Deliberate Teasings || J.V
Synopsis: You just wanted to try the viral backless dress you saw on TikTok and also perhaps tease your boyfriend Jace a little bit but things take a fiery turn.
Pairing: Modern!Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader
Genre: 18+, smut
Warning: pwp tbh, oral (fem receiving), hitting it from the back?, matting press, so many hickeys, p in v, no protection (donât be like this irl just sayin~~), creamepie, making out, aftercare, cuddles at the end!
A/N: Erm second time ever writing smut đđ (pretty sure I messed up my past-present-future but oh well-)
The bathroom mirror is still fogged at the edges from the shower you took an hour ago, the whole apartment smells like the vanilla body oil you dabbed into your collarbones and the burnt-sugar candle Jace keeps on his dresser because he thinks it makes the place feel less like some dungeon and more like home. Rain taps against the window in that soft, uneven rhythm, and somewhere down on the street a taxi lays on its horn for three long seconds before giving up. The bass from the apartment below thumps faintly through the floorboards, someone's pregame already in full swing.
You're in front of the floor length mirror leaned against his closet door, tilting your chin, checking your lipstick, rolling a strand of hair between two fingers because you can't decide if you want to leave it down or twist it up. The dress. God, the dress. From the front it's demure, a soft slate satin that skims your front and drapes clean at the thigh, the neckline looked innocent and modest. It looked like something you'd wear to your aunt's wedding but that's the trick of it though. That's why you spent forty-seven dollars on it during a two AM TikTok haze last Tuesday.
Behind you, Jace is sprawled across his unmade bed in gray sweatpants and a white tee that's been through the wash so many times it's practically translucent at the hem. His phone is angled above his face, the blue glow catching on the sharp bridge of his nose and the messy dark curls that fall across his forehead. His feet are crossed at the ankles and heâs laughing at something, a low huff of a sound, you can hear the tiny audio of some Reels compilation.
"Sof said she's already at the bar," you tell him, thumbing through your phone in the mirror's reflection. "She got the corner booth."
"Mm." He doesn't look up. "Which bar?"
"That new one downtown. The one with the disco ball in the bathroom."
"Sounds like a fire hazard."
"You sound like your mom."
"Rude." He scrolls. "My mom's cool."
You laugh, sweeping bronzer along the high point of your cheek, and shift your weight from one side to the other. The satin whispers against your thighs. You've been waiting, actually, for him to look up. You've been arranging yourself in his peripheral vision for the last ten minutes and he's been oblivious in that specifically annoying boyfriend way, and it's starting to feel almost insulting. You bought this dress to tease him. You'd like the courtesy of being noticed back.
You set the bronzer down and pivot on your heel. Turning your back to the mirror to check the drape of the fabric across your ass, one hand smoothing over your hip.
You hear it before you see it. A sharp inhale. Then, a choked half sound that dies in his throat followed by the soft slap of a phone hitting a chest.
You glance over your shoulder into the mirror. Jace has propped himself up on his elbows, mouth open, eyes so wide you can see the whites all the way around his brown irises. His curls are sticking up in six directions from where he'd been running his hand through them. His phone is face down on his sternum, forgotten.
"What?" you ask, and you can't keep the grin out of it.
"What the fuck."
"What?"
"Turn around."
"I am turned around."
"No, turn, come here, turn all the way." He sits up so fast the mattress creaks. "Have you seen the back of that dress?"
You laugh, pressing your tongue to the inside of your cheek, and rotate slowly on the ball of your foot until you're facing him. "Well, yeah. I bought it."
"Sweets." His voice cracks on the second syllable. He looks genuinely aggrieved, like you've handed him bad news at a hospital. "Love, no."
The back of the dress is the joke. From nape to just above the swell of your ass there is nothing. No fabric. No zipper. A few delicate strap knots and chains at the small of your back and that's the entire architectural principle keeping the front on your body. The dip of your spine is on full display, the two soft dimples at the base, the smooth stretch of skin from your shoulder blades down. You spent twenty minutes with a jade roller earlier making sure the whole canvas of your back looked like glass.
Jace swings his legs off the bed and stands abruptly. He crosses the room in three strides and stops just behind you, close enough that you can feel the heat of him but not touching, and his reflection in the mirror looks stricken.
"No," he says again, quieter.
"Yes."
"You cannot leave this apartment."
"I can and I will."
"I wouldn't mind if I was there." His fingertips ghost the small of your back, not landing, just hovering, like the skin might burn him. "Like, if I was going with you, sure, whatever, wear it, look like this, be a menace, I'll fight everyone in the bar. But alone?" His voice pitches up. "You want to go alone? Downtown? In this?"
"Sof will be there. And Jessie. And probably Serena if her flight lands."
"None of them have upper body strength."
"Jace."
"I'm being serious."
You reach up and gather your hair, twisting it into a loose knot at the crown of your head. The motion pulls the dress tighter across your ribs and you watch him watch it in the mirror. His throat bobs. You slide a claw clip out from between your teeth and snap it into place, and then you tilt your head, satisfied, and reach for your mascara.
"Change," he says. Weakly.
"Nope."
He's still standing behind you. You catch his reflection and the way his mouth has gone tight, the way his eyes are doing that flicker thing where he's thinking, calculating, cooking something up. His hands are loose at his sides. His shoulders are set and he's got the same look on his face he gets when he's playing chess against his brother Luke and he's about to do something petty.
You're about to ask him what he's thinking when he drops.
Just, drops, straight to his knees behind you with a soft thud on the hardwood, hands coming up to cup the sides of your waist like he's steadying a vase.
"Jace- what are you-" you start, twisting to look at him, but he's already leaning in, and the first press of his mouth to the base of your spine punches every word right out of your lungs.
The sound you make is embarrassing. A short, high thing, half gasp, half whimper. His lips are warm and slightly parted, and he presses them just above the little dimple on the left, and then he kisses the one on the right, slower, deliberate, and you feel the heat of his breath fan across your skin in the split second between each kiss.
"Jace." You try to swivel out of his grip and his hands tighten, thumbs pressing into the divots of your hip bones through the satin. Not enough to bruise. Just enough that you're going nowhere.
"Mhm." A kiss to the base of your spine, wetter this time, a hint of tongue.
"You're beingâŠ" another kiss, "so annoyingâŠ" another, higher, right at the small of your back, "oh my god."
He kisses his way up, patient, like he's got a list. Every vertebra. He works up your spine one bone at a time and you can feel your knees getting weak. Your hands come up on instinct and brace against the mirror. Your palm leaves a fog print on the glass. In the reflection you can see the crown of his dark curls between your shoulder blades, the shell of his ear, one of his eyes closed in concentration.
At the middle of your back he opens his mouth properly and drags his teeth. You feel it in your stomach.
"Ah-" you hiss, and his answering laugh vibrates against your skin.
"You're the one who wanted attention."
"I didn't."
"You so did."
"I was doing my makeup."
"Sure." He kisses higher, right between your shoulder blades. "Doing your makeup." Higher. "In a dress with no back." Higher. "Facing away from me." His voice drops. "In the mirror where I could see you."
His mouth reaches the nape of your neck and he stands as he does it, unfolding himself up the length of your body, and now his front is flush against your back, his chest broad and warm through the thin cotton of his tee. One arm loops around your waist, splaying wide, his palm pressing flat against your stomach. The other hand comes up and slides around the side of your throat, thumb hooking under your jaw, and he tilts your head to the left with the gentlest pressure, exposing the long tendon of your neck.
You watch it happen in the mirror. Your own face, lips parted, eyes gone dark and glassy. Him behind you, curls falling forward, jaw set. His mouth against the hinge of your jaw. His mouth on the soft spot beneath your ear. His mouth sucking hard just above your collarbone, and this time you feel the sting of teeth and the deliberate pull of suction and you know, you know, he's leaving a mark on purpose. He shifts an inch and does it again. And again. Slower. Right along the ridge of your clavicle where no makeup can hide it and no scarf could reasonably cover it.
Your eyes close and your hand slips off the mirror and finds the back of his neck instead, fingers threading into the curls at his nape, and you feel him hum against your skin, pleased, when your nails scrape.
He works you over for what feels like a long time. Your pulse point. The soft under-shelf of your jaw. The curve where your neck meets your shoulder. He alternates, kissing and sucking and dragging his tongue in slow, wet stripes. You are absolutely, comprehensively lost. The room smells like him now, and the last ghost of your perfume, and everything is very quiet except for the wet sounds of his mouth and your uneven breathing and the rain and the distant bass from downstairs. You were losing your mind.
He pulls back.
You open your eyes slowly. In the mirror, he's grinning with full teeth. Smug in a way that would be genuinely insufferable if you had any blood left in your brain. His hair is even worse than it was before. His lips are pink and wet.
Your neck and shoulder look like a paint pallet. There are three, maybe four, blooming red marks already darkening toward purple, one high enough that the collar of a jacket wouldn't touch it.
"WhatâŠ" you manage, "is that face."
"I marked up my territory." He is so pleased with himself. He tilts his head, considering his work like a curator. "Certifiably mine. Notarized. Do you still want to go outside?"
You feel your jaw set. The brat in you rises like a bubble. "Yes. I do."
Something flickers across his face. His grin sharpens.
"WhoâŠ" he says, dropping his voice to a register you feel in the base of your spine, "said we're finished."
The world tilts.
He turns you by the hips, walks you backward to the mattress, and the back of your knees hit the edge of it and you go down. Your claw clip snaps loose. Your hair spills out over his navy duvet. Before you've even registered horizontal, he's peeling his tee off over his head, and then it's off and on the floor and you get the full view.
You have seen him shirtless approximately nine hundred times and it still does something stupid to you. He's lean, always has been, but two years of a serious gym habit have carved him. The flat plane of his chest with the faint scatter of dark hair between his pecs, the ridged shape of his stomach, the sharp cuts of his obliques disappearing into the low waistband of his sweats. His mouth is still red from your neck. There's a flush high on his cheekbones.
You prop yourself up on your elbows. "Very funny. My friend is waiting, actually."
He plants a hand on your sternum and pushes you back down, gently and leans over you with a knee braced on the mattress between your thighs.
"Didn't I tell youâŠ" he says, close to your mouth, "we aren't finished yet."
You open your mouth to give him something witty. You had something. You had a whole line but it evaporated because his mouth is on yours and it is NOT gentle. It's the kind of kiss that has been building for the whole ten minutes he's been leaving hickeys on your neck, hot and open and you feel it right down to the bottoms of your feet. Your thighs squeeze together on reflex and there is already so much heat between them it's almost embarrassing. Slick. You've been slick since he hit his knees.
His tongue drags across your bottom lip, a question, and you part for him and he groans into your mouth, low and needy. Your hands find his curls and you fist them lightly, tugging, and he makes another sound, muffled, his hand slides up the outside of your thigh, catching the satin of your dress, dragging it up with him. His palm is hot as his thumb traces the crease of your hip.
He pulls back. A thin thread of spit connects your lower lip to his and breaks and lands on your chin. His eyes are half-lidded and completely blown. Your chest is heaving along with his and somewhere in the back of your head you register that your friends are absolutely getting stood up.
"Turn over," he says.
You blink. "What."
"Turn over." His hand slides under your ribs and he's already helping, guiding you onto your stomach on his duvet. Your hair fans out. Your cheek presses into the pillow that smells like his shampoo. "The dress." He tugs at it and it comes loose in one soft slither. He works the satin up over the swell of your ass and bunches it at your waist. You're not wearing underwear. You couldn't have worn underwear with this dress and you know he registered that ten seconds ago because he makes a soft strangled sound behind you.
"Sweet mother of Gods."
"Jace."
"You're going to kill me. Like, physically. I'm going to have a stroke."
"You're being dramatic."
"You're not wearing underwear," he informs you, in case you had somehow forgotten, and his hands come down on the backs of your thighs and squeeze, and the mattress dips as he lowers himself.
The first thing you feel is his warm breath. Then his mouth on the back of your left thigh, high up, sucking. Another mark. He drags his mouth two inches over and does it again. Another two inches. You are going to be a leopard. You are going to have to wear pants in July. You feel the wet swirl of his tongue over the bruise he just made, soothing it, before he moves to the crease where your thigh meets your ass and bites, softly, and you jerk.
"Oh my god."
"Mm."
He kisses across the swell of your ass, teeth grazing, and then up, up to your lower back where he sucks another mark right above the dip of your spine, and you can feel the heat of it blooming into your skin. He is being so thorough. His hands slide up the backs of your thighs and part them, gently, and you let them fall open because at this point your bones have turned to warm honey.
And then his mouth is on you.
The first stripe of his tongue is long and flat and slow and it goes from your clit all the way to your entrance and back, and the sound you make is not a sound a human should make. It's ragged. Your fingers fist in the duvet and your hips buck up on instinct and he lets you, hands sliding under to cradle the fronts of your hips, and then he pulls you back and up onto your knees so your face is still on the pillow but your ass is in the air.
"Better," he murmurs against you, and then he goes to work.
He was so good at this. You have told him he's good at this, once, when you were both drunk on cheap red wine, and he has taken that compliment and internalized it like a religion. His tongue circles your clit in slow, deliberate patterns, and then flicks, and then flattens, and then he closes his lips around it and sucks and you make a noise into the pillow that would have neighbors calling the cops if the building had thinner walls. He drags his mouth lower and pushes his tongue into you and you feel one of his hands leave your hip and then two of his fingers replace his tongue, curling up, finding that spot as his mouth returns to your clit.
Your knuckles are white in the duvet. You reach back blindly with one hand and find his hair and just hold, twisting the curls between your fingers. Your other hand fumbles for a pillow to pull under your face, to muffle yourself, because you cannot stop the sounds coming out of you. Little whimpers. A long, broken "oh." A stuttered "please" you didn't mean to say out loud.
"Yeah?" His voice is muffled against you, wet. "Yeah, sweets?"
"Jace."
"Come on."
He crooks his fingers again and sucks and you fall apart. Your thighs clamp together but that doesn't stop him as he works you through it with slow steady pressure until you're twitching and pushing his head away with a whimper of oversensitivity, and only then does he pull off with a wet, obscene sound and press a kiss to the inside of your thigh.
You felt boneless. Your face smashed into the pillow and you feel drops of sweat sliding down between your shoulder blades, your hair is stuck to your temple. You crack one eye open and the room is soft and blurry in your vision.
Behind you, you hear the rustle of him shoving his sweats off. The clink of his belt buckle- no wait- he wasn't wearing a belt, that's the sound of his phone hitting the floor. The soft crumple of fabric. And then his hand is on your hip again, warm and steady, and the other is grabbing a pillow from the head of the bed and sliding it under your hips, lifting you.
You feel him line up. The blunt hot press of him against you. Your breath hitches.
"Ready?" His voice is wrecked.
"Mhm." You say in agreement.
He pushes in slow. Inch by inch. The stretch of it makes your eyes flutter closed. He was not small by any means. He's got a slight curve to him that hits you in a way you have written frankly embarrassing journal entries about, and by the time he bottoms out you can feel him everywhere. His hips settle flush against your ass as his hand smooths up your spine and back down.
"Fuck," he breathes.
"Move," you whisper.
He moves without question. The first thrust is slow, testing, and then the second is a little harder, and by the fourth he's found a rhythm and the sound of it fills the room. The wet slap of skin on skin. The soft creak of his mattress. His breath, ragged, right above you. Your own broken little "ah, ah, ah" every time he snaps his hips forward.
He folds himself over your back, his chest to your spine, and one of his arms braces beside your head and the other slides under your ribs and pulls you back against him. His mouth finds your shoulder and he bites, then sucks and then bites again. A hickey blooms in the crook where your neck meets your shoulder. Then higher. Then the back of your shoulder blade. Then he pulls back just enough to see and drives forward hard and you cry out into the pillow.
You turn your head, cheek smashed against the duvet, and he sees it, sees you looking for him, and he leans down and catches your mouth from the side, angle awkward and messy, and it's all tongue and spit and neither of you can breathe right but he tastes like you making you moan into his mouth. Then his hips stutter.
"You're so-" he says against your mouth, and doesn't finish, just kisses you harder, "fuck, you're so-â
Your hand fists in his curls again and holds him there.
He straightens up eventually to get better leverage, hands gripping your hips, thumbs digging into the meat of your ass, and he watches himself move in and out of you and makes a low groan that you feel in your sternum. His hand comes down in a light slap on your right cheek and you jerk forward with a whimper and he does it again, harder, and then soothes it with his palm.
"You were really gonna go out?" he asks, panting. "Like this? Looking like this?" Another sharp thrust. "For other guys?"
"Not for-" you gasp, "other guys."
"Sure looked like it."
"Jace."
"Mhm?"
"Please-"
He shifts his angle just barely. And it hits something behind your navel and you see white at the edges of your vision, his hand slides around and finds your clit, and it takes maybe forty seconds before you're coming again, harder than the first time but this one you can't muffle at all. It rips right out of your throat. Your whole body clenches around him and he makes a broken sound holding still, jaw tight, riding it out with you.
When you come down enough to breathe he pulls out gently, and before you can protest the sudden emptiness he's flipping you onto your back.
You blink up at him, dazed, hair a wreck, dress still bunched around your waist. He grabs the hem and drags it up and off over your head and it lands somewhere around his room. Your body is flushed, chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on your covering you and hickeys blooming everywhere. His eyes are still dark and his curls are damp at the temples.
He grabs your ankles and hooks them up over his shoulders, one and then the other, folding you nearly in half. Your knees graze your own chest then he slides back in in one long push and you both groan.
"Oh-" you gasp, "oh- fuck- Jace."
"Yeah," he breathes, and it comes out shaky as his hands slide from your ankles down the backs of your calves to grip behind your knees, pinning them wider and higher, the angle of him inside you shifts so deep you swear you can feel him under your ribs. "Yeah, there you go. There's my girl."
The rain has picked up outside. It's not soft anymore, it's a steady drumming against the window, the bass from downstairs has kicked over into something with a heavier beat, a low pulse that syncs almost obscenely with the rhythm of his hips. The candle on the dresser is guttering low, the wick swimming in a pool of melted wax, throwing amber shadows across the ceiling. The whole room smells like sex now.
You can barely keep your eyes open but thrust continues to knock a soft high sound out of you and suddenly an almost pornographic sound leaves your mouth along with Jaceâs name as you scratch his skin.
"Fuck, do that again."
You do it again. Four red lines blooming down the tan of his forearm, and he groans in response, low and long, and drops his head so his forehead presses against your shin where it's hooked over his shoulder. There's beads of sweat sliding down the side of his throat, and you watch it disappear into the hollow of his clavicle.
He lifts his head. His eyes are almost black, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left, and his mouth is swollen. He looks feral as if he's been possessed by something old and hungry, it's a look you are well aware of over the course of your relationship.
"Come here." He unhooks one of your ankles, then the other, and lets your legs drop to wrap around his waist instead, as he leans down over you, chest to chest, and you feel the flat wet heat of his skin against yours and it makes you shiver. His weight is heavy in the best way, almost grounding. He braces himself on one elbow beside your head and his other hand slides up your rips, thumb dragging along the underside of your left breast.
"Jace."
"Mm."
"Kiss me."
He does, openmouthed and messy and you moan out. He swallows the sound while his hips are moving in slow deep grinds now instead of thrusts, working himself against that spot inside your belly, every roll of him drags the base of his cock against your clit and you feel another orgasm building, low and slow like heat rising in a kettle.
He pulls back from your mouth and trails his lips down your jaw, down the side of your neck, over one of the hickeys he already made, sucking gently, marking it again, and then down, further, to the flushed skin above your breast. His mouth wraps around your nipple and he laps. Slow, flat strokes of his tongue, then he closes his lips around it and sucks, and your back arches off the mattress hard enough that your front presses up against his mouth.
"Oh god-â
"Mhm" he moans at your reaction before switching sides, giving your other boob the same treatment. His tongue circling and his teeth grazing. Once heâs done, he nuzzles into the soft valley between your breasts and presses a kiss there, almost sweet, before he mouths back up to the other side and does it all over again, longer this time, until your nipples are stiff and shiny while you tremble under him.
"Jace- Jace- please, I'm-"
"I know." His voice is thick. "I know, Love, come on, one more."
"I can't."
"You can."
He shifts. Puts his weight on his forearms on either side of your head and drops his forehead to yours, so all you can see is him, dark curls falling forward, freckle on the bridge of his nose you've kissed a thousand times, and his hips pick up a faster and harder pace. The mattress is squeaking now, in earnest, and somewhere in a distant part of your brain you register that the downstairs neighbors' bass has gone quite and you don't care, you don't care about anything except the fact that Jaceâs eyes are open and locked on yours and he is looking at you like you're the only thing in the world worth looking at.
"Come on," he pants. "Come on, come on, come on."
Your hand slides down between your bodies. He shifts up a little to give you room as your fingers find your clit, slick with both of your juices combined, you rub tight fast circles and almost immediately your over the edge and coming before you're gone.
You cry out loud, right against his mouth, and he kisses you through it, you clench around him is what does him in. He finally goes still as his whole body tenses. His forehead presses harder into yours and his eyes squeeze shut. He makes the most wrecked sound you have ever heard from him, a broken little "oh, fuck, oh fuck, sweet girl-" and you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, he shudders through it with his cock buried as deep as he can get.
The two of you hold there. Both breathing hard. His curls tickling your forehead. Your legs still locked around his hips. Your fingers still tangled in the damp hair at the nape of his neck. Someone in the hall outside is laughing at something on their phone as they pass by, and it's such a mundane sound compared to what just happened that it startles a wet laugh out of you.
He lifts his head. His eyes are soft again. Brown and warm and a little glazed.
"Hi." His voice is a rasp.
"Hi."
"You okay?"
"Mhm." You say nodding.
He pulls out slowly, careful about it, you both wince at the loss. He looks down between your bodies and makes a low, satisfied sound in his throat, and you tilt your chin up to see what he's seeing. His cum is leaking out of you, sliding down onto the pillow he shoved under your hips earlier. He drags two fingers through it and pushes it back into you, slowly and deliberately, the aftershock makes you twitch and gasp.
"Sorry, sorry." He's grinning. He's not sorry. "Couldn't help it."
"You are so-"
"So what."
"So much."
"Mm." He kisses the tip of your nose, and then your cheek, and then your mouth, soft this time, no tongue, just the press of him. "Stay right there. Don't move."
He rolls off you and stands. You watch him walk to the bathroom, naked, the long line of his back, the two dimples at the base of his own spine, the muscled slope of his ass, the back of his thighs. He flicks the bathroom light on and you hear the tap run. You let your head loll to the side. Your body feels like it's melted into the mattress.
He comes back with a warm washcloth folded in his palm, and the softness on his face as he crawls back onto the bed does something painful and specific to your heart. He kneels between your knees and cleans you up with the kind of careful tenderness that used to fluster you back when you were still figuring out how to receive it. Now you just close your eyes and let him. He wipes down the insides of your thighs, and then between your legs, slow and gentle, and then he tosses the washcloth toward the laundry hamper and misses but doesn't care at the moment.
"C'mere." He flops down beside you and drags you into his chest, and you go willingly and he arranges you the way he likes, one of your thighs hooked over his hip, your cheek on his chest, his arm heavy around your back. His hand starts a slow drift up and down your spine.
The candle finally burs out. The room dims to the blue of the streetlight through the rain-streaked window. His heartbeat is a steady, slowing thump under your ear.
"SofiaâŠ" he says, after a long moment.
"Mm?"
"You should text her."
"Oh." You laugh, small and hoarse. "Right."
You reach blindly for your phone on the nightstand. It's got three unread texts and a missed FaceTime. You squint at the screen.
Sof (9:04 PM): where are u
Sof (9:11 PM): hello???
Sof (9:19 PM): girl is jace holding you hostage
You show Jace the screen and he snorts reading it.
"Accurate."
"I hate you."
"Mm hm."
You type back one-handed, thumb clumsy. so sorry babe. wildly detained. love u. tomorrow brunch on me. You add a red heart. You put the phone face down.
Jace's fingers are tracing something on your back and you realize after a second that he's tracing the edges of one of the hickeys he left, thumb rubbing gentle little circles over the sore skin.
"You are absolutely covered," he says, and there's something almost awed in his voice. "Head to toe."
"Whose fault is that."
"Yours." His hand slides up into your hair and cradles the back of your head. "You're the one who bought that dress."
"I bought that dress for girls night.â
"You bought that dress to torture me."
"Same thing."
He huffs a laugh into the top of your head, presses a kiss there. His mouth stays for a second, warm through your hair. You can smell his skin, the clean cedar of his deodorant almost sweated off, the sharper note of his sweat underneath, the faintest ghost of your body oil transferred onto him. You feel very, extremely, unreasonably fond of him. It rises up in your chest like a slow warm tide.
"Hey," you say.
"Hm?"
"I'm keeping the dress."
"I know."
"I'm gonna wear it out. Eventually."
"I know." His hand smooths down your back and comes to rest at the very base of your spine, right where he started. His palm is broad and warm and his fingers spread over both dimples, claiming. "Just, with me."
"Deal."
He hums, low and content, and shifts to pull the duvet up over both of you, tucking it around your shoulder with his free hand, and then he settles back, holding you closer against the long warm line of his body while the rain keeps drumming steady on the window.
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