doorway from the other room.
When he returns, he’s holding two glasses, condensation already forming at the sides.
“You’re not sneaking me electrolytes, are you?” you tease as you take yours.
“Would you blame me if I did?” he replies, handing it over. “You could barely make it to the tub.”
You narrow your eyes at him over the rim of your glass but drink anyway. It’s just water. Cold, refreshing, grounding.
He finishes his own quickly, sets the glass aside, and takes the empty one from your hands. His fingers linger for a moment as they brush against yours, gentle and cool.
Then he straightens and reaches for your hand again—not pulling, just offering.
“Come lie down,” he says, voice softer now.
You let him guide you without a word, fingers curling into his as he leads you back toward the bed. The mattress dips beneath your combined weight, sheets cool against your skin. He settles behind you, one arm slipping around your waist, the other tucking beneath your pillow.
You shift until your back meets his chest, until your legs find his and your breath slows to match the rise and fall of his.
His lips brush the back of your shoulder. “Comfortable?”
You hum in response, fingers playing absently with his. “You’re warm.”
“I’m not,” he murmurs with a faint smile against your skin. “You just run hot.”
“Still counts,” you whisper, already drowsy.
Zayne chuckles, the sound low and sleepy. He nudges his nose lightly against the back of your neck, then lets the silence return—slow, quiet, familiar.
You can feel it in the way he holds you: not just closeness, but safety. The kind of peace that settles in your chest, wrapping around your bones and telling you that you’re home.
His thumb brushes slow circles against your hip. Not to coax. Not to tease. Just… to remind you he’s still here.
And when your breathing evens out, when your thoughts finally go quiet, you feel him press one last kiss to your shoulder.
“I love you,” he whispers—too soft for the room, but just loud enough for your heart. You murmur your reply to him as sleep finally drags you under.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The morning light slips quietly through the curtains, softened by snow outside the windows. It’s gentle, casting soft gold across the sheets when Zayne stirs first.
He shifts slightly behind you, the arm around your waist tightening just a little as he breathes you in—then pulls you closer, snug against his chest.
You murmur something incoherent, blinking slow and groggy as the shift tugs you from sleep. Your hand finds his, fingers lacing through his automatically.
“Just waking up?” you ask, voice scratchy from sleep but warm.
He hums against the back of your neck, not bothering with words yet. Instead, he presses a kiss there—lazy and unhurried. Then another. And another, soft and slow along your skin like he has no plans to stop. His arm stays tight around your waist, holding you still while his lips drift lower, then up again.
You smile, sleep-muddled but content, and shift slightly beneath the covers, turning in his arms until you’re facing him. His hair’s a little tousled, his eyes still heavy-lidded, but his gaze finds yours without hesitation.
He brushes your cheek with the back of his fingers. “Sore?”
You snort, trying not to laugh too loud into the morning quiet. “Definitely. Can’t feel between my legs,” you say with a grin, “but I’d do it again.”
Zayne smiles faintly, kisses your temple. “Me too,” he murmurs—then presses a soft kiss to your lips before tucking his head beneath your chin, resting against your chest like it’s his favorite place in the world.
Your fingers drift into his hair, brushing lightly. “I guess we’re staying in,” you say, soft laugh trailing beneath your words.
He doesn’t answer—just lets out a breath and relaxes fully against you, both of you slowly drifting back into sleep with limbs tangled, hearts steady.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You don’t know how much time passes before Zayne wakes again. The bed shifts behind you, and his warmth starts to pull away.
You groan, reaching out blindly to grab his wrist. “Nooo. Stay. Warm.”
“I’ll be back,” he says, voice barely above a whisper as he leans in, kissing the top of your head, lips brushing yours next in quiet distraction while he slips from the bed.
You sink back into the blankets, watching as he disappears out the door of your cozy suite bedroom.
When he returns, it’s with two mugs and a tray balanced in his arms. The smell hits first—toast, eggs, fruit, something sweet—and your stomach growls in betrayal.
“I was gonna bring this to bed quietly,” Zayne says, shutting the door behind him with his foot, “but it turns out the floorboards in this cabin have opinions.”
You laugh as he settles onto the edge of the mattress, setting the tray between you. “Brunch in bed? You’re making it very hard to ever leave.”
“I know. Strategic,” he says, completely deadpan, before handing you your mug.
The food is simple but perfect—tasting better just because you’re sharing it like this. Tucked into soft sheets, limbs brushing, the cold outside kept at bay by warmth and easy smiles.
You stretch, wiggling your toes beneath the blankets. “I actually planned for us to go skiing today, you know.”
Zayne raises an eyebrow at you mid-bite, amused. “You planned for that?”
“Mmhmm,” you hum, sipping your drink. “Thought we’d wake up early, hit the slopes, pretend we’re athletic.”
“You know we never ski on the first day.” His voice is dry, teasing. He sets his cup down, tone casual but unmistakably pointed. “History suggests our first day on trips like this tends to be… less cardio, more recovery.”
You try to hide your grin behind your mug. “I’m not hearing any complaints.”
“None,” he agrees easily. “Though I am hearing ‘can’t feel between my legs.’”
You huff a laugh, reaching to pinch his side—only for him to catch your hand and kiss your fingers.
Eventually, the tray is cleared and set aside, and the two of you shuffle out of bed—blankets wrapped around your shoulders as you migrate to the living room. The fireplace crackles to life not long after, casting golden light across the space. Outside the wide windows, snow falls in soft, thick flakes, muffling the world in quiet.
You curl up together on the couch. A book rests in your lap, half-forgotten, as Zayne’s arm settles around your back. Even with the coolness of his body pressed to your side, it still feels warm beneath the layers—grounding, familiar. A movie plays softly in the background, more ambient than anything, something to fill the silence you don’t mind sharing.
Your hand rests against his knee, thumb brushing absent circles, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head in return.
No rush. No expectations.
Just the slow, steady rhythm of a day spent exactly where you belong.
Just the two of you—husband and wife.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I could find an excuse, like how this story been on my ass for a few days, and I keep adding stuff into it, but damn you! I like it! 😂
Either way, I hope y'all enjoy it as well, thank you if you reading this until here 🫶🏻
A bit weird saying that under smut but we're all civil people here 😂 just joking, love y'all!
ellievsbear
vaporwave
dededos
discoholicmusic
theartofmadeline
annaxmalina
