could you write a story where jude and the reader spend an amazing day together out just doing fun couple things and enjoying what rare time they get to spend together and there’s this amazing sexual tension between them all day just bubbling up (especially since it’s been a while) and when they get home reader is all excited to get it on but jude falls asleep cause he’s been so exhausted lately. she lets him sleep understanding how tired he is but she’s obviously a bit disappointed and the next morning she’s kind of quiet and giving him a little attitude and he’s genuinely worried thinking he did something wrong and eventually she tells him it’s because they didn’t have sex the night before and he is surprised but is kinda teasing and apologetic and then they have it out 😉
This is way late, please forgive me. My deepest apologies. I hope you like it though. I also posted this on my Patreon, I hope you don't mind.
𝒔𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒂𝒓𝒚 — A rare day off turns into simmering tension, missed timing, and one very good morning.
𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 — Jude Bellingham x reader
Warnings! NSFW / SMUT (18+), explicit sexual content, established relationship, dom sub dynamic, teasing, mild degradation, praise kink, multiple orgasms, oral (f & m receiving), hair pulling, spanking, power dynamics, FLUFF!! Jude is a good boyfriend
They are the anomalies in a schedule that usually seems to be owned by everyone but the two of you, snatched away by training camps, sponsorship obligations, and the relentless demands of a career that never really leaves time for anything else.
But today, the world seems to have conspired to give you this—just this. A stretch of twenty-four hours where the only thing on the agenda is you and Jude. Just the two of you.
The sun is already high and blindingly bright, bouncing off the pavement of the sidewalk, but the heat is welcome. It feels nice, and the sweat that it protrudes grounds you in the moment. Jude walks beside you, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, cap pulled low over his coils, sunglasses hiding him just enough to blend in without fully disappearing.
It’s funny how he can do that—how he can stand on a street corner in broad daylight and look like just another guy in his twenties, while to you, he’s the only thing in the frame worth looking at. You steal a glance at him as he waits for the traffic light to change. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips are parted slightly, and the focused furrow of his brow that only relaxes when he senses your eyes on him and turns to look down at you.
"What?" he asks, a slow grin breaking across his face. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your stomach do a stupid little flip.
"Nothing," you say, lying easily through your teeth, nudging him with your shoulder. "You just look good today. Not that you don't look good every day, but the sun is doing something for you."
He laughs, that low, rumbling sound that vibrates in your ears. "Is that right? So you're not just ogling me like a pervert in the middle of the street?"
"Only for you," you agree unashamedly, looping your arm through his as the light turns green. "Don't pretend you don't love it."
"I do," he admits easily, squeezing your hand against his side. "You hungry?”
"Starving," you admit, though the pang in your stomach has less to do with food and more to do with the way his thumb is stroking absent-minded patterns against the inside of your wrist.
He leads you down a side street you’ve never noticed before, navigating the city with a confident ease that he’s slowly mastered over the last few years. He pulls open the door to a tiny, dimly lit sandwich shop, the bell above the door jingling cheerfully. The smell of roasted garlic and fresh bread hits you instantly, mouth-watering and grounding.
"After you, m'lady," he says with a mock bow, holding the door.
You roll your eyes at the theatrics, but you’re smiling as you brush past him. The air inside is cool, a sharp contrast to the sticky humidity outside, and the shop is quiet save for the low hum of a refrigerator case and the muffled sound of an argumentative sports broadcaster from a radio in the back.
He orders for the both of you, as you slide onto a high-top stool near the window while he pays. It’s an unspoken rhythm between you two now—someone pays, someone saves the table. You watch him while he waits, leaning casually against the counter, nodding at something the cashier says. He’s wearing that grey hoodie you love, the one that’s seen better days, the fabric faded and soft. When he turns back, carrying two paper bags and a couple of sodas, he’s grinning, his teeth white and perfect against the shop’s dim lighting.
"Roast beef and turkey," he announces, sliding the bag across the scratched wooden table toward you before hopping onto the stool next to yours.
"My savior," you cheer, tearing into the paper bag with far more enthusiasm than necessary, the smell of fresh crusty bread wafting up to greet you.
"That's me," he winks, cracking open his soda can. The fizz hisses violently for a second before settling down. "Good?" he asks around a mouthful of his own sandwich, watching you closely.
"So good," you moan appreciatively. "I think I could live on these."
"We can come back whenever you want," he says, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. "Consider this our new spot. Our little secret."
"I like the sound of that," you say, watching his hand move. His fingers are long, slender, the knuckles prominent. You have a sudden, vivid memory of those fingers tangled in your hair last week, and you quickly take a sip of your drink to wash the thought away. It’s dangerous to start thinking like that in the middle of the day, in public, when you know you have hours left before you can do anything about it.
You focus on the sandwich. On the way the bread crunches softly under your teeth, how the mustard hits sharp at the back of your tongue. You focus on the chatter drifting in from outside, the muted rhythm of the city moving past the window. You focus on anything except the way Jude’s knee is angled toward yours, close enough that the heat of him presses faintly into your thigh.
The conversation flows as easily as the soda in your glasses, drifting from gossip about his teammates to a debate about what movie to watch later to him recounting a story about a prank played on one of the coaching staff that has you laughing so hard you nearly choke on a pickle.
When you finish, he crumples up the trash and tosses it into a bin across the room with a perfect, casual arc. "Top bin," he says, pointing a finger gun at you, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "Now come on. Let's go waste some money."
You wander the city aimlessly after that. It’s a luxury you rarely afford yourselves—usually, every outing has a destination, a purpose, a time limit. But today, you just walk.
The city feels like it’s blooming around you. The summer air is thick and sweet, carrying the scent of asphalt, exhaust, and the faint perfume of a woman who walks past you in a cloud of floral mist. The sky is a beautiful mix of warm colors—orange, red, pink—all fusing together to create a masterpiece that can never be replicated as the sun sets.
You can't really focus on it, though.
And it's all thanks to the man walking by your side.
Every time his hand accidentally brushes against yours, the sparks start up again. Every time you catch him looking at you from under the brim of his cap, with that dark, heavy-lidded gaze he gets sometimes. It’s a look that only a boyfriend who is madly in love with his girlfriend can give. Innocent really. But to your mind? That look is pornographic in its innocence.
He’s a magnet. He has been since the day you met. But today it feels like he’s turned the voltage up, or maybe it’s just that your battery is running low. The friction between you has been building up for weeks now, a slow, steady accumulation of missed opportunities and late nights where one of you fell asleep the second their head hit the pillow.
You haven't been this... pent up... in weeks.
Usually, the two of you are jumping each other's bones any chance you get. The man has the stamina of a racehorse and a libido to match. But lately? Lately, it's all been radio silence, aside from the occasional quickie a couple of weeks ago between a gym session and a meeting.
"Babe! Babe! Earth to Y/N!"
You blink your eyes, and find Jude standing a few feet away, looking at you, that little crinkle between his brows again. He's looking at you with a mix of amusement and concern, hands on his hips as he waits for you to catch up. He had kept walking, you hadn't noticed.
"You good?" he asks as you catch up to him, sliding your hand into his. "You were miles away for a second there."
"Sorry," you murmur sheepishly at getting caught with your impure thoughts, letting him pull you a little closer as you dodge a slow-moving family with a stroller. "Just thinking about how nice it is to not have a schedule."
He nods, his thumb rubbing over your knuckles. "Yeah. It’s been a minute. Feels good to just... breathe."
It does feel good. It feels too good, almost, like a calm before a storm.
"Let's go in there," Jude says, nodding his head toward a narrow storefront tucked between a laundromat and a bodega.
It’s an antique shop, the kind that looks dusty and disorganized from the outside but probably holds a fortune in forgotten clutter inside. The window display is a chaotic assortment of rusted typewriters, porcelain dolls with cracked faces, and stacks of leather-bound books that look like they haven't been opened since the dawn of the last century.
You raise an eyebrow at him. "Are you secretly an eighty-year-old man?"
"Maybe," he counters, pulling you toward the door. "Maybe I'm looking to spice things. You don't know my life."
"J, I don't think it's possible for a stripper to spice things up in there," you tease, stepping inside the cool, dim shop. The air smells of old paper and lavender, and the silence is heavy, broken only by the low, mournful whine of the door closing behind you.
The shop is a labyrinth of the forgotten. Every surface is piled high with treasures waiting to be found, the air thick with dust motes dancing in the slants of light that pierce through the heavy velvet curtains blocking the front window. It smells like your grandmother’s attic—dry wood, vanilla, and the faint, sharp scent of brass polish.
It’s claustrophobic and completely wonderful.
Jude seems to shed his modern skin the moment he steps across the threshold. His shoulders drop, losing the tension that usually lines them when he’s scanning a room for exits or cameras. He wanders away from you, drawn instantly to a display of vintage cameras arranged on a scratched mahogany table.
You let him go, content to meander through the narrow aisles alone for a moment. You run your fingers over the spines of old books, the leather cracked and peeling, and trace the sharp edges of heavy crystal decanters that catch the light and throw rainbows against the wall. It’s peaceful in here, a suspended bubble of time away from the noise of the city and the noise of his life. You can see why he wanted to come in.
You find him a few minutes later, examining a tarnished silver pocket watch with a gentle, reverence. He pops the latch open with a soft click, staring down at the face where the hands are frozen at a quarter past three.
"It’s broken," you say softly, coming up behind him and wrapping your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against the hard plane of his back. He smells like detergent and that woody cologne he wears, and the scent makes your knees weak.
"Makes it more interesting, doesn't it?" he murmurs, not looking up from the watch. "It’s stuck in a moment. Maybe something good happened at three-fifteen. Maybe it’s protecting the memory."
You tighten your arms around his waist, burying your face in the soft fabric of his hoodie. You breathe him in, letting the scent settle in your lungs. The tension is still there, a low-grade hum in your blood, but here in the quiet of the shop, it feels softer, more romantic than horny. Even though you're still incredibly horny.
"You're such a sap," you whisper, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades.
He turns in your arms, the watch still clutched in his hand. The movement is slow, deliberate, and suddenly the dusty, quiet shop feels a lot smaller. He towers over you, his presence filling up the narrow aisle until the scent of old paper and lavender is completely overpowered by him. He looks down at you, the dark brown of his eyes trapping you in their depth, and the air between you crackles with that static electricity that has been sparking between the two of you all day.
"I love you, Y/N," he whispers, his voice low and rough. His free hand comes up to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin under your ear. His fingers are cool against your flushed skin, and you lean into his touch automatically, your eyes fluttering shut.
You know that look. It’s the prelude to everything. It’s the look that means he’s about to kiss you senseless in a way that makes your toes curl and your brain turn to mush. You tilt your head up, parting your lips slightly in invitation, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
You lean in, closing the inches between you, ready for him to bridge the gap, to give you a taste of what you’ve been starving for all day.
But instead, he drops a quick, soft peck on the tip of your nose. It’s chaste, affectionate, and entirely maddening.
"Come on," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave that vibrates through your chest. He doesn't let go of your hand, his fingers interlacing with yours firmly as he pulls you toward the register. "Let's go home."
The walk back to the apartment feels different.
The easy, aimless wandering of the afternoon has been replaced by a singular, driving purpose. Every step feels like it’s bringing you closer to something inevitable, and the tension that has been bubbling beneath the surface all day is now a roaring boil.
The air between you is thick with it, heavy and suffocating in the best possible way. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens around yours, the way he guides you firmly through the crowds with a single-minded determination that makes your pulse skitter.
The key scrapes against the lock, a jarring metal-on-metal sound that seems deafening in the quiet hallway of the building, but it finally gives way with a sharp clack. Jude pushes the heavy door open, reaching back blindly to grab your hand and pull you inside after him. He kicks the door shut with his heel, and the sudden silence of the penthouse rushes in to meet you.
It’s cool inside, the air conditioning humming softly from a vent somewhere down the hall. The blinds are drawn, casting the living room in long, dusty stripes of shadow that make the space feel intimate and secluded.
You watch him drop the keys onto the entryway table, a mundane action that shouldn't turn you on as much as it does. You watch the way his shoulders relax as he slips his cap off, tossing it carelessly onto the sideboard. He rakes a hand over his hair, messing out the coils that have been flattened by the hat all day, and the sight of his strong arms, his long fingers, his neck... it’s almost too much.
You take a step forward, intending to close the distance between you, intending to finally—finally—act on the frantic energy coursing through your veins.
"I'm gonna go take a shower," Jude sighs, turning to look at you. His voice is raspy, rougher than it was a moment ago, and the sound of it sends a fresh shiver down your spine. "I feel gross."
"Okay," you manage to choke out, the word catching in your dry throat. "Hurry back."
"I won't be long," he promises, giving you a look that tells you he knows exactly what you’re waiting for. He flashes a tired, knowing smirk before he turns and heads down the hallway toward the master suite, the sound of his heavy footsteps fading as the distance grows.
The moment the bathroom door clicks shut, you let out a breath you feel like you’ve been holding for hours.
The silence of the apartment rushes back in, but it’s no longer peaceful. You stand in the middle of the living room for a moment, listening to the distant hum of the shower starting up, the water rushing through the pipes hidden in the walls. The sound is a trigger, a countdown clock ticking away the seconds until he comes back out.
Your mind starts to go to dangerous place, as images of him standing under the hot water, soap suds running down the hard lines of his chest, his head thrown back against the tiled wall, water dripping from his lashes. You can practically feel the steam rising from his skin, smell the fresh scent of the expensive body wash he uses. It’s enough to make your knees weak, and you have to grab the back of the sofa to steady yourself.
You force yourself to move, to do something normal with your hands to burn off the excess adrenaline. You kick off your shoes, lining them up neatly by the door—a habit you can’t break even when you feel like you’re vibrating out of your skin. You head into the kitchen, the cool tiles soothing against your bare feet as you pull two glasses from the cupboard.
The ice dispenser clatters loudly in the quiet apartment. You pour the water with a shaky hand, the condensation already beading on the outside of the glass. It’s exactly what you need to keep yourself from marching into that bathroom and ripping back the shower curtain.
You take a sip, the cold liquid shocking your system, and lean back against the marble counter. You close your eyes and just breathe. In. Out.
You’re standing there, tracing the rim of your glass with your thumb, when the water cuts off. The sudden silence rings in your ears, loud and expectant. You wait, listening to the sounds of him moving around in the bedroom—the creak of the floorboards, the rustle of a towel, the soft thud of his phone being placed on the nightstand.
Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic, tribal rhythm that drowns out the hum of the refrigerator. You smooth your hands down the front of your shirt, suddenly hyper-aware of the fabric against your skin, the scent of your own perfume. You feel ridiculous, standing in the kitchen holding a glass of water like a life raft, but you can’t help it.
The anticipation is a physical weight, settling low in your belly and making your thighs press together instinctively.
You hear the soft pad of his footsteps before you see him. They’re slow, heavier than they were earlier, shuffling slightly against the hardwood. You straighten up, a bright, inviting smile fixed on your face, ready to launch yourself at him the second he rounds the corner.
You picture it perfectly: you’ll wrap your arms around his neck, he’ll laugh—that low, warm sound against your ear—and he’ll pull you up onto the counter, or maybe just push you back against the fridge, finally giving in to the tension that’s been snapping between you like a live wire all day.
"Finally," you call out, your voice pitched low and teasing. "I thought you drowned in there."
But the joke dies in your throat, hanging awkwardly in the cool air of the hallway.
Jude emerges from the shadows of the corridor looking like a ghost of the man who walked in forty minutes ago. The water from the shower has done the opposite of waking him up; he looks heavy, weighted down by a force you can’t see.
His skin is scrubbed and glowing, but the life has drained out of his eyes, replaced by a dull, glassy haze. He’s wearing a pair of grey sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a loose white t-shirt that’s slightly rumpled. He looks devastatingly soft, undeniably attractive, and utterly, devastatingly asleep on his feet.
He stops in the middle of the living room, blinking slowly as he looks around, his gaze landing on you with a delay that tells you his brain is already three steps ahead of his body, headed straight for REM sleep.
Noooooo. The word is a silent wail in your head, a toddler-like tantrum that you struggle to swallow down.
"Hey," he breathes out, his voice barely a whisper.
"Hey," you reply softly, the sexual tension in the room instantly evaporating, replaced by a thick, suffocating blanket of disappointment. You can feel it settle in your stomach, heavy and cold. "You good?"
He runs a hand over his damp hair, the motion sluggish and heavy. "Yeah," he breathes, though the word is so weighted it drags against the floorboards. "Just... the water was hot. Felt good."
He takes a few steps further into the room, his trajectory wavering slightly. It’s like watching a massive ship try to dock without a tugboat—he’s moving on pure momentum, and the inertia of the day is finally crashing over him.
"I got you some water," you say, holding the glass out toward him like an offering, a peace treaty for the war your body is currently waging against your brain.
He takes the glass from you, his fingers brushing against yours. They’re cool now, no longer carrying that electric spark from earlier. He lifts the glass to his lips, draining half of it in one long go, his Adam's bobbing with the effort. When he lowers it, a droplet of water clings to his lower lip before he licks it away absently, his eyes already drifting toward the hallway, the pull of the bedroom proving stronger than the pull of you.
"Thanks, babe," he murmurs, setting the glass down on the entryway table with a dull clink. He lets out a breath that seems to deflate his entire frame, his shoulders slumping forward. "I'm just gonna... yeah. I think I need to lie down for a minute."
He doesn’t even wait for a response. He just turns and starts shuffling toward the bedroom, leaving you standing there in the center of the living room floor, feeling like a balloon that’s just had its string cut.
You watch his retreating back, the way his shoulders are rounded, the drag of his feet against the hardwood. It’s not a rejection; you know that logically.
It’s just biology. It’s the crash after a relentless season, the accumulation of miles run, tackles made, and flights taken finally catching up to him all at once. He is a machine that has been running at maximum capacity for months, and today, someone finally pulled the plug.
But logic does absolutely nothing to quell the screaming frustration in your veins.
You stand there for a long moment, listening to the silence of the apartment. The air conditioning hums, the refrigerator cycles on with a low thunk, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails. It’s all mundane background noise to the internal tantrum you’re throwing.
You cross your arms over your chest, hugging yourself tightly, trying to physically restrain the urge to stomp your foot like a petulant child.
You follow him down the hall a few minutes later, your steps slow and deliberate. You’re not entirely sure what you’re expecting—perhaps that the sight of the bed will have given him a second wind, or that he’s lying there waiting for you, eyes open and ready to pick up where you left off in the antique shop.
But when you push open the bedroom door, the reality is staring you right in the face.
The one time you need him to dick you down, he chooses to have one of his famous comas.
He’s sprawled diagonally across the king-sized bed, one arm thrown over his face, his breathing already deep and even. One of his legs is drawn up, the other hanging off the edge. He looks so peaceful, so completely gone that it would be cruel to wake him.
You hover in the doorway for a moment, just watching him. The tension has finally left his brow, smoothed away by the heavy curtain of sleep. He looks younger like this, unburdened by the expectations of the world, just a guy in his sweatpants sleeping off a long day.
The disappointment sits heavy and cold in your stomach, a sharp contrast to the warm, sticky hum of arousal that had been driving you all day.
It’s a strange, hollow feeling—like expecting a package and receiving an empty box instead. You know it’s irrational. You know he’s exhausted. You know the universe does not, in fact, revolve around your libido. But knowing that doesn’t make the itch under your skin go away, nor does it stop the little flare of annoyance that sparks in your chest.
You linger in the doorway for another moment, battling the urge to go over there and poke him. Just a gentle nudge. Maybe a trail of kisses up his neck. You’re sure you could wake him up if you really tried. Jude was never one to say no to you, even when he was running on fumes.
But then he lets out a soft, snuffling breath, his face scrunching up slightly before smoothing back out into that mask of deep, oblivious sleep. He looks so peaceful. It would be cruel to rob him of that, especially when you know how rarely he gets it.
So, you don't drag him out of his dreamless slumber to satisfy the ache that has settled stubbornly between your thighs.
Instead, you quietly go about your nightly routine, determined not to wake the sleeping bear in the center of the bed.
The next morning couldn't come quick enough.
Morning filters into the room, the sun cutting a sharp, bright line across the duvet, aiming for your eyes, and the birds outside are chirping with a level of enthusiasm that feels personally directed at your bad mood.
You wake up tangled in the sheets, alone on your side of the bed, though a heavy, warm arm is still thrown heavily over your waist. Jude is still out cold, his face pressed into the pillow, his breathing a slow, rhythmic rumble that vibrates against your back.
You stare at the ceiling for a long minute, listening to him breathe.
For a brief, dangerous second, you consider waking him up now. Morning sex has always been one of your things—lazy, indulgent, the kind that makes the rest of the day feel slower and sweeter. Your mind supplies images unhelpfully, and your body responds before you can stop it.
He’s warm. That’s the problem. He’s a human furnace, radiating a heat that seeps through your pyjamas and settles into your bones, making the idea of getting out of bed feel like a Herculean task. The arm thrown over your waist is heavy, possessive in sleep, his fingers loosely curled against your hip.
You shift, just slightly, testing the waters.
He doesn’t stir. The rhythm of his breathing doesn’t even hitch. He’s dead to the world, lost in a coma so deep you half-wonder if you should check his pulse. Usually, he’s a light sleeper, attuned to your every movement, ready to pull you closer the second you try to leave the bed. But this is different.
You sigh, carefully extricating yourself from his grip. He makes a small, unconscious noise of protest, fingers twitching like he might reach for you again, but he doesn’t wake.
The disappointment is bitter on your tongue, mixing unpleasantly with the aftertaste of an unrequited appetite. You slide out from under the duvet, grabbing your robe from the hook on the back of the door, and tie the sash around your waist with a little more force than necessary.
You pad out into the kitchen, the cool floorboards shocking the soles of your feet. The apartment is quiet, the early morning light turning the chrome appliances blindingly bright. You go through the motions of making coffee on autopilot—scooping the beans, filling the reservoir, pressing the button. It’s a distraction, a way to keep your hands busy so that your mind doesn't explore the dreams that plagued your mind last night.
The machine sputters and hisses, filling the silence with the aggressive sounds of brewing. You lean back against the counter, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the city waking up below. It’s a beautiful morning, clear and bright, the kind of morning that usually has you feeling optimistic.
Today, however, you mostly just feel...grumpy.
It’s a petulant, immature kind of grumpiness that you know is beneath you, but that doesn’t make it any less real. You’re annoyed. You’re annoyed at the situation, at the timing, at the universe, and mostly, irrationally, at the peaceful, sleeping lump of a footballer currently dead to the world in your bed.
You pour a mug of coffee, the steam curling up into your face, carrying the rich, bitter scent that you usually find comforting. You take your mug and wander into the living room, curling up in the armchair that faces the window. You sip your coffee in silence, watching the city traffic move like toy cars far below. The minutes tick by. The sun gets higher. The apartment gets brighter.
“You’re up early,” a deep, raspy voice drifts from the hallway.
You don't turn around to look at him, keeping your gaze fixed stubbornly on a delivery truck weaving through traffic on the street below. "Couldn't sleep," you mutter into your mug, the words clipped and short.
You can hear the soft pad of his feet moving closer across the floor. You sense him before you see him, the shift in the air pressure as he stops behind the armchair, leaning down to press a kiss to the back of your neck.
"Good morning," he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.
You tilt your head away just slightly, just enough to dodge the second kiss he aims for your cheek. It’s petty, and you know it, but you can’t help yourself. "Morning," you grumble.
He huffs out a soft, bewildered breath, the warmth of it ghosting over your shoulder, but you keep your eyes locked on the street below, refusing to turn around. You hear the rustle of fabric as he shuffles around the chair, and then he’s sinking onto his knees in front of you, invading your periphery.
He’s wearing the same sweatpants from the night before, the grey fabric soft and worn, and his t-shirt is wrinkled across his chest. He looks messy and warm and entirely too appealing for someone who has inadvertently caused you so much frustration. He rubs a hand over his face, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes, before squinting up at you.
"Right," he says slowly, his voice still rough around the edges. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and tries to catch your gaze. You stubbornly focus on the steam rising from your mug. "Wanna tell me what's going on, pretty girl?"
"Nothing," you snap, perhaps a bit too quickly. You take a long, deliberate sip of your coffee, using the mug as a shield. "I'm just enjoying the view."
He reaches out, his fingers trailing gently down your arm until they catch your wrist, pulling your hand—and the mug—down just enough to force you to look at him. His brown eyes are wide and confused, searching your face for a clue.
The sight of him, looking so genuinely confused and a little hurt, makes a sharp pang of guilt lance through your chest, straight through the haze of your annoyance. You almost crack right then. The guilt is a slippery thing, sliding under your defenses and threatening to crumble the wall of attitude you’ve spent all morning building.
You see the worry in his eyes, the way his brow furrows deeper, the slight downturn at the corners of his mouth. He hates it when things are off between you; he’s a fixer by nature, always trying to smooth out the rough edges of the world.
But then your brain reminds you of the ache that is still, stubbornly, lingering in your lower abdomen, and the guilt hardens back into resolve.
"No," you say, pulling your wrist gently but firmly out of his grasp. You set the mug down on the side table with a definitive clink. "You didn't do anything."
He lets his hand drop, palm resting on your thigh, but he doesn't move. He stays there, kneeling on the rug, looking up at you with those wide, worried eyes that usually make you melt like chocolate in a pocket. Today, however, you steel yourself against them.
"It doesn't feel like 'nothing,'" he presses gently, his voice careful, like he’s navigating a minefield. "You’re acting... I don't know. Quiet. Did I say something yesterday? Did I forget something?"
He racks his brain, you can see it. He’s replaying the entire twenty-four hours, analyzing every interaction, every joke, every look. It’s the thing that makes him who he is—the relentless self-correction, the need to be perfect for everyone, but especially for you.
It’s simultaneously endearing and frustrating, because you know he’s going to feel guilty about this too, which is the exact opposite of what you want.
"Stop looking at me like a kicked puppy," you sigh, crossing your arms over your chest and turning your gaze back to the window. The city is too bright, too cheerful. It’s mocking your internal turmoil. "I'm not mad. I'm just... in a mood."
"A mood," he repeats, testing the word out in case it triggers you. He rocks back on his heels, still looking up at you, his concern warring with a flicker of something else—recognition. He’s seen this particular brand of 'mood' before.
He knows you. He knows the way your mind works, probably better than you do. And as the silence stretches between you, thick with tension, you can practically see the gears turning in his head. He’s putting the pieces together—the overly affectionate nature yesterday, the sudden attitude.
He stays there on the floor for a beat longer, processing. He rubs a hand over his jaw, the scratch of his stubble loud in the quiet room. The confusion in his eyes is slowly clearing, replaced by a dawning realization that’s almost comical to watch. The corners of his mouth twitch, fighting a losing battle against a smirk that’s desperate to break free.
"Right," he says, drawing the word out into two syllables. He tilts his head, eyes shinning with amusement as he scans your face. "So, we’re being brats today, is that it?"
"I am not being a brat," you snap, turning your head to glare at him. The fire in your belly has flared up again, mixing with the embarrassment of being so easily read. "I am being an adult who is peacefully enjoying her coffee."
"Uh uh," he snickers, his grin breaking free. It’s slow, lazy, and devastatingly handsome. He reaches out and hooks a finger into the waistband of your pyjama pants, giving it a gentle tug. "So you're not mad that I fell asleep last night?"
You feel the heat rush up your neck and into your cheeks. "I told you, I'm not mad."
"You're not mad," he repeats, nodding solemnly, but his eyes are dancing with mirth now. He tugs on the waistband again, a little harder this time, pulling you closer to the edge of the chair. "So the fact that I passed out before I could... take care of my girlfriend... isn't why you’re currently looking at me like you want to set me on fire?"
The heat in your cheeks is now a full-body flush, and you hate that he can read you so easily. You narrow your eyes, trying to summon the last of your dwindling reserves of indignation. It’s difficult when he’s looking at you like that—like a cat that’s just caught a particularly interesting mouse and is debating between playing with it or eating it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," you sniff, turning your nose up in the air. You try to pull your waistband out of his grip, but he holds fast, his fingers warm and insistent against your hip. "And I’m not trying to set you on fire. I’m trying to drink my coffee in peace."
"Right. Peace," he laughs, a low, throaty sound that does dangerous things to your pussy. "That definitely looked like a peaceful glare you just gave me," he muses, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the skin of your hipbone, just above the elastic of your pajamas. The sensation is distracting, a direct line from his touch to the heat still pooling low in your belly.
"Look at me," he commands, the playful lilt vanishing from his voice, replaced instantly by that deep, gravelly register that means business.
Your eyes snap down to his, your heart hammering against your ribs. The playfulness is still there in the curve of his lips, but his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and burning with a focused intensity that makes your breath hitch in your throat.
"If you want to act like a brat, fine," he says, his hand leaving your waistband to trail up your inner thigh, his fingers pressing firmly into the soft flesh. "But we both know what happens to brats in this house."
Your legs part instinctively, betraying you completely. You try to maintain your scowl, try to hold onto the frayed edges of your annoyance, but his touch is a wrecking ball. His hand is hot and rough, his fingers calloused from years of working out, and as he slides his hand higher, you feel the fight draining out of you.
"I'm not a brat," you whisper, though the lack of conviction in your voice is pathetic.
"Is that right?" He hums, a low, dark sound that vibrates through his chest and straight into yours. He doesn't believe you for a second. "So..." His thumb drags over the fabric of your pajama pants, pressing exactly where the seam is digging into your clit, making you jolt. "...If I check this little pussy, it won't be wet for me?"
You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, your hips jerking upward against his hand in a desperate bid for friction. It’s humiliating, really, how quickly your body betrays your mind. You were ready to scream at him five minutes ago, and now you’re grinding against his hand like a touch-starved fiend.
"Words, baby," he prompts, his tone dropping, stern and unyielding. He pulls his hand away slightly, just enough to leave you hanging, and the loss of contact is physically painful. "Tell me what you need."
"Need you," you whisper, the words tearing themselves from your throat. You hate how desperate you sound, how needy and broken your voice is, but the ache between your legs is pulsing so hard it hurts. You hate that he knows exactly how to break you down, how to strip away the layers of annoyance until you’re nothing but a shaking, begging mess.
"Need me to what?" he presses, his thumb ghosting over the fabric again, a feather-light touch that is pure torture. "To finish what I started yesterday? Is that why you’ve been so mean to me this morning? Huh?"
"Yes," you hiss, your head falling back against the chair. "Yes, okay? Are you happy now? I missed you."
He laughs, a wicked, sinful sound. "I missed you too, sweetheart," he murmurs, leaning forward to press a kiss to your knee, his eyes locked on yours. "But you could’ve just asked nicely. Instead, you decided to give me attitude. And since you wanted to act out," he continues, his hand shifting to grip your ankle, pulling your legs apart wider with a rough, demanding force that leaves you gasping, "I think I'm going to have to remind you who's in charge here."
He doesn't give you time to brace yourself. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pajama pants and your underwear together, dragging them down your hips in one swift, aggressive motion. The air is cool against your heated skin, but it’s immediately replaced by the scorching heat of his hands as he palms the backs of your thighs, lifting you up and forward.
"Jude," you gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders to steady yourself, your fingers digging into the hard muscle of his arms.
"Spread your legs for me," he orders,.
You obey without thinking, shimmying your hips forward until your ass is barely perched on the edge of the armchair. He pushes your legs up, draping one over the arm of the chair and the other over his shoulder, opening you up completely to his gaze.
The vulnerability hits you instantly—cool air conditioning brushing against your feverish skin, the stark exposure of your most intimate parts to his hungry gaze. You try to clamp your legs shut on instinct, a sudden wave of shyness crashing over you, but his grip is iron, his fingers digging into the meat of your thighs, holding you wide open.
"Uh uh," he tuts, shaking his head slowly, his eyes dragging over you with a slow, agonizing appreciation. "Don't get shy on me now. You wanted this attention, didn't you? Well, you've got it."
He leans forward, the movement slow and predatory, his eyes never leaving yours. The anticipation is a physical weight pressing down on your chest, making it hard to breathe. You can feel his breath, hot and damp, ghosting over your inner thigh, inching closer and closer to the ache that is pulsing between your legs.
"Look at this mess," he murmurs, the praise sending a fresh wave of heat rushing to your face. He takes his time, his eyes dragging over every inch of you, until his gaze settles on your pussy, wet and throbbing and swollen, begging for his attention. "Fucking dripping for me."
The first touch of his mouth against you is torture. A searing, claiming press of his lips against your inner thigh, high enough that you can feel the rough scrape of his stubble against the sensitive skin, but agonizingly low enough to miss where you need him most.
Your hips buck instinctively, a desperate, jerky motion seeking friction, but his hands are there to stop you. They clamp down on your thighs like iron manacles, his fingers digging into your flesh, bruising in their grip as he pins you to the armchair. He’s using all his strength to hold you still, and the realization of how easily he can control you makes your head spin.
"Stay still," he growls, the vibration of his voice against your skin making your toes curl. "I didn't say you could move."
"Please," you whimper, your back arching off the chair, your hands tangling in his hair, trying to guide him where you need him most. "Jude, please."
"Not yet," he murmurs against your skin, his voice muffled by your thigh. "You want to act like you’re too good to ask for it? Then you can wait for it."
He shifts his weight slightly, and you feel the blunt drag of his nose against your slit, sliding upward through your slickness but stopping infuriatingly short of your clit. He inhales deeply, a groan rumbling in his chest that vibrates against your nerves, lighting you up from the inside out.
He keeps you there for what feels like an eternity, suspended in agonizing limbo. He’s breathing you in, his nose ghosting over your clit, his warm exhales fanning over your wetness without ever giving you the direct pressure you’re dying for. Every time you try to shift your hips, to grind your cunt against his face, his grip tightens, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs until you know there’ll be bruises there in the shape of his fingertips.
"You smell so good, baby," he murmurs, almost to himself, pressing a chaste, closed-mouth kiss right to the top of your slit. It’s so polite compared to what you want, it makes you want to scream. "All this because I fell asleep? You really were desperate for it, weren't you?"
You whimper, your head falling back against the chair, your eyes squeezing shut as a fresh wave of humiliation washes over you.
He chuckles darkly, the sound wet and sinful in the quiet room. "Desperate little thing," he taunts, his breath hot against your exposed folds. "Look at you. Clenching around nothing just 'cause I'm breathing on you."
You try to grind down, to catch his nose or his chin on your aching clit, anything to relieve the pressure, but he holds you immobile. The strength in his hands is absolute; he’s manhandling you like you weigh nothing, keeping your legs splayed wide and your hips pinned to the chair.
"Jude, please," you gasp, your voice breaking on a sob. It’s pathetic, the way you’re begging, but your pride has been incinerated by the need burning through your veins. "Do something. Anything."
"Patience," he chides, his tone laced with dark amusement. "If you want to come, you’re going to take it exactly how I give it to you."
He leans in finally, but he doesn’t give you the pressure you’re craving. Instead, he flattens his tongue and drags it slowly, agonizingly, from your entrance all the way up to your clit. It’s a wet, heavy stripe that bypasses the sensitive bundle of nerves entirely, leaving you gasping and twitching.
"Jude," you whine, high and thin. "Please, just—" You don't even know what you're asking for. More. Harder. Faster. All of it. Now.
"I know, baby," he coos mockingly, his tongue flicking out to catch a bead of wetness dripping from you. He pulls back slightly, his lips glistening with your arousal, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded as he looks up the length of your body at you. "You’re so sensitive. I’ve barely touched you and you’re already shaking."
He dives back in, exploring, mapping out the territory with slow, deliberate licks that tease the edges of your entrance without ever dipping inside, and broad, flat strokes that bypass your clit entirely. It’s maddening.
He keeps you trapped in that haze, eating at you with a slow, torturous deliberation that feels more like a punishment than a reward. He’s messy with it, dragging his tongue through your folds with wet, heavy licks that cover his chin in your slick, but he never once gives you the targeted friction you’re screaming for.
Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn't even flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He groans against you, the sound vibrating through your clit and making your thighs shake around his ears.
"You're so fucking greedy," he rasps, pulling back just enough to speak. His chest is heaving, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts that match your own. He looks wrecked already—hair a mess from your pulling, eyes glazed, lips swollen and shiny. He slides one hand off your thigh, dragging it through the mess between your legs, coating his fingers in your wetness before bringing them up to show you. "Look at that. Soaking my hand. You really needed this, didn't you?"
"Answer me," he snaps, his voice losing that lazy, teasing edge and turning sharp, commanding. He delivers a sharp smack to your inner thigh with his free hand, the sound cracking through the quiet room like a whip.
You cry out, your hips bucking at the sting. "Yes! Yes, I needed it," you sob, your head thrashing against the back of the chair. The pleasure-pain mix is frying your circuits, leaving you suspended in a state of agonized need.
He brings his soaked fingers to his lips, maintaining eye contact as he sucks them clean, humming around his digits like he's tasting a five-star meal. The sight is so filthy, so debauched, that your pussy clenches around nothing, a fresh wave of slick leaking out of you.
He releases his fingers with a wet pop, his eyes darkening to a pitch-black that swallows the morning light. The air between you feels heavy, electric. The sight of him tasting you, savoring you like that, nearly sends you spiraling over the edge right there, and he knows it. He sees the tension in your thighs, the way your abs are clenching, and he knows exactly how to pull you back from the brink.
"Good girl," he murmurs, the praise dripping from his lips like honey laced with arsenic.
He shifts his weight, the muscles in his shoulders rolling under his skin as he grips your thighs harder, bruisingly tight, anchoring you to the chair. Before you can process the movement, he ducks his head and finally—finally—takes your clit into his mouth.
He doesn't ease you into it. There’s no gentle suction, no slow build to test the waters. He sucks hard, pulling the sensitive bud between his lips and flicking his tongue over it with a ruthless, staccato rhythm that feels like he’s trying to pull your soul out through your clit.
Your entire body bows off the chair, a broken scream tearing from your throat as your hands fly to his hair, your fingers tangling in the coils and holding on for dear life. It’s too much, too intense, the pleasure sharp and blinding, flooding your nervous system so fast it whites out your vision.
"Jude! Fuck, oh my god—" you chant, your voice unrecognizable, high and desperate and broken.
He doesn't let up. If anything, your reaction spurs him on. He hums against you, the low vibration driving you even crazier, and doubles down on the assault. He’s not just licking you; he’s devouring you. His tongue is everywhere, circling your clit with devastating precision before sucking it back into his mouth, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin just enough to add a spark of pain to the overwhelming pleasure.
He’s relentless, alternating between broad, messy strokes that have you grinding against his face and pinpoint attacks on your clit that have you seeing stars. And through it all, he keeps up a steady stream of guttural praise that vibrates against your sensitive skin, driving you closer and closer to the edge.
"Such a sweet little pussy," he growls, the words muffled against your cunt but clear enough to send a jolt straight up your spine. "Don't you dare hold back on me. Give me everything."
He punctuates the command with a particularly harsh suck, his tongue flickering rapidly against the underside of your clit. It’s an electric shock, a direct line to the base of your skull that shorts out your vision. Your back arches violently, your spine bowing off the chair until only your shoulders and heels are touching the fabric, your body suspending itself in the air, chasing the sensation.
The coil in your belly tightens, winding up so fast and hard it makes you dizzy. It’s not just the physical stimulation; it’s the way he’s looking at you, even with his face buried between your legs. He’s watching every twitch, every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids. He knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and the power radiating off him is palpable.
The orgasm hits you with the force of a freight train. It rips through you, violent and blinding, tearing a ragged scream from your throat that you don’t even recognize as your own. Your back bows off the chair, a strangled arch of pure sensation as your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to bring tears to his eyes—not that he cares.
He groans against you, the sound wet and guttural, and he doesn’t let up. If anything, he sucks harder, his tongue working your clit with a ruthless, flicking rhythm that prolongs the pleasure until it borders on pain. He drinks you down, his chin digging into your flesh, greedy for every drop of wetness you’re giving him.
You ride it out, shaking and trembling, your vision whiting out at the edges. It feels like it lasts for hours, an endless loop of electric shocks firing through your nerve endings, leaving you a boneless, gasping mess. Your thighs clamp around his head, instinct trying to shut out the intensity, but he forces them back open with a bruising grip on your inner thighs, keeping you spread wide and vulnerable for him.
The room is spinning, the walls blurring into a wash of white and grey as your body slumps back against the armchair. You’re shattered, completely wrecked, your bones feeling like they’ve been turned to jelly. You can hear your own breaths, ragged and wet, mingling with the sound of him shifting between your legs.
Jude pulls back slowly, the movement deliberate. The loss of his hot mouth against your sensitive flesh makes you shiver, a cold draft rushing in to replace the warmth of his breath. He sits back on his heels, looking up at you with a dark, predatory satisfaction that makes your stomach flip.
He looks absolutely debauched. His hair is a wild mess from where your fingers have been pulling at it, sticking up in every direction. His lips are swollen and glistening, coated in a thick, glossy sheen of your arousal that stretches from his chin down to the column of his throat. It’s a visceral, visual reminder of exactly what he just did to you, and the sight sends a fresh, weak throb through your oversensitive clit.
He swipes a thumb across his lower lip, collecting the slickness there, his eyes never leaving yours. The movement is slow, deliberate, designed to let you see exactly what he’s done to you—and what he’s capable of.
"Is that better?" There’s a smugness to his tone that should annoy you, but mostly it just makes your pussy clench weakly around nothing. He rises to his feet, the movement fluid and predatory, and the sheer height of him looming over the chair makes you feel small, fragile, and completely possessed.
He reaches down, gripping your forearms and hauling you up out of the chair. You stumble, your legs still feeling like water, but he catches you easily, pulling you flush against his chest. The contrast is jarring—the soft, worn cotton of his t-shirt against your bare skin, the hard wall of muscle beneath it, and the unmistakable, heavy ridge of his cock pressing insistently against your stomach.
"You still with me?" he murmurs against your temple, one hand coming up to grip the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair to tilt your head back.
You can’t find the words to answer him. Your brain is still swimming in the aftershocks, a static-filled haze that makes forming a coherent sentence impossible. So you don’t speak. Instead, you lean into him, letting your head rest heavily against his chest, listening to the wild thump-thump-thump of his heart.
He huffs out a short, dark laugh, the sound vibrating through your skull. "I’ll take that as a yes," he mutters. His grip on your neck tightens—not enough to hurt, but enough to hold you in place, a possessive claim that makes your knees threaten to buckle. "Cat got your tongue?"
You whine low in your throat, a pathetic, needy sound that you have no hope of containing. You shift against him, seeking relief for the ache that hasn't dissipated, despite the earth-shattering orgasm he just gave you. If anything, the hunger is worse now—a hollow, gnawing need that demands to be filled.
"Again?" he asks, his tone dripping with a condescending sort of fascination. He doesn't wait for an answer. He keeps a firm grip on the back of your neck and steers you backward, guiding you blindly across the living room until the backs of your knees hit the sofa.
"Down," he commands, releasing his hold on your neck only to press down on your shoulders.
The force is undeniable. Your legs give out instantly, and you collapse onto the cushions, sinking into the soft leather. You look up at him, breathless and wide-eyed, your chest heaving. He towers over you, a monolith of muscle and barely contained restraint.
The living room is spinning, the ceiling blurring into a wash of white plaster and shadows, but he is the only thing in sharp focus. He stands over you, blocking out the morning sun, his silhouette vast and imposing. The air between you is thick, heavy with the scent of sex and sweat and him.
He reaches for the hem of his t-shirt, dragging it up and over his head in one smooth motion. The fabric hits the floor with a soft whisper, leaving his chest bare. Your eyes drag over him helplessly, tracing the familiar landscape of him—the defined ridges of his abs, the scatter of moles across his skin, the way his chest expands with every heavy breath. He’s a work of art, usually, but right now, he looks like something dangerous. A weapon designed to ruin you.
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them down just enough to free his cock. He doesn’t bother taking them off all the way; they sit low on his hips, pooling around his thighs, leaving him exposed and urgent.
He doesn't give you a moment to admire the view. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking it slowly from base to tip, the movement deliberate and lazy, like he has all the time in the world. You watch, transfixed, as his thumb swipes over the angry red head, smearing the bead of precum that has gathered there. The sight is mesmerizing, a visual representation of the restraint he’s been exercising all morning.
"Eyes up here," he commands, his voice cracking through the haze.
Your gaze snaps up to his face. The playful dominance has melted away, leaving behind something raw and primal. He steps closer, the movement forcing your legs apart to make room for him between your thighs.
The leather of the couch is cool against your back, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of your body, but it does nothing to ground you. You feel untethered, floating in the gravitational pull of him.
He stands there for a agonizing moment, framing your hips with his knees, his hand still working his cock in slow, measured pulls that make your mouth water. He’s watching you like a hawk, cataloguing every flutter of your eyelids, every shallow breath, the way your thighs tremble as they try to close around his waist.
"C'mere," he growls, reaching down to grip you chin, forcing your head back.
His mouth crashes down on yours, swallowing the gasp that tears from your throat. His tongue pushes past your lips, sweeping through your mouth with a dominating force that leaves you no choice but to submit. You can taste yourself on him—musky and tart—and it makes your head spin. It’s filthy and intoxicating, a reminder of exactly where his mouth just was and what he’s capable of.
He doesn't let up, devouring your mouth until your lips are swollen and tingling, until you’re writhing beneath him, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your nails digging into the skin in a desperate attempt to pull him closer.
His hand leaves your jaw to trail down your body, a slow, heavy drag that leaves a path of fire in its wake. He maps the curve of your shoulder, until he reaches the mound of your breast, his thumb flicking over your nipple, sending a jolt straight down to your cunt.
"I want you to suck my cock," he murmurs against your lips, his breath hot and ragged. It’s less of a request and more of a command, one that makes your pussy clench in response. "Think you can handle that?"
You nod frantically, your brain short-circuiting at the thought. You want to taste him. You want to feel the weight of him on your tongue, to hear those deep, guttural groans he makes when you use your mouth.
"Yeah?" He taunts. "Open up, then," he rasps, eyes locked on your mouth like a man starved.
He guides himself forward, the blunt, leaking head of his cock nudging insistently at your lower lip. The taste of his precum is sharp, salty, and entirely him. You obey instantly, parting your lips and letting your jaw drop open, flattening your tongue to create a cradle for him.
He doesn't ease into it. He feeds his cock into your mouth with a slow, deliberate thrust, the heavy weight of him pressing down on your tongue, filling you up until the blunt head nudges at the back of your throat. He groans, a low, broken sound that vibrates through his chest and into your mouth, his head tipping back on his neck as he savors the feeling of your wet heat enveloping him.
"Fucking hell," he grits out, his hand leaving your jaw to thread into your hair, his grip tightening. "Look at that. Taking me so well."
You hum around him, the vibration making his hips twitch forward involuntarily. Your jaw stretches to accommodate him, the slight burn mixing with the overwhelming satisfaction of finally having him filling you up. You flatten your tongue against the underside of his shaft, tracing the thick vein that runs the length of him, tasting the salt of his skin.
You don’t have time to adjust to the fullness, to the heavy, thick weight of him sitting heavy on your tongue. He doesn’t let you get comfortable. He pulls back, slow and deliberate, until just the tip is resting against your lower lip, letting you see the strand of saliva connecting your mouth to him, shiny and obscene in the morning light.
Then, he thrusts back in.
It’s a sharp, shallow snap of his hips that drives the air from your lungs in a choked rush. Your eyes water instantly, the reflex prickling at the corners of your vision as he hits the back of your throat. He sets a pace that is designed to make you crave more. The sound is wet and filthy—lewd squelching and choked-off gasps filling the quiet apartment, mixing with the groans that are ripped from his chest every time your throat constricts around him.
Your jaw aches, the corners of your mouth stretching as he fucks your face with a single-minded intensity. Tears are leaking steadily from the corners of your eyes now, tracking hot paths down your cheeks, blurring your vision until all you can see is the hard, flexing planes of his stomach and the dark, heavy-lidded look in his eyes as he stares down at you.
"Look at you," he grits out, his voice a low rasp that vibrates against your tongue. He sounds wrecked, his control hanging by a thread. He pulls your hair harder, forcing your head back at an angle that opens your throat up for him. "Choking on it. You love it, don't you? Love when I use this pretty mouth."
He doesn't give you a chance to answer, not that you could with your mouth full. He just uses the leverage in your hair to hold you still, his hips picking up a rhythm that is devastating in its precision. He’s fucking your throat with deep, heavy thrusts that punch the air out of your lungs, his groans getting louder and more ragged with every passing second.
"Fuck, your mouth feels so good," he growls, his head dropping forward to watch himself disappear past your lips. "Taking me so deep. Such a good little cocksucker for me."
The words are degrading, filthy, but they only make you wetter. You moan around him, the vibration travelling down his shaft and making his hips stutter. You relax your jaw as much as you can, letting him take what he needs, surrendering to the overwhelming reality of him using you.
He suddenly pulls back, his cock slipping from your mouth with a wet, obscene pop that leaves you gasping for air, your lungs burning as they scramble to refill with oxygen. A string of saliva connects your swollen, bruised lips to the flushed, angry head of his cock before snapping, falling messily onto your chin.
You’re panting, your chest heaving, your jaw aching in a way that makes you feel utterly used. You must look a wreck—hair wild, eyes glassy, lips swollen—but the way he looks at you tells you he’s never been more in love.
He taps the head of his cock against your lower lip, a sharp, stinging rhythm that demands your attention. "Want it in your pussy, baby?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous, his cock smearing the mess of saliva and precum across your cheek.
"Please," you manage to gasp out, your voice wrecked. You need it. You need to feel him stretching you out, filling you up until you can’t think about anything but the drag of him against your walls.
"Since you asked so nicely," he mutters, his eyes flashing with dark amusement.
The next few seconds are a blur of motion. He grips you by the hips, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave bruises, and simply flips you over.
A squeal escapes your throat as your world tilts, your face suddenly pressing into the cool, butter-soft leather of the sofa cushions. You scramble for purchase, your hands clutching at the armrest, trying to anchor yourself as he manhandles you into the position he wants.
He doesn't speak. The silence is heavy, filled only by the ragged sound of your combined breathing. He pushes your knees up the couch, spreading your thighs wide with a rough shove of his knee. You’re completely exposed to him again—ass in the air, face buried in the cushions, dripping wet and waiting.
The cool air of the room hits your overheated skin, making you shiver, but the exposure is fleeting. The heat of his body covers you instantly, a heavy, dominant blanket that cages you in. His knees frame your thighs, and you can feel the rigid line of his cock nestling against your ass, slick and insistent.
One of his hands leaves your hip, sliding up the curve of your spine, his fingers tracing the ridges of your vertebrae with a possessiveness that makes your breath hitch. He fists a hand in your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling sharply until your back arches and your face leaves the cushion.
"Look at you," he murmurs, his voice a rough scrape of sound against your ear. "Bent over and ready for me. Did sucking my dick make you this wet, or was it choking on it?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He pulls his hips back just enough to line himself up, the blunt head of his cock catching on your entrance, sliding through your mess until he’s notched against you. The anticipation is a tight, coiling thing in your belly, a desperate mix of impatience and longing that has your fingers clawing at the leather cushion beneath you.
"Relax for me," he rasps, his hand tightening in your hair, pulling your head back until your throat is exposed, your gaze forced blindly toward the ceiling.
The first thrust is devastating.
He pushes forward, sinking into you with one slow, unrelenting roll of his hips. The stretch is intense, a burning, delicious friction that steals the air from your lungs and leaves you gasping, your fingers digging uselessly into the leather cushions. He doesn't stop until he’s buried to the hilt, his hips flush against your ass, filling you completely until you feel like you might split open.
The feeling is overwhelming—a heavy, full pressure that crowds out every other thought until there is nothing but him. You are entirely consumed by the scent of him, the heat of him, the sheer weight of him pinning you down.
"Fuck," Jude groans, the sound ripped from his chest. He stills for a beat, his chest heaving against your back, his hand grounding itself on your hip. "You take it so deep. Pussy was made for me."
He starts to move, and it’s immediately clear that the slow, deliberate pace is over. The restraint he exercised earlier, the careful teasing—it’s all dissolved, replaced by a singular, driving need to take.
He pulls back until just the head of his cock remains inside you, the loss of that fullness making you clench around him, desperate to keep him there, before snapping his hips forward. The force of the thrust rocks your entire body forward, your knees scraping against the leather, a harsh gasp tearing from your throat.
"Jude," you choke out, your fingers scrambling for purchase against the smooth leather of the sofa arm.
The name is barely out of your mouth before his hips snap forward again, cutting off your air with a sharp, thrust that punches a moan out of your lungs. He sets a ruthless pace immediately, no warm-up, no gentle build-up—just the heavy, rhythmic slap of skin against skin echoing through the living room.
"Quiet," he grits out, though the command is belied by the way his breathing is already ragged. "You can take it."
You bury your face in the cushions to muffle the sounds being ripped out of you, your fingers white-knuckling the arm of the sofa as he uses you. The leverage is entirely his; your knees are scraping helplessly against the leather, your body nothing but a vessel for him to take. The angle is devastating, every thrust dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur and your toes curl.
You are completely at his mercy, pinned beneath the weight of him, reduced to a quivering, moaning mess. The sounds of your pleasure are muffled by the leather cushions, wet and desperate, but the wet slap of his hips against your ass is loud, echoing obscenely through the penthouse.
He pulls your head back again, his grip in your hair tightening, forcing your arch to deepen. The change in angle is devastating. He drives into you harder, deeper, the blunt head of his cock nailing that spot inside you with merciless precision.
"I said look at me," he growls, his voice a dark rasp against your ear. He yanks your head back further, forcing your neck to crane at an almost painful angle. You blink your eyes open, your vision swimming with tears of overwhelmed pleasure. The room is spinning, a blur of bright morning light and dark furniture, but you can see him in your peripheral vision—see the flex of his abs, the sweat beading on his temple, the way his jaw is clenched tight with restraint.
He releases his grip on your hair, his hand sliding down to cup your jaw, forcing your head to turn awkwardly so you can catch his reflection in the darkened glass of the balcony doors. It’s a debauched sight—your face is flushed a deep, blotchy red, your lips swollen and wet, your eyes heavy-lidded and glazed with lust. Behind you, Jude is a portrait of dominance, his teeth gritted, the cords of his neck standing out in sharp relief as he drives into you.
"See how well you take me?" he rasps, his hips snapping forward with a particularly sharp thrust that forces a broken cry from your throat. "Fucking beautiful."
The visual is too much. Seeing the raw, unfiltered hunger on his face, the way his eyes burn into yours even in the reflection, sends a fresh wave of heat crashing through you. You clench hard around him, your walls fluttering helplessly as the pressure in your belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap.
"Shit," he grits out, punctuating it with a sharp, deliberate roll of his hips that grinds his pelvic bone against your clit. "Squeezing me so tight. You love being used like this, don't you?"
You can’t form words, not with the way he’s splitting you open, not with the brutal rhythm he’s setting that’s knocking the air out of your lungs with every thrust. So you just nod frantically, your cheek dragging against the leather, your eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds to a fever pitch.
"Use your words," he demands, his hand leaving your jaw to deliver a sharp, stinging smack to your ass.
The sound is sharp, a loud crack that echoes through the apartment, quickly followed by the stinging burn that radiates across your skin. It feels like a livewire snapping against your nerves, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your clit.
"Jude!" you gasp, your eyes flying open. Your back arches instinctively, trying to escape the sensation, but you only end up pushing your hips back harder onto his cock, taking him even deeper.
"Ask nicely," he repeats, his voice a dark, velvety threat. He lands another smack on your other cheek, equally as hard, watching the flesh ripple and redden. "Beg for it."
"Jude, please," you sob, the words tumbling out of you in a desperate rush. The pleasure is a white-hot spike driving into your center, making it impossible to think, impossible to do anything but feel. He’s ruining you, dismantling you piece by piece with every ruthless thrust. "I need it. Please, let me come."
He groans, the sound vibrating through his chest and into your back, a dark, primal noise that tells you he’s just as close to the edge as you are. "That's it. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
He doesn’t make you wait. The second the words leave your mouth, the tension that was holding him back snaps. He abandons the slow, torturous grind in favor of a relentless, punishing rhythm.
The sound of skin against skin fills the room, a wet, rhythmic slap that echoes off the high ceilings. He’s not holding back anymore, driving into you with a force that pushes the air from your lungs in sharp, broken cries. Your knees slide helplessly against the leather, your body jerking forward with every thrust, but he holds you steady, his grip on your hip bruising.
"Take it," he growls, the words punched out of him on every thrust. "Fuck, take it all."
The coil in your belly winds tighter and tighter, a physical pressure that steals the air from your lungs and whites out your vision. It’s not just the stimulation, though the drag of his cock against your walls is devastating; it’s the sheer possession in his movements, the way he’s taking exactly what he wants from you. He’s not making love to you; he’s claiming you, staking a claim that feels permanent and unshakeable.
"Look at you," he grits out, his rhythm never faltering. "Falling apart on my cock. This what you needed? Hm? To be fucked dumb?"
You can’t answer. You can barely breathe. Your face is smashed against the leather cushion, your mouth open in a silent scream as the pleasure builds to a crescendo. You’re dangling right on the edge, the precipice looming closer and closer, but you can’t seem to fall over.
You’re stuck in that agonizing limbo, hovering right on the razor's edge of release, your entire body trembling with the effort to hold on. It’s too much, the drag of him against your walls, the slap of his hips, the sheer weight of him pinning you down. You’re sobbing into the leather, broken, incoherent noises spilling from your throat as you try to form the words, try to beg him for the final push you need.
"Jude, please," you whimper, your voice cracking. "I can't—I'm so close, please."
He slows down, just a fraction, just enough to be cruel. He leans over your back, his chest pressing against your spine, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of your ear. The change in angle makes him feel impossibly deeper, a heavy, stretching pressure that steals your breath.
You can feel the damp heat of his chest against your back, the rapid thud of his heart beating in time with yours. The sweat on his skin makes you stick together, a primal, uncomfortable connection that feels absolutely vital. He’s all around you—his scent, his heat, the sheer overwhelming weight of him pinning you to the couch.
"Please what?" he breathes against the shell of your ear, his voice a low, wicked rumble that vibrates straight down your spine. "Tell me exactly what you need, baby. Use your big girl words."
He punctuates the taunt with a sharp, shallow thrust that grinds his pelvic bone against your ass, hitting deep but not giving you the friction you need to spiral over the edge. It’s a calculated, maddening tease. He knows exactly how close you are; he can feel the way your walls are fluttering around him, the desperate, rhythmic clenching that is begging for release.
You let out a sound that’s half-sob, half-growl, your forehead thumping rhythmically against the leather cushion in frustration. The heat pooling in your belly is agonizing, a twisting, knotting pressure that demands relief, and he’s deliberately withholding it. He’s enjoying this—enjoying the way you’re falling apart, enjoying the desperation leaking out of every pore.
"Need you to make me come," you gasp out, the words barely intelligible, muffled by the cushion but loud enough in the quiet room. You try to shift your hips, to angle yourself so he hits that spot again, but the hand on your hip is an iron clamp, holding you immobile. "Please, Jude. Don't stop. Please don't stop."
He huffs a dark laugh against your ear, the sound sending shivers down your spine. "I know, baby. I know exactly what you need." He presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck, just below your ear, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your skin. "You need to let go. Stop trying to control it. Let me take you there."
He doesn't give you a warning. He just straightens up, releasing his hold on your hair to grip both your hips with bruising force, and unleashes a rhythm that is absolutely devastating.
The air leaves your lungs in a sharp, punched-out gasp. He’s using his full strength now, leveraging his grip on your hips to pull you back onto him with every thrust, meeting you halfway with a force that makes the sofa frame scrape against the hardwood floor.
"Jude, oh my god—" you cry out, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the smooth leather, seeking purchase that isn't there. Your eyes squeeze shut, your head falling forward as the sensation overwhelms you, white and hot and blinding.
The orgasm doesn't just ripple through you; it detonates.
It starts at the base of your spine and shoots outwards, a blinding white arc that severs your connection with reality. Your back bows violently, a strangled scream tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down on him like a vise. Your entire body locks up, muscles seizing in a paroxysm of pleasure so intense it borders on agony.
You're aware of dimly of Jude cursing above you, a string of filth that would make a sailor blush, but it sounds like it's coming from underwater. Your blood is rushing in your ears, a deafening roar that drowns out everything except the wet, rhythmic slap of skin against skin and the jagged sound of your own sobbing breaths.
You’re floating, untethered, drifting in a hazy sea of white noise and dopamine. Your body feels heavy, boneless, like you’ve been melted down and poured back into the shape of the sofa cushions. The rhythmic thumping of your heart is the only thing anchoring you to the earth, a slow, steady drum against your ribs.
You feel the loss of him before you register the movement—a sudden, hollow emptiness as he pulls out. The sensation makes you whimper, a weak, broken sound that gets lost in the cushion. The air feels shockingly cool against your overheated, swollen skin without the weight of him covering you, and you shiver violently.
The loss of him is a physical ache, a sudden hollow void where there was only seconds ago a stretching, burning fullness. You whimper into the leather, your hips twitching involuntarily in a desperate attempt to chase the friction, but he holds you still with a firm hand on the small of your back.
"Shh," he soothes, though his voice is wrecked, rough and ragged like he’s been swallowing gravel. "Turn over. Let me see you."
It takes a monumental effort to coordinate your limbs. You feel like liquid, your muscles turned to jelly by the force of your orgasm, but you obey. Slowly, clumsily, you manage to flip onto your back. The leather of the sofa is cool and sticky against your overheated skin, a strange, grounding sensation that helps pull you back down to earth.
The world rights itself slowly, the spinning ceiling resolving into the familiar plaster of your living room. You blink rapidly, trying to clear the tears from your eyelashes, your chest heaving as you drag in lungfuls of air.
Jude is standing over you, a vision of chaotic splendor. His chest is heaving, the muscles in his stomach jumping with every breath, slick with a light sheen of sweat that catches the morning sun. His cock is heavy and flushed dark, curving up toward his stomach, glistening with the evidence of your arousal. He looks like a statue carved from marble and then set on fire, dangerous and beautiful and entirely yours.
He wraps a hand around his shaft, frantically stroking himself, his eyes dragging over your prone body with a hunger that hasn't been remotely sated. His gaze is a physical weight, tracing the flush that spreads from your cheeks down your neck to your heaving chest, lingering on the way your thighs are still trembling, falling open instinctively to invite him back in.
"Open your mouth," he breathes out, the words tight and strained.
The command is low, guttural, and stripped of any teasing lilt. It’s a demand, pure and simple.
You don’t hesitate. Your jaw, already aching from the stretch earlier, drops open instantly. You stick your tongue out slightly, flattening it to create a soft, wet target for him. The position feels vulnerable, exposing, but the dark heat that intensifies in his gaze at your obedience washes away any embarrassment. He likes seeing you like this—wrecked, pliant, and waiting for whatever he decides to give you.
"Good girl," he praises, his voice cracking on a groan.
His hand moves faster on his cock, the slick, rhythmic sound of his fist sliding over his skin filling the silence between your ragged breaths. You can see the tension in his jaw, the way his abs are clenched tight, the throbbing pulse point in his neck.
He looks wild. Unrestrained.
"I'm gonna come on this pretty face," he warns, his voice dropping an octave, rough and gravelly. "You gonna let me paint you, baby?"
You moan around the word, the sound vibrating in your throat, a desperate, needy affirmation that has his hips twitching forward involuntarily. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, bracing yourself, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of him, before forcing them back open. You want to see him. You want to watch him fall apart over you.
"Yes," you breathe, the word barely a whisper. "Please, Jude. Give it to me."
It’s all the permission he needs.
The sound that tears from his throat is primal, a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched from the very depths of him. His hips jerk erratically, losing their rhythm entirely as the hand on his cock becomes a blur of motion. He’s hovering over you now, his head thrown back, the long line of his throat exposed and glistening with sweat.
Then, his gaze snaps down to yours, locking onto your face with an intensity that pins you in place.
"Fuck," he grits out, the syllable elongating into a low hiss. "Take it."
The first ribbon of heat lands across your cheekbone, a shocking, wet stripe that pulls a gasp from your throat. It’s followed immediately by another, painting a thick, viscous line over your parted lips and onto your tongue. The taste is sharp, salty, and entirely him, a sensory overload that shorts out your already fried nervous system.
He doesn’t stop. He works himself through it with rough, efficient pulls of his fist, marking you with a devastating precision. It lands on your chin, dripping down toward your neck, and then a final spurt catches the corner of your mouth, mingling with the spit already slicking your skin.
Above you, Jude is a study in ruined perfection. His chest heaves with the exertion, his abs contracting sharply with every wave of his release. For a long, suspended moment, he is entirely vulnerable, stripped of all his calculated control and laid bare by the force of his pleasure.
The room is filled with the harsh, ragged sounds of recovery—the wet hitch of your breath, the low, groaning exhale he lets out as his body finally uncoils. The silence that follows is heavy, vibrating with the residual energy of what just happened.
Jude leans forward, planting a hand on the back of the sofa to steady himself. He looks down at you, his chest heaving, his eyes dark and intent as he takes in the mess he’s made of you. The raw possessiveness in his gaze hasn't faded, even now that the edge has been taken off.
He reaches out with his free hand, his thumb finding your cheekbone. He doesn't wipe the mess away; instead, he smears it, rubbing his release into your skin with a slow, deliberate circular motion that makes your stomach flip. It’s a primal act, marking his territory, and the sheer filthiness of it sends a weak, residual throb through your oversensitive body.
You blink, the sticky warmth on your face cooling rapidly in the air-conditioned room. It should feel dirty, or degrading, but the way he’s looking at you...
He leans down, capturing your lips in a kiss that is surprisingly tender given the wreckage of the last hour minutes. It’s slow, languid, a deep slide of tongues that tastes of salt and musk and shared exhaustion.
When he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, his breath fanning hot and uneven across your face. You stare up at him, your vision slightly blurry, still swimming in the aftershocks. A stray droplet of his release clings to your eyelashes, and you watch the darkness of his eyes track it.
A low, rumbling sound vibrates against your lips—half-chuckle, half-groan. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his gaze tracking the mess on your face with a dark, satisfied reverence. His thumb swipes over your cheekbone, gathering the wetness there, and instead of wiping it off, he brings it to your mouth.
"Clean it off," he murmurs, his voice still scraped raw from shouting.
You part your lips instantly, tongue darting out to curl around his thumb. The taste is salty, sharp, and overwhelmingly him. You suck the digit clean, maintaining eye contact the entire time, and the satisfaction that cracks through his mask of exhaustion is potent. His eyes darken, his jaw tightening, and for a second, you think the hunger might spark back to life.
He watches you with a heavy-lidded intensity, his chest still heaving slightly as you clean the last of the mess from his thumb. Jude pulls his thumb from your mouth with a soft, wet pop. He stares at your swollen lips for a beat, his eyes tracing the curve of your mouth like he’s committing it to memory, before letting out a long, ragged exhale that seems to deflate some of the tension in his shoulders.
"Fuck, baby. You're gonna be the death of me," he mutters, his voice low and rough. He collapses onto the sofa next to you, the leather creaking under his weight, and immediately pulls you into his side.
You go willingly, burrowing into the heat of his skin. You fit against him perfectly, your head resting on his chest, listening to the wild thrum of his heart gradually slowing down. The scent of him surrounds you—a heady mix of sweat, sex, and the cedarwood of his cologne—and it feels like coming home.
