(cw: Unprotected sex, Arthur is a bit of a dom, he calls you a whore lovingly though, established relationship)
The house is humming with the sound of the fan and distant cicadas. Summer has stretched the evening thin, lazy and golden, and the air tastes like sweat and citrus and chlorine still clinging to your skin. The pool is long forgotten. So are the drinks. So is everyone else. You pad barefoot through the hallway, your body still dressed in a bikini that barely clings to you, the strings damp against your sun-warmed skin. The hallway light is off, but you can see his silhouette sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, back taut and sculpted, lit only by the amber spill of the streetlamp outside the window. His voice cuts through the stillness, low, velvet, and hungry.
“What took you so long?”
You don’t answer. You just step into the doorway and let him look. Let him see the soft gleam of your thighs, the way the bikini hugs your hips, how your eyes are already half-lidded, drunk on heat and something far more dangerous. He drinks you in like wine.
“You look like a fucking sin.”
Your lips curl into a smirk.
“Then you better get on your knees and repent.”
He’s on you in two strides. Your back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth is already on yours hot, desperate, punishing. His hands roam like they’re memorizing every inch of you for battle, dragging down your bikini top until your breasts are exposed to the night air.
“You’ve been teasing me since the second you put this on,” he growls, yanking one of the strings free. “You think I didn’t see the way you swam past me? Rubbed up against me in the water like a little whore?”
You gasp, tilting your head back as he bites at your throat.
“What if I did?” you whisper. “What if I wanted you to snap?”
His hands drop to your ass, lift you, carry you across the room, and toss you down on the bed. The fan stutters above you as he looms over, shirtless, sun-bronzed, and wild-eyed.
“Good. Because I’m not going to be gentle.”
He kisses his way down your body, slow and punishing, stopping to suck a bruise onto your inner thigh. You squirm, reaching for him, but he catches your wrists and pins them to the mattress.
“Keep your hands where I can see them.”
You moan, but obey. Then he pulls your bikini bottom off in one fluid motion, tossing it somewhere behind him. His fingers slide over your folds, slick, soaked, needy.
“Christ… you’re already dripping.” He lifts his hand, watching his fingers glisten. “Were you wet all day?”
You whimper. He chuckles darkly.
“Say it.”
“Yes,” you breathe. “I wanted you. The whole day.”
He growls low in his throat, then dives between your thighs, tongue hot and ruthless. You cry out, hips jerking, but his arm is across your stomach, pinning you down, as he devours you like he’s starving. Your orgasm hits hard, loud and devastating, but he doesn’t stop. Not even when you writhe, not even when you plead. Only when you’re sobbing his name does he finally lift his head, mouth slick and eyes completely gone.
“My good girl,” he whispers. “But we’re not done.”
He flips you onto your stomach and drags you to the edge of the bed. You gasp, weak, overstimulated.
“Arthur-”
“Shhh,” he breathes, lining himself up. “You wanted summertime? You wanted heat? I’ll give you something to remember when the nights turn cold.”
Then he pushes in. All the way, slow and deep, and you scream into the sheets. He fucks you like it’s a fever dream. Like the room is on fire. Like he wants to burn with you. His hands on your hips are bruising. His pace is relentless. Deep. Filthy. Every stroke sends you higher, wrecks you harder, until all you can do is sob and beg and whisper his name like a prayer. He leans over your back, panting into your ear.
“Mine. All fucking mine.”
You nod, can’t speak. Can’t think. You come again. It rips through you. Your voice is gone. He pulls out at the last second, just to flip you over and see your face as he finishes. And when he comes. Hot and heavy on your belly, chest heaving, lips trembling. He looks like a man possessed.
“I’ve never wanted anyone like this,” he says, breathless. “You taste like summer and sin and something that could destroy me.”
Later, when the heat has died down and your limbs are draped over his, sweaty and boneless, he kisses your shoulder and murmurs:
“Next time you tease me at the pool, just know, I’ll ruin you worse.”
The next morning you wake slowly. The sunlight creeps in through the curtains, soft and golden, warming your thighs where the sheets have ridden up. Your body hums with the memory of the night before, muscles aching in that delicious, overused way. Arthur is already awake. He’s lying beside you, one arm under your head, the other tracing light circles across your bare hip. He’s still shirtless, hair messy, and that infuriatingly smug smile on his lips tells you he knows exactly how wrecked you still are.
“Morning, love,” he murmurs against your shoulder, his voice still husky with sleep.
You groan softly, burying your face in his chest. “Everything hurts…”
He chuckles, low and warm. “Poor thing. Who could’ve done that to you?”
You slap his chest lightly. “Asshole.”
“But I’m yours,” he says, and kisses your temple sweetly. Then, almost too casually,
“Y’know…” His hand slips lower. Trails along your inner thigh. “We still haven’t tested how well you float.”
You blink. “What?”
His grin sharpens.
“The pool. You. Me.” He kisses your neck. “Back arched over the edge. My hand on your throat. Your moans echoing off the water.”
You gasp. “Arthur…”
“Oh, don’t act surprised.” He bites your ear lightly. “You started this, showing up in that bikini. Teasing me like a little siren. You’re lucky I didn’t bend you over in the pool last night.”
You’re blushing. And wet. Again. His fingers find that out real fast.
“Still sore?” he murmurs, rubbing slow circles over your clit.
You nod, eyes fluttering shut. He presses a kiss to your jaw.
“Good. Stay sore. Because I’m not finished with you yet.”
