Slow burn, Deep strokes
word count: 5,238
pairing: aurelien tchouameni x famous black female reader
warning ‼️: smut!!
summary: your little “meaningless flirting” game doesn’t go over well with aurélien
tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner
@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro
@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas
@amirawrah
note: ahhhh it’s great to be back with an aurelien smut. back to my root, yes gaaawwwdddd! a little makeup sex ;) i had sooo much fun writing this and i hope you love it just as much as i do. thank you to the anon that requested this. as always, enjoy and tell ‘em what you think❤️🔥!!!
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YSL Fall/Winter 2025, Paris.
The air outside the venue buzzed with electricity, camera flashes like lightning against the night. You stepped out of the black SUV like it was your runway. You didn’t need a red carpet—your presence turned concrete into velvet. Black 30 inch middle part bussdown laid like silk, body hugged by a custom YSL matching three peice set. A vision.
And right next to you? Your man. Aurélien in custom Yves Saint Laurent: smooth black turtleneck, tailored overcoat, strong shoulders, glinting chain peeking from under his collar. He looked like wealth and warning.
Together, you were art.
You clutched his hand, confident in your stride, soaking up the attention as you made your way into the venue. Front row seats, of course—nothing less.
You slid into your seat, legs crossed, fingers grazing the inside of Aurélien’s wrist. His head tilted toward you, dark eyes dragging down your figure like he was memorizing every inch.
“You look so sexy tonight bébé” he murmured, voice a low curl of smoke in your ear.
You turned to him with a slow, smug smile. “You make this outfit illegal. We should’ve just stayed home”
The corners of his mouth curved upward, but his gaze stayed trained on you—watching, simmering. You turned your attention back toward the aisle, grinning to yourself. You were feeling bold tonight. Flirty. Teasing.
Every person who came to greet you got a dose of charm. Your compliments were slick and sweet, and your eyes sparkled just a little more than usual. A well-known model greeted you with a soft “Hey beautiful” and you replied with a slow up-and-down gaze and a sly, “You’re lucky I’m taken.”
Aurélien chuckled once under his breath. “You’re in a mood”
“I’m always in a mood” you purred, brushing your nails down his thigh. “And you love it”
He did. But tonight, that mood was running hot enough to stir the air.
Then he appeared.
“Damson!” you exclaimed, eyes widening as your good friend strode toward you.
Damson Idris. Actor. Trouble. One of your favorite people in the industry—charming, familiar, and someone who always made you feel seen. You’d worked with him before—just a couple episodes on Snowfall, but the bond had clicked instantly. The playful banter, the creative chemistry, the late-night rehearsals with wine and playlists. You kept in touch here and there, a few DMs, liking each other’s stories, the occasional FaceTime. But it had been months since you’d seen him in person.
You stood up before he even reached your row, arms already out. He pulled you into a tight hug, scent warm and familiar. You curled your arms around his shoulders, letting your hand linger a little on his bicep as you squeezed. “I’ve missed your fine ass” you said under your breath, teasingly.
He laughed against your ear. “Still got the slick mouth, huh?”
You both pulled back with matching grins, giving each other a cheek kiss.
Then you remembered your man. You turned, still holding Damson’s arm, and reached for Aurélien’s hand.
“Come here baby, this is Damson” you said sweetly, almost too sweet.
Then to Damson: “Damson, this is my man, Aurélien.”
The handshake was firm. Respectful. But heavy with unspoken weight.
Aurélien didn’t like men who stood too close. Damson didn’t like men who got defensive too quick. And you? You just stood there smiling like nothing was amiss, your hand still on Damson’s arm, the other laced with Aurélien’s.
All three of you sat. You in the middle. Aurélien shifted closer to your left. Possessive.
You placed a calming hand on his knee, still smiling.
But the real show hadn’t even started yet.
You leaned toward Damson during the first walk. Whispered about the velvet coats. Complimented the men’s loafers. Your knees brushed. He made you laugh a few times—those inside jokes still hit. You touched his wrist once, just a friendly little nudge.
You didn’t think it was that serious.
But Aurélien noticed everything.
“I really like Damson’s shirt” you said, your voice light, looking over at your man. “It would look so good on you baby.”
That was it.
No words from Aurélien. No expression. Just stillness.
He didn’t speak to you for the rest of the show. He didn’t laugh. Didn’t nod. Just watched the models walk like it was any other night. Cold.
When the final walk happened and the house lights came up, you hugged Damson goodbye, promising to catch up soon. Then you turned back to Aurélien.
“Are you ready to g—?”
But he had already grabbed your hand, firm, not rough, but tight. He led you toward the exit with purpose, not aggression—controlled, composed.
Outside, before you could reach the car, a familiar voice called out.
“Hey gorgeous”
You turned to see Devin Booker approaching, hands in his pockets, smile boyish and soft. Longtime friend. Another one who always gave you light.
You greeted him warmly, the way you always had. “Did you get a new skincare routine or something? Your skin is glowing Dev.”
He laughed low. “Stop playing. I’m always glowing like this.”
Behind you, Aurélien’s hand moved from your waist to the curve of your ass, grip steady.
Devin gave him a nod. “Saw your goal the other day. You did your thing, bro.”
Aurélien replied without a flicker. “ Preciate it.”
You said your goodbyes and barely made it five steps before Aurélien was pulling you toward the car again. You looked down at your intertwined hands—his grip was tighter than usual.
“You don’t have to squeeze my hand like that.”
No answer.
Just the sound of your heels clicking along the sidewalk.
When you reached the car, he opened the door for you, stepping aside without meeting your eyes.
You stood in front of it, unmoving.
“What the hell are you mad about right now?”
Still no response.
“Hello??......Aurélien?........Baby—”
“In the car”
His voice was dry. Still. Like water right before it boils.
You blinked.
The look he gave you—calm, unreadable, a quiet warning. You knew that look. The one that said, Push me again, and you’ll find out.
You didn’t argue. You slid into the passenger seat with a shaky sigh, pulled your seatbelt across your chest, and turned your face to the window.
And then the silence grew thick.
He didn’t start the engine with a growl. No sharp turns. No speeding. No dramatic tension.
Just a slow, easy roll onto the road.
He drove like he had nowhere to be. One hand on the wheel, the other on the gearshift. His knuckles calm. Not tense. Not flexed.
The kind of stillness that comes from restraint, not peace.
No music.
No thigh touches.
No usual post-show analysis. Nothing.
He didn’t even glance at you.
And that scared you more than yelling ever could.
The soft click of the gear shift into park was the loudest sound either of you had heard in the last thirty minutes.
No music.
No talking.
Just the eerie stillness of the drive home.
Aurélien hadn’t looked at you once the whole way. Not a glance at your thighs crossed beside him. Not a hand drifting to your leg like usual. He didn’t even ask if you wanted food, which he always did—whether you were full or not. That kind of silence from him wasn’t loud—it was surgical. Measured. It was intention.
He drove like he had nowhere to be, like every red light was a meditation session. No sharp turns. No deep sighs or wheel gripping. Just one hand steady at 10 o’clock, the other resting on his thigh, his eyes calm but unreadable as they watched the road.
And that made it worse.
The way he wasn’t showing his hand.
Wasn’t raising his voice.
Wasn’t giving you anything.
It was eating you alive.
You sat in the passenger seat, stiff and trying not to fidget, your fresh hair swaying every time you turned your head toward him. But he didn’t bite. Not once.
When he finally pulled into the driveway and shut off the engine, he didn’t immediately hop out. He just sat there for a moment, hand still on the wheel like he was winding down from something… or preparing to start something.
Then he moved. Slowly. Calmly.
He stepped out of the car, his tailored YSL pants hugging his thighs just right as he rounded the vehicle. You swallowed. Every step he took felt like a countdown. Not to an explosion—but to a reckoning.
He opened your door and extended his hand, and though you wanted to keep up the attitude, you slipped your hand into his too fast, drawn to the warmth and quiet dominance of his touch. He helped you out with that same effortless grace he always had, but tonight, it wasn’t affectionate. It was possessive.
Still no words.
Inside, he let you enter first and followed behind without so much as a glance. His pace didn’t change. His energy didn’t spike. He didn’t drop his keys angrily on the counter or throw off his jacket. No.
He walked past you, pulled off his watch with silent precision, then made his way into the living room and sank into the couch like a man settling into control.
You watched him like he was a stranger. Mouth parted. Brow furrowed.
What the hell kind of crime did you commit to get this kind of response from Captain Tchouaméni?
He was cooler than when he got benched. Cooler than when a ref gave him a red card. And that scared you more than yelling ever could.
You followed, standing just outside the living room, arms crossed tightly under your chest.
He looked… too relaxed. Legs wide, arm draped across the back of the couch, like he was lounging after a long day. His face, though—that was where the fire sat. Not blazing. Not wild. Controlled.
You stepped closer.
“What the hell was that about?” you asked, sharp with attitude but laced with confusion.
He didn’t blink. “I should be asking you that.”
You scoffed lightly, trying to stay grounded. “Aurélien, what are you talking about?”
Then came the tap on his thigh. That silent demand.
“Come here.”
The way he said it was quiet. Casual. Like he wasn’t asking. Like you were already going to obey.
And you did. You walked slowly, pretending to be unaffected, pretending your thighs weren’t pressing together with every step. You sat across his right thigh, back straight, gaze fixed forward like you were watching a commercial break.
But you could feel his eyes piercing into the side of your face.
“You want to play games?” he said, low and even, his fingers sliding up to your jaw. “We can play games.”
He turned your head to the left gently but without room to resist. You were eye to eye now, and the look on his face? Calm. Focused. Like a man who had already decided how this would end.
You swallowed hard. His thigh beneath you was too relaxed. Too steady. And that told you everything.
“Ugh, are you mad at me for some meaningless flirting, Aurélien? Seriously?” you bit out, trying to reclaim the upper hand.
“I didn’t say that” he said, jaw tightening just slightly, eyes still on yours. That stare? It was so sharp it felt like he was peeling the truth off you.
Shit.
You stiffened. You had just told on yourself.
“O-okay well… what do you want me to say? I was just playing. It’s fine.” Your voice dropped into something softer. Less sure. He could feel the shift. You could feel it too.
His hand slid up your back, warm and firm. Then he wrapped it around the back of your neck, just tight enough to steal your breath. He pulled you an inch closer, his voice low, heat curling off every word.
“You love to play” he murmured. “Why don’t we play together, hm?”
You rolled your eyes, growing irritated, even though your thighs were already tightening from the tension.
“Aurélien, I’m not about to play stupid games with you right now. Come on.”
You made a move to stand, shifting your weight and placing your hand on his other leg in front of you for leverage. But he didn’t budge. Instead, his grip locked around you, holding you firm in place—one large, warm palm spreading over your thigh, fingers curling into the flesh possessively. His other hand stayed at the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, applying just enough pressure to make you remember who was in control.
You stilled.
“No?” he said, voice like smooth velvet stretched over fire. “You’ve already been playing this whole time.”
Then his head moved forward, and his lips—full, soft, but commanding—pressed against your neck.
The first kiss was featherlight. Teasing.
The second… slower. Wetter.
He kissed like he was unwrapping you. Not with lust alone, but with intention. With memory. His thick tongue made slow, deliberate strokes up the curve of your neck, the kind that left a warm trail even after he pulled away. Your breath caught in your throat.
You tried to hold on to your frustration. Tried to stay sharp. “Are we gonna talk about this or—”
“Shhhh.” His interruption was low and gentle, but it silenced you completely. “Enough talking. You got yourself into enough trouble”
The finality in his voice made your stomach flutter. You swallowed hard.
You didn’t respond. You couldn’t. You were just trying to breathe evenly now, trying to resist the way his lips and tongue made your body ache. He continued moving, mouth painting slow circles into your skin as if he had all night.
“Aurélien…” you whispered, your hips beginning to move instinctively, rolling in subtle circles against his thigh. You felt the muscle tense beneath you—just slightly—but he didn’t stop.
“No talking, I said”
He didn’t raise his voice. Didn’t shift in tone. But something about the calm way he said it made you freeze. You obeyed. Your chest rose and fell faster as you realized what kind of night this would be.
Oh, he’s serious, you thought, pulse fluttering in your throat.
And then he moved.
With maddening slowness, he shifted you off his lap. You didn’t even notice the transition until your back was against the couch cushions, and he was hovering above you—those deep, intense eyes studying your body like it was something to be solved.
And then… he started undressing you.
One. Piece. At. A. Time.
First, your jacket.
He peeled it away like he was revealing something sacred. When your arms were free, he took your hands in his, brought them to his lips, and kissed your knuckles, your palms, your wrists—his breath warming your skin in the most delicate way. Then he traced his mouth up your arms, over your shoulders, and across your collarbones. Slow. Methodical.
Then your shoes.
He slid down to the edge of the couch, unbuckling each strap as if it mattered, and placed your heels neatly to the side. Then he lifted your foot gently into his hand, kissing the arch, the top, the ankle. Worshipping. Devouring.
You were already starting to tremble.
Next, your pants.
He looked at you the entire time, never breaking the tension. He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled them down, inch by inch. Your breath hitched when his knuckles brushed your thighs. Once they were gone, his mouth replaced them—sinking into the soft, thick flesh of your inner thighs. He kissed, licked, and gently bit, leaving no part untouched. Then he reached your panties.
He didn’t move them. Didn’t pull them aside.
He just kissed over them. Soft, deliberate pressure against your heat.
You gasped, your hips twitching upward. His hands pinned them down.
Last, your top.
He sat back, tugging the fabric up your torso, watching every inch of skin appear. When your top was fully gone, he leaned in again. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your waist. He pressed his mouth to your lower abdomen, slow and possessive. When he reached your breasts, he didn’t touch. He hovered, let his breath drag across your nipples, and then pulled back to watch you squirm.
Your whole body was buzzing.
And then—he stood up.
It took everything in you not to beg.
He began undressing himself, just as torturously slow. Untying his shoes with perfect control. Removing his tailored black jacket and revealing the fitted turtleneck beneath, snug across his chest and arms. Your eyes were glued to his biceps, thick and veiny, flexing slightly as he adjusted the sleeves.
He rolled them up to his elbows. Slowly. You licked your lips without meaning to.
Then the belt.
He unbuckled it with one hand, each sound echoing in the silence. Then the zipper. You sucked in a sharp breath. When he pushed his pants down, your eyes dropped to his thighs—powerful and thick, every step of muscle flexing as he shifted his stance.
He stood there in just his grey briefs.
Already hard.
Your mouth watered. You clenched your thighs together, desperate for friction, for him—anything.
And then finally, he pulled them down.
He let them fall, exposing every hard, beautiful inch of himself to you. Full, heavy, throbbing. Your eyes locked there, a tremble spreading across your legs.
But he didn’t step forward. He didn’t move.
He just stood there. Letting you see him. Letting the weight of anticipation grow unbearable.
Because somehow, you knew—
It wouldn’t be that easy.
He came back to you like he never meant to leave, his tall frame casting a slow-moving shadow as he leaned over, wrapping your legs around his waist. His skin was warm, flushed, his body heavy with tension and hunger he refused to release. You could feel the full weight of his dick pressed against your lower stomach, thick and pulsing, a dark promise he still wouldn’t deliver on. It was maddening.
His kiss felt like a curse—like it carried a spell meant to make you forget how to breathe. He moved with excruciating control, soft lips dragging over yours, deep and slow, as if he wanted you to feel every millimeter of contact. No urgency. Just tension and the taste of punishment.
He touched your thighs like they were made of velvet—squeezing, stroking, dragging his palms up and down with reverence and control. Every movement was thought out. Intentional. He was worshipping you… while withholding you.
You arched your back instinctively, trying to grind against him, hoping for just the slightest hint of friction—but he shifted his hips and pressed his full weight into you, anchoring you down into the couch cushions. His restraint was terrifying. Sexy. Cruel.
“No. Stay still” he said, low and sharp, like a warning wrapped in honey.
Then he dipped back into your neck, mouth warm and open, tongue slow and wet, tasting you like you were his last meal. The pace. The pressure. The way he lingered. He was savoring you.
“But baby please—” you begged, voice small, broken by need.
He cut you off without even looking up. “No. Talking. Do I need to make you be quiet?”
The cold authority in his voice sent a shiver up your spine. You blinked, speechless, throat dry. All you could do was reach for him, pulling him back into your mouth, letting him kiss you again, needing to feel some part of him where he allowed it.
He didn’t stop. He was everywhere now—his mouth branding your neck with hickeys that felt like bruised memories, raw and fresh. Each one more possessive than the last. Your mind briefly flashed to the press run you were starting in two days. Hair. Makeup. Stylist. Publicist. All of them asking how you were going to hide the evidence of the man who was fucking you like his heart would stop if he didn’t.
You tried to keep quiet, but your breath betrayed you—coming out in short, high-pitched moans, shivering through your throat. You could feel the wetness dripping down between your legs, soaking through to the cushion. It was humiliating, how much he could make you need him without even being inside you.
Then, like he was done playing with his food, he flipped you over effortlessly, and you found yourself facedown, ass arched for him. He didn’t say a word. Just looked. You could feel his eyes on you, dragging heat up your spine.
He pressed one hand to the back of your neck, the other gripping both your wrists together like he was locking you into place. You could barely move. Barely breathe.
You expected him to take you. Ravish you. Finally give in.
But instead… you felt the heavy, teasing slide of his tip running through your folds, slow and slick. He dragged it up and down, letting it graze over your clit, circling your entrance, never entering.
It was unbearable. You whimpered.
“You want it, bébé? Take it. Go ahead and take it.”
You blinked. Was he serious?
You pushed your hips back, trying to line him up, trying to take it—and just when you thought you had him, he moved his hips back. Taunting. Laughing silently.
“Ah, not quite. Try again.”
Your eyes stung with frustrated tears. You clenched your fists. If he wasn’t holding you down, you might’ve flipped over and cursed him out. But instead, you tried again. Pushed back harder. Still missed. Another denied entry.
He chuckled low in his throat. A breathy, cruel little sound.
“You can do it. Try again. You want it, so take it.”
Your heart was pounding. You were overheating. Dripping. Shaking. You took a deep breath, exhaled sharply, and threw your hips back with more force—and this time… finally… he let you take him.
“Auuhhhh shit” he moaned behind you, his voice rough and desperate, like he hadn’t expected how good it would feel either. That sound made your walls clench tight around him, welcoming him home.
You moaned, too. Loud and messy. The sound of him sliding in echoed—slick, obscene. You were soaked, stretched, filled. Every nerve ending lit up.
And then he started to move—slow. So goddamn slow.
There was no slamming, no pounding. Just deep, luxurious strokes that made you feel every inch of him.
He leaned down, his lips right by your ear.
“Putain. Si humide pour moi. Est-ce que Damson se sent si bien ?” (Fuck. So wet for me. Does Damson feel this good?)
You froze. Every part of you went still, trembling.
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The question punched the air out of you.
He stopped. Entirely.
“When I ask a question, you answer.”
The silence stretched until you finally forced the words out.
“I don’t know how Damson feels, Aurélien. Please just keep going.”
His grip on your wrists tightened. His other hand curled harder around the back of your neck.
“You were acting like you know exactly how he feels” he murmured, his tone chilling even as his hips began to move again—slow, even slower than before.
Every word, every stroke, was punishment. And you loved it.
He let go of your wrists slowly, with a kind of terrifying calm, like he had all the time in the world to ruin you. Your arms dropped limply against the couch, trembling, weak from restraint and overstimulation. But he wasn’t done—not even close.
His grip shifted—one hand wrapped firm and possessive around your neck, thumb resting just beneath your jaw while his other hand dropped to your hip. He grabbed it like he owned it. Like it was his hip. His body. His to take.
Then he pulled you back into him with a brutal snap of his hips.
Faster.
Harder.
Louder.
There was no buildup this time. He went straight to punishment. And it felt so good you almost blacked out. The lewd sound of his hips slamming into your soaked, swollen core echoed through the living room like music made of sin. Your mouth dropped open, the couch cushions catching your desperate moans as you gripped at anything—his thigh, the cushion, your own flesh.
“I— I’m sorry, baby—fuck—I’m sorry, please—oh my god—” you gasped between every deep thrust.
“Don’t apologize now” he snapped. His voice was low, like a growl coming from somewhere deep in his chest. You could feel it vibrate against your back when he leaned in, fucking you so deeply you saw stars behind your eyes.
You screamed into the couch, body writhing from the inside out. You were moaning, crying, gasping—completely undone. Then suddenly, just like that, the rhythm shifted. Slowed. Slowed way down.
You cried out in pure frustration. The loss of that brutal pace felt like physical pain. His dick still filled you to the brim, but now it moved achingly slow, grinding with such teasing softness that it felt like he was mocking your desperation.
“No—no no no, baby don’t do this, please” you whimpered, your face damp with sweat and tears. “I need you so bad.”
But he didn’t give in. He wasn’t done toying with you yet.
“What about Devin, hm?” he murmured right into your ear. His voice was silk-wrapped steel. Cruel in how soft it was. “You don’t need him?”
The mention of another man’s name from his lips, at a moment like this, made you feel completely raw. You could barely speak.
“No, Aurélien” you choked. “I don’t need him. I need you. Only you. Please.”
His breath hitched behind you. He liked hearing it. Needed it.
“You need me” he repeated slowly, savoring every word like a sweet piece of fruit.
Then the snap.
His hips collided with your ass again, and again, and again. Hard. He was back to that punishing pace, but somehow deeper this time. Wilder.
“Yes—ahhhh—I need you!” you moaned, louder, more open, more desperate.
“That’s right. You need me. Remember that shit.” His voice was strained now, laced with pleasure, his hands anchoring you in place while his thick dick dragged in and out of you, perfectly hitting every swollen nerve inside your walls.
You were wrecked.
The wet, sticky sounds of your bodies filled the air—filthy, obscene. His hips slapped against your ass like waves crashing against the shore. Your legs couldn’t hold your body up anymore, but it didn’t matter—he was doing all the work, gripping your hips tighter and dragging you back onto him with perfect, relentless control.
His strokes got longer. Still hard, still just as deep. You weren’t thinking. Not about Damson. Not about Devin. Not about your hair, your image, your press tour. The only thing in the world was how deep Aurélien was inside your guts.
Then he collapsed over you, body pressing you flat against the couch. His chest against your back. His skin sticky and warm. His moans right in your ear. You could feel his abs flex and roll with every grind of his hips. His weight—solid, hot, heavy—felt like a blanket you never wanted to crawl out from under.
You pushed your ass back, trying to feel more, needing all of him.
“You want me to cum in this pussy bébé?” he whispered into your ear, voice rough, thick with lust.
“Yes baby” you cried. “It’s yours. Cum inside me.”
One final, deep, soul-shattering thrust—and he was there. You could feel it. His release flooding into you, hot and thick, painting your insides in wave after wave as he groaned your name into your neck.
You came with him. Hard. Violently. Your whole body shook like an earthquake, moans raw and broken. You didn’t even realize you were crying again until his lips kissed your shoulder.
He stayed deep inside you. Kept moving. Kept fucking you through your orgasm until the aftershocks made your toes curl and your brain go blank.
He didn’t just fill you.
He claimed you.
You couldn’t hear.
You couldn’t see.
You could only feel.
The room around you was blurred into silence. Your ears were ringing faintly, like you’d just come up from underwater. Your eyes fluttered open and closed, lashes sticking together from sweat. But none of that mattered. All that mattered was the body above you. The man still wrapped around you like a blanket of heat and muscle and dominance.
Aurélien’s lingering moans vibrated through his chest, pressed against your back. You could feel the way his voice rumbled in your bones. It was like he was still inside you in more ways than one. His hips were flush against your ass, barely twitching as aftershocks rolled through both of you.
His lips moved slowly over your temple—kissing, not just touching. Full, plush lips planting small, hot promises into your skin. You could taste salt on your lips, unsure whether it was your own sweat or his.
Then his body shifted.
His weight lifted off your back inch by inch, peeling away like a warm, weighted blanket. You immediately missed the pressure, the fullness, the suffocating closeness that had held you together through all that pleasure. Cool air licked at your damp skin, making you shiver even in the heat of the room.
His big hands slid back down to your hips.
Firm. Possessive. Gentle now, but still in control. His fingertips flexed as he held you steady and slowly pulled out of you. You gasped—your body clenched in protest at the loss. But even that couldn’t prepare you for the next sensation.
His cum.
Spilling out of you.
Warm and thick, it leaked down your thighs in heavy drips, slow and sticky like maple syrup sliding down the bark of a tree. You twitched with each droplet, your oversensitive core pulsing as his release oozed from your swollen folds.
You barely had time to whimper before you felt him again. Not inside, not commanding—but there. His arms wrapped around you like a balm. Solid and grounding. He pulled you in so close, your cheek met his slick chest. His heart was still beating like a war drum under your ear, but softer now, fading.
You hummed. You couldn’t help it. The vibration of your contentment made his arms tighten around you in response, like he couldn’t let go even if he tried.
This embrace was different.
No tension.
No heat.
Just warmth.
Like he needed you close as much as you needed him.
You melted into him, fully limp, legs trembling with aftershocks and thighs still sticky with the mess he made of you. Your breath slowly synced with his. His fingertips traced random patterns along your spine—up your back, over your shoulder blades, across the curve of your waist. Like he was still learning your body, even after owning it completely.
The couch was a mess—pillows thrown, cushions damp, the scent of sex thick in the air—but you didn’t care. You were wrapped in his arms. Safe. Loved. Fucked out and satisfied in a way that felt like more than just physical.
Aurélien’s lips brushed against your hair again.
“No more of that” he murmured, low and gravelly. “I won’t be so nice next time.”
The words rolled down your spine like thunder.
You knew he was serious. That wasn’t a threat—it was a promise. Next time, there wouldn’t be any teasing. No patience. No letting you off the hook.
And honestly?
You’d worry about that tomorrow.
For now, you just exhaled, let your body melt into his, and let the night hold you both still.
