Sylus is the definition of tit for tat.
You find out pretty early in the relationship that if you mess with him, he’s going to mess with you right back(tenfold)
You’re sitting on the couch together when you reach up and rub his head affectionately, fingers threading through his silver hair. “Soft today,” you tease.
Without missing a beat, the second you lower your hand he reaches over and pats the top of your head like he would with a cat. “Even softer,” he murmurs, smug look on his face.
You narrow your eyes. He just arches a brow like he’s daring you to continue.
Later that evening you walk past him in the kitchen while he’s pouring a drink. On impulse you reach out and grab his waist, giving it a quick squeeze as you go by.
Two hours later you’re standing in the same spot, reaching for a glass, when Sylus strolls past you. His arm snakes around your waist and squeezes, harder, fingers digging in just enough to make you squeak.
“Fair’s fair, sweetie,” he says smoothly, not even breaking stride.
You start keeping score after that.
One lazy afternoon you can’t resist. He’s standing there in a fitted black shirt, looking unfairly good, so you slide your hands up his chest and give his pecs a firm, appreciative squeeze.
He doesn’t react immediately. Just looks down at you with that dangerous little smile.
But the next morning when you’re stretching in front of the mirror in nothing but one of his shirts, he appears behind you. His hands come up without warning, cupping your boobs fully, thumbs brushing over your nipples through the fabric.
“These are much better,” he says casually, giving them a gentle but possessive squeeze before letting go. “Carry on.”
Your mouth drops open. He just walks away like he didn’t just feel you up in broad daylight.
You’re feeling bold one night after an outing. As he walks past you toward the bedroom you reach out and lightly slap his ass; quick, playful, barely any sting.
Sylus stops. Turns his head slowly. He raises an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth turning upwards.
Later, when you’re bent over grabbing something from the bottom drawer, he walks up behind you. One big hand grabs a full handful of your ass, squeezing hard, before he brings his palm down in a sharp, resounding spank that makes you jolt forward with a surprised yelp.
He leans down, lips brushing your ear as his hand soothes over the spot he just smacked.
“You started it, kitten,” he purrs, voice low and amused. “I’m simply finishing it. And I always finish stronger.”
You rub your stinging cheek, face burning, but you’re also grinning like an idiot.
Because that’s just how it is with him.
And the worst (best) part?
He always waits for the perfect moment. Never does it immediately. He lets you think you got away with it… then strikes when you least expect it, settling the score with interest.
You’ve learned your lesson by now.
But you still can’t stop yourself from lightly slapping his ass again the very next day.
Because let’s be honest: you like losing this game.
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