đŠđđ-đđ§đđđ âËęŠď˝Ą art donaldson
synopsis: on the court, the rivalry between art donaldson and you is a war of nerves. off the court, itâs a power game where the rules are written under your roof. after a risky bet on the final set, tennisâs 'golden boy' discovers that in your home, the serve is yours and control is a weapon. welcome to a guided tour of tension, where every room demands a new bet and surrender is the only trophy at stake.
paring: art donaldson x fem reader!
warnings: dom!reader, soft dom, sub!art donaldson, oral sex, unprotected sex, praise kink.
the late afternoon sun was burning your shoulders, but your irritation had nothing to do with the heat. it was all artâs fault. art donaldson and that damn restrained smile he wore every time he decided to get inside your head.
the score was tied in the final set. you two always ended up like this, alone on the court long after training hours, turning what should have been a sport into a real war of nerves. you were dripping with sweat, your chest rising and falling rapidly under your sports bra, your thigh muscles tensed, and he... he looked irritably in control. but artâs dark eyes werenât just on the ball; they traced the path of every drop of sweat sliding down your neck with predatory attention.
"youâre gripping the handle too tight," he teased from across the net, bouncing the yellow ball in a slow, torturous rhythm. his gaze dropped shamelessly to your legs before returning to your face. "you need to relax your wrist. or do you always get this tense when the game goes down to the wire?"
you rolled your eyes, tapping the tip of your racket against the ground, trying to ignore how his biceps flexed with every movement on the other side of the net. "just serve, donaldson. i donât have all night to watch you show off."
he let out a low, husky laugh. "in such a rush? i thought you could last longer. weâve barely started sweating." each word was loaded with sharp double entendres, delivered with such naturalism that an outsider would think he was just the golden boy being competitive.
but you knew that dark look he was giving you now. "talk less and play more," you countered, flexing your knees and preparing to receive the serve, leaning your body in a way you knew would capture his attention and test the boyâs control. "or are you just good at talking?"
art stopped bouncing the ball immediately. the teasing smile vanished, replaced by that intense, methodical expression he wore before destroying an opponent. "all right," he said, his voice dropping an octave, the ball held between his thick fingers. "letâs make a bet, then. if i win this last set, i decide where we finish playing. and i guarantee it wonât be on the court."
your breath hitched for a second, but you werenât going to let him win that easily. "and if i win?" you asked. he shrugged, spinning the racket in his large hands. "then i do whatever you say. without complaining."
his first serve came fast, but you were ready. you traded violent rallies from the baseline. every strike of the ball echoed loudly, accompanied by his heavy breathing, a guttural sound that sent a shiver straight to your lower belly.
the irritation was still there, hot and sharp. seeing art like thatâhis shirt sticking to his broad chest from the sweat, the wet fabric outlining his contracted abdomen, that predatory focus in his eyes while he tried to dominate youâwas making your legs weak. the mix of anger and arousal was undeniable, leaving you almost dizzy. the heat was there, throbbing heavily with every abrupt step you took on the courtâs concrete.
you wanted to destroy him in the game, but a part of you couldnât stop imagining the weight of that body against yours.
"focus on the ball, not me," he shouted from the other side, noticing your eyes fixed on his hips and shoulders for a fraction of a second longer than necessary.
that was the fuel you needed. art tried a poisonous drop shot, thinking he would catch you off guard, but you had already anticipated the move.
you ran with everything, your lungs burning, and fired a perfect down-the-line shot, straight into his left corner. a passing shot impossible to defend.
you stood there for a second, hunched over and leaning your hands on your knees to catch your breath, the neckline of your top revealing your heaving chest. you heard his slow footsteps approaching the net. when you raised your eyes, art was standing inches away. the good-boy smile was gone; in its place was a dark frustration and a dark hunger that made your stomach flip with anticipation. artâs eyes devoured every inch of your exposed, sweat-slicked skin.
"i think i won," you said, your voice breathless, leaning against the net tape, letting your hip brush against the fabric almost provocatively. "and, according to our bet, i do whatever i want with you now, without complaints."
artâs eyes descended heavily to your mouth before returning to yours, his chest rising and falling in the same chaotic rhythm.
"you won," he admitted, his voice dragged and much huskier than normal. "what do you want?"
you smiled, letting your guard down completely, knowing the effect your relaxed and inviting posture had on him.
"pack your things, donaldson. youâre driving to my house. and youâd better be ready, because the tour iâm going to give you requires a lot of stamina."
the drive to your house never seemed so long. the interior of artâs car was impregnated with the mix of your sweat and the absurd tension that still radiated from the game.
he drove the same way he played: with rigid control, his large hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, but his dark eyes darting to you at every red light.
"you know," he broke the silence, his husky voice filling the cramped space of the car. "i still think you got lucky on that last point."
you let out a mocking laugh, leaning your head against the window glass and turning your neck to watch him. "lucky, donaldson? or can you just not handle seeing someone dominate your court?"
"no one dominates my court," he countered immediately, his jaw locking while he shifted gears. "but iâm curious to see how you do playing at home."
you slid in the seat, turning your body fully toward him, letting the sassiest smile you could muster escape. "iâm telling you, the layout of the place is very interesting. weâll start on the first floor, you know? where the living room is. the sofa has plenty of room if you like to... stretch your legs."
art swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on the road, but his chest rising and falling faster betrayed the effect of your words.
"and the second floor?" he asked, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper.
"the second floor is where the magic happens," you replied, knowing exactly what you were doing. "thatâs where the primary bedroom is. the acoustics there are great. you can hear every detail... if we decide to make noise."
he braked the car abruptly at a light, turning his face to look at you properly. the golden boy mask had completely vanished. the look he gave you was hungry, possessive.
"your court had better be sturdy," he murmured, leaning a little closer, his hot breath hitting your face. "because after what you did to me on the court today, i donât plan on being a very polite visitor."
you just smiled, feeling the carâs temperature rise ten degrees. "donât worry, art. the house rules are quite flexible. as long as you can keep up with my rhythm."
the car engine was cut, but the vibration of that bet still seemed to echo under your skin. the path from the asphalt to your front door was made in a heavy silence, thick enough to be cut with a knife. the key turned in the lock with a metallic click that sounded, to both of you, exactly like the gong announcing the start of a new round.
the door opened and you walked into the dim hallway. before you could even reach for the light switch, art pushed the door shut with his foot. the dull thud of the wood against the frame locked you both in a private redoubt, isolating the tension from the rest of the world. his large presence behind you made the hallway seem suddenly tiny.
you tossed your keys onto the glass sideboard with a soft jingle and turned slowly.
"welcome," you whispered, leaning your hip against the wall and crossing your arms, taking control of the situation with the same posture you used to wait for his serve. "first stop on our tour: the entrance hall. varnished solid wood floor. smooth, firm, and excellent for activities that require... a dangerous level of body friction. you might slip if you donât have firm knees, so i recommend you know exactly where to brace yourself when your legs start to shake."
art let out a heavy sigh through his nose, like a bull about to charge. he crossed the short distance between you in two predatory strides, nullifying any safe space. the absurd heat radiating from his massive body made the roomâs temperature skyrocket. he raised his hands, ready to grab your waist with that force you knew well, but you were faster.
you slammed your hands hard against his broad, rigid chest, stopping his advance immediately.
"i donât remember giving permission to touch the fixtures, donaldson," you reprimanded, your voice low, cold, and absolutely in control. "you lost the bet. remember? today you donât dictate the rules. you only play when and how i say."
his jaw locked so hard you could see the muscle jump under his tanned skin. his breathing was irregular, hitting your face warmly. he hated being stopped, he hated when someone broke his offensive, but the submission that darkened the back of his eyes was your greatest reward. you loved it when you put him in his place.
"you like testing my patience," he murmured, his husky voice scratching the silence, his arms falling heavily to his sides, obeying your command, even if begrudgingly.
"iâm teaching you discipline," you countered, flashing a predatory smile. you pushed off him, trailing your fingertips across his chest just to provoke him, and began walking toward the living room, knowing he would follow every move you made like a hypnotized animal. "this way, please. the living room has an open concept. high ceilings to dissipate heat, and that plush rug in the center is perfect for cushioning abrupt falls... or for burning your knees if you need to beg for something."
you stopped at the foot of the stairs, turning your neck to look over your shoulder. he was right behind you, his eyes devouring the curve of your hips under the tight fabric of your sports top.
"wide stairs," you continued, climbing the first step slowly, forcing him to keep up with your torturous pace. "great for physical conditioning. the incline has a perfect angle for when you need extra leverage... or when i want to keep you exactly at my height while you do the dirty work. what do you think of the design?"
"i think you talk too much for someone who should be showing me the rooms," he retorted, climbing the steps right behind you. the proximity was maddening. with every step, his broad chest almost brushed your back, and you could feel his heavy, undeniable bulge against the fabric of his athletic pants.
"hurry is a sign of weakness in the game, art. you should know that," you teased, reaching the top of the stairs and walking down the hallway until you stopped before the last double wooden door. you turned the silver knob and pushed the doors open. "the main attraction. the primary suite."
the room was lit only by street light coming through the large glass window. the huge bed dominated the center of the space.
"like i said in the car," you said, walking to the edge of the mattress and turning to him, who had stopped at the door frame, filling the entire space with the broad frame of his shoulders. "the acoustics here are impeccable. double-insulated walls. you can scream my name as much as you want, the neighbors wonât hear a single syllable. and the bed..." you tapped your palm against the thick mattress. "king size. pocket springs with high-density foam. tailor-made to withstand repetitive mechanical shocks and deep, high-intensity impacts without losing stability."
artâs last thread of self-control snapped. he growled, crossing the room like a storm. he didnât try to hug you; he simply grabbed the hem of his own shirt and ripped it over his head in a violent motion, throwing the sweaty fabric into a corner. his chest was glistening with sweat, his abdominal muscles contracted, rising and falling with hungry breathing.
he took another step toward you, his dark eyes burning with need, but you raised a finger in the air, freezing him in place.
"sit," you ordered, pointing to the edge of the bed.
he hesitated for a millisecond, the championâs ego fighting the desperate desire to surrender to you. but the authority in your voice bent him. he yielded, sitting heavily on the edge of the mattress, instinctively spreading his legs.
you approached, stopping exactly between his open thighs. you looked down, savoring the sight of the great art donaldson, the indomitable golden boy, panting and waiting for your next command. you placed both hands on his broad shoulders and, using the weight of your own body, pushed him back. his back hit the soft sheets.
before he could try to reverse positions and take control, you climbed onto the bed, kneeling over his waist. you pinned both his wrists above his head against the mattress, using your hands to keep him anchored there. his strength was infinitely greater than yours, but he didnât move a muscle to break free. he was completely surrendered to your game.
"you always serve too aggressively on the court, art," you whispered, lowering your torso until your breasts almost brushed his bare chest, your face millimeters from his. the citrusy, salty smell of his sweat invaded your lungs, intoxicating. "you always try to dominate the match on the first strike. but in my house, i want to see how long you can last playing only on defense."
he swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your mouth with an almost animal desire.
"quiet mouth and still hands until i tell you otherwise," you whispered against his lips, brushing your mouth against his without granting a real kiss, feeling him tremble with anticipation. "i hope you have the stamina, because the maintenance of this house is going to require a lot from you tonight."
you kept artâs wrists pinned to the soft mattress, his broad chest rising and falling frantically under your hands. his heavy breathing filled the silence of the room, charged with that electricity youâd built up for hours under the sun.
"youâre doing very well," you murmured, your voice dragged and dripping with condescension, leaning in to leave a wet, lingering kiss along his tense jawline. "a good boy, exactly as i commanded. learning to wait."
a guttural, instinctive groan escaped the base of artâs throat, the sound vibrating directly against your own chest. the whispered praise hit the mark, crumbling the untouchable facade he used in tournaments. he closed his eyes tightly, his hips instinctively rising to try to find yours.
"warm-up is the most crucial phase of any match," you continued your private, provocative tour, trailing your lips down his hot, sweat-salted neck. "it prevents injury, prepares the muscles for friction, and ensures the structure can handle the pressure. and, believe me, weâre going to have a lot of friction here."
you slid a free hand across his contracted abdomen, undoing the knot and pulling the waistband of his athletic pants down with torturous slowness. the contrast of your soft fingers against his feverish skin elicited short gasps from your rival. you brushed your own clothed hip slowly against the heavy, rigid, painful bulge marking his fabric, feeling him arch his back, desperate for friction.
"so needy," you whispered against his earlobe, torturing him with short, precise hip movements, rubbing against his pulsing erection. "but the lady of the house hasnât finished the inspection of the area."
you lingered there, sucking the sensitive skin of his collarbone, stripping away all the sanity remaining in the athleteâs brain with slow touches and dirty teases about how pathetic he looked begging like that. but the truth was that the slippery moisture gathering between your own legs betrayed your apparent calm; the desperation was mutual and the tension was taking its toll on your body too.
that was when you felt the shift in the air. your rivalâs patience had run out completely. art donaldson was a soft, submissive boy in your hands only until the animalistic need spoke louder than obedience.
with a low, ragged, possessive growl, he broke the rules of your game. in a fraction of a second, he used that raw, colossal strength, releasing his own wrists and rotating his hips to completely invert the situation. you let out a startled gasp as your back hit the egyptian cotton sheets, and his colossal shadow covered your body, pinning you in place.
"my turn to serve," he panted, his dark eyes glowing with a dark, soft, but undeniably dominating lust. "and you talk too much, love."
he didnât give you time to regain control. his large, calloused hands, which previously held the racket with such precision, now undressed you with hungry urgency. he tore off your top and shorts in quick motions, tossing the fabric to the floor, baring you under the roomâs dim light.
"look at you," he whispered, his voice dropping to a husky, dirt-laden tone, his eyes devouring every inch of your bare, goose-pimpled skin. "so beautiful. so bossy, and look how soaked you are for me."
he buried his face in your neck, sucking and biting your skin, marking his territory with a possessiveness that made you let out a sharp whimper. his large hands mapped your curves, long fingers gripping your thighs firmly and spreading them without asking permission, exposing you completely to him.
his hot, relentless mouth found your center. you arched your back violently, your fingers digging into the hair at the nape of his neck in desperation. he was methodical, focused, and absolutely devastating. he knew your reactions as he knew the lines of his own court. his skilled tongue sucked and teased your throbbing, sensitive spot, drinking you in greedily while two thick fingers slid inside, mimicking a rhythm of heavy thrusts that made you lose your composure.
you thrashed beneath him, your breath hitching as the wet, audible friction echoed through the perfectly sound-insulated walls. you were on the edge, your legs trembling with weakness, your nails dug into his broad shoulders as the climax built like a fire in your lower belly.
"art... please," you begged, your voice broken, your rivalâs pride destroyed by lust. "now. i need... let me finish."
but the exact second your muscles began to contract for the orgasm, he stopped.
he pulled his mouth away abruptly, pulled his fingers out of you, and moved up your body, leaving you panting, empty, frustrated, and on the brink of madness. the lack of touch made you let out a low sob of desperation.
"no. not yet, linda," he whispered against your mouth, his lips shining, stained with your own moisture. the restrained, smug smile that irritated you so much was back on his face, crowning the delicious cruelty of the soft boy who now held the leash. "you teased me all day, made a fool of me at the net, forced me to drive here, and made me wait in your bed. now youâre going to feel exactly the same frustration."
he settled between your legs, brushing the heavy, bare, hot tip of his erection against your slippery entrance, sliding slowly along the sensitive slit, using your bodyâs own lubrication, but vehemently refusing the relief of the deep penetration you both wanted more than oxygen.
"ask your champion properly," he growled, large hands gripping your hips with possessiveness, pressing you into the mattress. "beg your rival to fuck you. say i won this round on your own turf. and maybe... just maybe, iâll let you finish this tour."
you kept artâs wrists pinned to the soft mattress, his broad chest rising and falling frantically under your hands. his heavy breathing filled the silence of the room, charged with that electricity youâd built up for hours under the sun.
"youâre doing very well," you murmured, your voice dragged and dripping with condescension, leaning in to leave a wet, lingering kiss along his tense jawline. "a good boy, exactly as i commanded. learning to wait."
a guttural, instinctive groan escaped the base of artâs throat, the sound vibrating directly against your own chest. the whispered praise hit the mark, crumbling the untouchable facade he used in tournaments. he closed his eyes tightly, his hips instinctively rising to try to find yours.
"warm-up is the most crucial phase of any match," you continued your private, provocative tour, trailing your lips down his hot, sweat-salted neck. "it prevents injury, prepares the muscles for friction, and ensures the structure can handle the pressure. and, believe me, weâre going to have a lot of friction here."
you slid a free hand across his contracted abdomen, undoing the knot and pulling the waistband of his athletic pants down with torturous slowness. the contrast of your soft fingers against his feverish skin elicited short gasps from your rival. you brushed your own clothed hip slowly against the heavy, rigid, painful bulge marking his fabric, feeling him arch his back, desperate for friction.
"so needy," you whispered against his earlobe, torturing him with short, precise hip movements, rubbing against his pulsing erection. "but the lady of the house hasnât finished the inspection of the area."
you lingered there, sucking the sensitive skin of his collarbone, stripping away all the sanity remaining in the athleteâs brain with slow touches and dirty teases about how pathetic he looked begging like that. but the truth was that the slippery moisture gathering between your own legs betrayed your apparent calm; the desperation was mutual and the tension was taking its toll on your body too.
you pulled away just enough to look at the damage you were doing to the great art donaldson. his broad chest was rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm, glistening under the roomâs dim light.
you grabbed the elastic of his athletic pants and, with a firm, fluid movement, pulled the fabric down, freeing him completely from any barrier. the sight made your own breath hitch for a fraction of a second, heat rising up your neck. he was absurdly hard, heavy, and throbbing with anticipation under your predatory gaze.
he tried to move his hips up, a blind instinct in search of friction, but you slammed your free hand hard against his chest, pinning him back into the king-sized mattress.
"ah, ah," you clicked your tongue, reprimanding him with a scornful smile. "i didnât give permission for you to move. hands stay trapped up there. you want the tour to continue? then be a good boy for me."
a strangled, almost plaintive groan escaped his lips when your hand wrapped around the base of his erection. the skin was feverish, and the way he arched his back when you squeezed your fingers firmly and began sliding up and down sent a wave of intoxicating power straight to your spine.
"youâre so reactive, art," you teased, feeling the pre-cum slip through your fingers, lubricating the friction. you leaned in, your hair brushing against his tense thighs, and replaced your hand with your mouth.
the perfectly sound-insulated primary suite captured every delightfully obscene sound that followed: the wet sucking, his irregular, heavy breathing, the low groans he no longer had any pride to try to hide. you swallowed him slowly, exploring every inch of his length, mapping your rivalâs sensitivity with cruel mastery. you controlled the rhythm dictatorially, sucking hard and fast, only to release him and use only the tip of your warm tongue when you felt his thighs contract near the limit.
"please," he begged, his voice shaky, husky, and unrecognizable. his dark eyes were teary and unfocused from pure lust. his long wrists were still stretched above his head, large hands gripping the sheets tightly so as not to break the rule youâd imposed. the competitive athlete who couldnât accept losing a serve was there, whimpering for relief. "linda, please... donât stop."
"so submissive. a true champion on the court, but in here, begging in this pathetic, soft way for me," you murmured against his skin, leaving a smacking kiss on the rigid base before moving up his colossal body again. you stopped hovering exactly over his hips, brushing your own drenched, sensitive slit against his feverish tip, eliciting an animal growl from artâs throat. "the pipe pressure is excellent. it passed the stress test."
you settled your hands on his chest muscles, maintaining control of the height and rhythm. his eyes locked onto yours, dark and overflowing with mutual desperation.
"i think itâs time to test the structural stability of this bed once and for all," you whispered, and with calculated, torturous slowness, you sank your hips, taking his dense thickness inside you inch by inch.
the sigh that escaped your lips was long and delightfully shaky when you finally sank all the way, swallowing every inch of his warm, thick length. art threw his head back against the pillow, teeth clenched and veins in his neck bulging as he let out a hoarse, raw, dragged-out groan. the feeling of absolute fullness was almost overwhelming, fusing your rivalry into pure, desperate need.
"so deep," he panted, his voice choked, large hands hovering in the air, still fighting the instinct to grab your waist and take control. his obedience was the most exciting thing you had ever seen.
"i told you the structure could handle it," you whispered, your voice loaded with that same dirty malice from before. you placed your flat hands on his sweaty, rigid chest and began to raise your hips, only to descend hard right after. "good boy, art. hold the pressure."
the sound of the first wet impact echoed loudly through the primary suite, proving the roomâs acoustics really left nothing to be desired. you dictated the rhythm, riding your rival with long, calculated thrusts. with every descent, the slippery, feverish friction elicited dirty profanities from donaldsonâs lips. you rubbed your sensitive center against his tense abdomen on purpose, torturing yourself and him with the relentless friction. the bed creaked in a rhythmic protest, absorbing the exact mechanical shocks you had promised at the start of the tour.
but the golden boyâs limit had been reached. art was a soft, obedient submissive, but the blood running through his veins was that of a fierce competitor. when your nails scratched his chest and your pace accelerated in search of your own relief, the switch flipped in his mind. the softie vanished, swallowed by a territorial predator.
in a blind, brutal movement, his massive hands flew to your hips. long fingers sank into your flesh with a possessive force that made you gasp.
"the load test was a success, linda," he growled, dark, predatory gaze glowing in the dim light while he locked your movements with absurd ease. "but now the lead engineer takes over the damn work."
he didnât give you time to argue. with a violent, coordinated impulse, art reversed positions, throwing your back against the mattress and rolling until he was on top. he pulled you to the edge of the bed in a second, your legs dangling off. he knelt on the floor, between your open thighs, lifting your hips to find the perfect angle.
"you talked a lot about the sturdy floor in the hallway," he whispered, his grave voice vibrating against your inner thigh skin before he left a soft bite there. "letâs see if you can handle the brunt with your back supported on this bed."
he held your knees, pushing them against your own chest, opening you in a way that left you completely exposed and vulnerable to his attack. and then, he sank in all at once.
the scream you let out was muffled by his warm lips capturing yours in a desperate kiss. he began to thrust with a rhythmic, deep violence that stole all the oxygen from your lungs. it was raw, unprotected sex, skin against skin in a wet, audible friction that filled the roomâs entire void. every thrust hit exactly your most sensitive spot, making your entire body shake with every shock.
"so tight, taking everything so well for me," he praised between thrusts, his tone oscillating between absolute filth and sick affection, taking the reins. he let go of your knees only to slide his hands under your back, pulling you even tighter against his hips. "youâre so good. the most hospitable lady of the house iâve ever seen."
the combination of deep fullness, obscene words, and uninterrupted friction was driving you to madness. heat concentrated in your lower belly, and the tension began to spiral rapidly. you were so close, nails digging into his broad arms, your breath hitching as premonitory contractions began to tighten around him.
"art, now," you begged, throwing your head back, the lady-in-control pose completely shattered by mutual desperation. "please, let me cum."
but he slowed the rhythm to almost a halt, brushing only the thick tip against your slippery entrance, pulling your hair slightly to force you to face him. his eyes were teary with lust, but control was entirely his now.
"no, linda. not yet," he denied, thumb rubbing your swollen clitoris, sending an electric shock that made you whimper. he was keeping you on the edge, extending the torture. "ask properly. say whose turf this is now. say who won the game."
"itâs yours, the game is yours, the house is yours," you sobbed, completely surrendered, your hips rising instinctively to try to force his entry back in. "you won, donaldson. fuck me already, please."
satisfied with your absolute surrender, he let out a low curse and returned to thrusting at full force, in a frantic, relentless rhythm. the pressure was absurd. the climax hit you like a runaway train, successive waves of pleasure exploding through your body while you screamed his name, your canal muscles tightening violently around him.
the feeling of you cumming around him destroyed the athleteâs last barrier of control. art lost the ability to form words. his face contorted in pure pleasure, breathing failing as he accelerated the final thrusts. the exact second the orgasm tore him from the inside out, the desperation to continue inside you fought against rationality. with one last, almost painful growl, he pulled his hips back abruptly, exiting you at the limit of danger.
the thick, hot liquid splashed over your contracted abdomen, staining your sweat-glistening skin and dirtying the expensive egyptian cotton sheets. art collapsed onto you immediately, his broad chest rising and falling frantically against yours, his face buried in the curve of your damp neck. your legs were still tangled at the edge of the bed, hearts beating at the same fast, chaotic frequency.
"wonderful acoustics," he whispered against your skin, his voice shaky and exhausted, but still loaded with that restrained smile that drove you crazy, as he smoothed your hair matted to your forehead. "but i think we need to test the other rooms to be sure."
his weight on you was a delicious anchor, keeping your body grounded while your mind still floated in the post-orgasm mist. artâs hot, irregular breathing hit your collarbone, his heart hammering against your breasts as if he were still in the middle of an exhausting tie-break. the hot, thick moisture spread over your abdomen was the incontestable proof that the great art donaldson had broken under your pressure.
you let your head fall to the side on the pillow, eyes heavy and a feline smile tearing across your swollen lips. your fingers, still shaky, sank into the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck, giving a light caress that made him let out a long sigh of absolute surrender. the softie was back, nestled in your neck, docile and completely spent. at least for now.
but the lady of the house never ended visits this early.
"you think so, huh?" you whispered, your voice dragged by exhaustion but dripping with sharp malice.
you slid your free hand across his broad, bare back, feeling his relaxed muscles under his feverish skin. with torturous, calculated slowness, you arched your hip just enough for your entrance, still extremely sensitive, drenched, and pulsing, to brush lingeringly against the base of his erection, which hadnât even fully gone soft.
art panted violently. his entire body stiffened in alert, lethargy vanishing the same instant. he raised his head slowly, bracing himself on his elbows to stare at you from above. his dark eyes, still teary with lust, locked onto yours. his jaw locked and the hunger of rivalry reignited, swallowing any trace of blind obedience.
"because, from what i remember," you continued, sliding your nails across his broad chest until they stopped right over the athleteâs racing heart, sustaining his predatory gaze with the unwavering audacity of someone dominating the match. "we only bet on a single set today on the court, donaldson. and we both know very well how that one ended."
you leaned in slightly, brushing your wet lips against his tense jawline before whispering right into his ear, your voice dropping to a dirty, provocative, and dangerously inviting tone.
"if you want to test the durability of the kitchenâs marble counters, or the friction level of the shower stall tiles... well, weâll have to make a new bet. and iâm warning you now, i tend to be much more ruthless when i play the rematch."
the smile that tore across artâs face was slow, dark, and loaded with delicious possessiveness. he slid his massive hands down your arms until he captured your wrists firmly, pinning them above your head against the cotton sheets to regain absolute control of the situation.
"then set up your best defense, linda," he growled against your mouth, his lips devouring yours while his hips already aligned perfectly with yours again, his heavy tip pushing against your entrance. "because i donât plan on leaving this house until i lift the championship trophy."
sooo, i watched challengers 1 week ago and i couldnt stop thinking ab art so... youre welcome!
*idk NOTHING ab tennis so sorry ab any mistake lol
*i tried put a little of house tour by sabrina carpenter cuz im a huge fan, i want to make one based only in that song !
âđâËâšâĄ reblogs, likes, and kind comments are totally welcome! my inbox is open if anyone wants to request a specific fanfic. âđâËâšâĄ
