The first time you choked, really choked, tears springing to your eyes as you pulled back with a ragged cough, Zayne’s hands flew to your shoulders, his cool composure shattered.
“Alright, that’s enough,” he’d said, voice tight, helping you sit up. His concern was a tangible, clinical thing. He brought you water, assessed your throat with a gentle thumb on your jaw. “Your reflex is sensitive. We don’t have to do this.”
But you’d insisted. You wanted to. The wanting was a slow-burning ember in your belly, fanned every time you saw him, every time he touched you with that precise, devastating control. You wanted to unravel him, to be the one who made Dr. Zayne lose his professional distance.
Which is how you find yourself here now, in the soft lamplight of his bedroom, kneeling between his spread thighs. His cock is fully erect, heavy and flushed against his stomach, a bead of moisture already glistening at the tip. The sight of it, the sheer size, makes your throat tighten in apprehension and sends a jolt of pure desire through you.
He’s propped against the headboard, watching you with an intensity that is both analytical and deeply, darkly hungry.
“You remember what we discussed,” he says, not a question. His voice is low, a velvet rasp. “Control the pace. Breathe through your nose. And the moment you need to stop, you stop. Understood?”
You nod, your mouth already watering. You lean in, pressing a soft kiss to the tip, tasting the clean, salty precum that beads there. A low groan vibrates in his chest. Encouraged, you take him into your mouth, just the first few inches.
“Slowly,” he murmurs, his hand coming to rest lightly on the crown of your head. “Relax your jaw, yes, just like that.”
You try, letting your mouth go soft and pliant around him. You suck gently, swirling your tongue along the prominent vein on the underside. His fingers flex in your hair. “Good. So good. You can take a little more.”
You inch forward, but the familiar panic begins to rise as he hits the back of your throat. Your body tenses, the gag reflex making itself known again.
“Shhh, easy, darling.” his voice is a anchor. His other hand comes up to cradle your cheek, his thumb stroking your jawline. “Don’t force it. Just breathe. In through your nose, out through your nose.”
You obey, focusing on the air moving in and out, on the smooth glide of his thumb. The urge to gag recedes.
“Here,” he says, his voice dripping with a dark, sweet possession. “I’ll hold your head. Such a good girl, relax your mouth for me.”
His hands frame your face, guiding you. He coaxes you forward another inch, and your throat opens, just slightly, allowing him deeper. The sensation is intense, filling, overwhelming in the best way.
“So good, sweetheart. You’re taking it so well,” he praises, and the words go straight to your pussy, making you clench around nothing. You look up at him through your lashes. His professional mask is gone, replaced by raw, unfiltered want. His lips are parted, his eyes devouring the sight of his cock disappearing between your obedient lips.
He begins a subtle, rolling movement of his hips, a shallow thrust that meets your mouth as you pull back. It’s a rhythm, a collaboration. “You want to please me, yes?” he rasps.
You moan around him, the vibration pulling a sharp hiss from him.
“Then listen to me, and you won’t choke.” his grip tightens, just a fraction. “Don’t get too eager. Take it slow, just like this.”
He sets a devastating, patient pace. Each time he guides himself deeper, he watches you, checking, always checking. When he sees your eyes water, he pauses, lets you adjust, murmuring praises that stain your skin with heat. “You can take it. I know you can. Look at you, so perfect, so eager to suck my cock.”
The blend of his clinical instruction and filthy praise unravels you completely. Your own arousal is a slick, aching pulse between your legs. You bring a hand down to touch yourself, but he stops you, capturing your wrist.
“Focus,” he commands softly. “This is your lesson. Your pleasure comes after, when I’m satisfied with your work.”
The ownership in his words makes you whimper, but you obey, putting all your concentration into the act of taking him. You’ve found a rhythm now, a sweet spot where your throat relaxes and accepts him. The sounds are obscene. Wet sucks, his ragged breaths, your own muffled whimpers.
You feel him swell, the rhythm of his hips growing less controlled. “I’m close, darling,” he warns, his voice strained. “If you want to stop, now is the time.”
You don’t stop. You take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, asking for it.
A guttural sound tears from him. “Then take it all. Swallow for me.”
The first hot pulse hits the back of your throat, and you swallow instinctively, then again and again as he empties himself into your mouth with low, shuddering groans. You drink him down, milking him with your mouth until he’s spent and sensitive, until he gently pulls you off.
You’re panting, your lips swollen, your jaw aching. He pulls you up, your body limp, and arranges you beneath him on the bed. His kiss is deep, tasting of himself and you. His hand slides between your thighs, finding you soaked and trembling.
“You were exceptional,” he whispers against your lips, his fingers already circling your clit with expert, knowing pressure. “Now, let me show you how thoroughly you’ve pleased me.”
And as you shatter under his touch, you know this was only the first lesson. And you are an exceedingly eager student.
🔞 - you take care of an exhausted zayne, desperate sex, rough sex, zayne is tired and his only remedy is fucking you until he falls asleep
—
The apartment is silent, the kind of quiet that settles in deep after midnight, with only the faint hum of the city outside filtering through the curtains. You’re drifting in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness, curled under the covers in nothing but an old shirt and shorts.
You stir in the darkness at one point, the sheets tangled around your legs, wondering if that distant thud was just part of a dream or something real pulling you back to wakefulness. The apartment’s quiet wraps around you like a blanket, but then comes the jingle of keys, sharp and familiar, and a long exhale that cuts through the stillness.
Zayne’s home, finally, after two endless days. You think about rolling over to check the clock, but before you can, the air shifts, turning cooler, like someone cracked a window in winter, and you shiver under the covers, your mind foggy as you try to piece together why the room suddenly feels two degrees colder.
Footsteps pad softly across the floor, and then the mattress dips as he slides in behind you. No words, just the solid press of his body against your back. His hands—god, they’re freezing—slip under the hem of your shirt, palms flat and possessive against your stomach. A low groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating through you, and you gasp, arching instinctively into him.
What’s gotten into him? He’s usually so controlled, even at home, but this feels raw, like the ice wall he’s built is cracking and there's no stopping it.
He’s exhausted. You can feel it in the way his fingers tremble just a little. You wonder how many hours he’s been on his feet, making those impossible calls, locking everything away behind that unyielding wall he builds at work.
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deep, like he’s desperate to drown out the antiseptic sting of the hospital with your scent. His breath is warm there, contrasting the chill of his skin, and you shiver as your mind races with too many thoughts.
Has something happened? A bad case? Or is it just the exhaustion finally hitting him? You turn your head slightly, murmuring, “Zayne, how was—”
He doesn’t let you finish. In one smooth motion, he shifts, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand, his grip firm but not bruising. His hips grind against you, the hard length of him pressing between your legs through his clothes, and heat floods your core despite the cold.
“I need to feel you,” he whispers, voice rough and wrecked, lips brushing your ear before he trails starved kisses along your neck. “Say you want it, too.”
Your pulse hammers, a mix of surprise and want twisting in your chest. He’s never this urgent, this undone—it’s like the professional shell has shattered, leaving just the man who craves you like air.
“I… yes,” you breathe, because how could you not? You’ve missed him, wondered if he was thinking of you amid all the chaos.
His mouth crashes onto yours then, not gentle, but deep and devouring, tasting faintly of mint gum and the bone-deep fatigue he’s carrying. You kiss him back, tangling your tongue with his, the perfect recipe to rip a groan out of him and into your shared desperation to taste one another, the sound sending a spark straight down your spine.
Why does he taste like this tonight? Like he’s starving for something only you can give.
He breaks away just enough to nip at your jaw, then down the slope of your neck, open-mouthed and wet, his tongue shockingly cold against your heated skin. Goosebumps erupt everywhere, shivers racing through you that have everything to do with the way he’s unraveling you.
Those surgeon’s fingers, precise and relentless, slide lower and dip beneath the waistband of your shorts. He finds you already slick, and a ragged breath escapes him as he circles your clit, then slips inside, curling two fingers exactly how he knows you love.
You cry out, back arching off the bed and into his heated body, your free hand clutching at his shirt. How does he always know exactly where to touch? It’s like he maps you out in his mind during those long shifts, saving it for moments like this where he can pull you apart and piece you together as many times as he wants.
“Mmh, Z-Zayne,” you gasp, but he steals the words with another kiss, his fingers pumping steadily in and out of your clenching walls until your hips buckle a little too desperate against his hand.
He pulls back, forest eyes dark in the dim light filtering through the window, something unhinged flickering there. Without a word, he tugs your shirt up, burying his face between your breasts.
His breath hitches as he inhales your skin again, probably a bit sweaty from twisting around in your sleep earlier. His breath is hot and uneven, and then his teeth graze the soft skin, biting down sharp and possessive.
The sting shoots through you, slight pain mixing with pleasure. You can only whimper, knowing he’ll leave a mark, something to remind you both that you’re his anchor in all of this.
“Mine,” he mutters against you, almost too low to hear, but it sends a thrill straight to your core. “You’re mine, darling. Let me show you.”
You can’t hold back anymore. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer in a desperate effort to urge him to just claim you already.
He curses softly—a low, wrecked “Fuck”—against your lips. Any last restraint snaps. He yanks your shorts aside, freeing himself from his pants in hurried movements, and then he’s there, thrusting into you with a needy rhythm, deep and unyielding.
Each drive of his hips presses you into the mattress, the cold of his skin clashing with the fever building between you, and you keep on moaning, nails digging into his back.
Is this what he needs to feel alive again? To lose himself in you until the exhaustion fades?
He doesn’t stop, thrusting harder and deeper, as deep as he can possibly go, his mouth finding yours in messy, desperate kisses as he chases that release.
Your thoughts blur into sensation—the stretch of him filling you, the way his body trembles slightly from fatigue but pushes on, the quiet groans he muffles against your shoulder.
You cum first, clenching around him with a sharp cry, and he follows soon after, spilling inside you with a final, shuddering thrust. He collapses half on top of you, breath ragged, but his hold doesn’t loosen, afraid to let go just yet.
In the quiet aftermath, you wonder if he’ll talk about it tomorrow, or if this is enough to pull him back from the edge of exhaustion. Whatever he needs, you’re going to give it to him.
With you, he doesn't ever need to hold himself back. Not ever.
🔞 - overstimulation, dirty talk, begging, slight usage of religious terms (?) in sexual acts
It was ironic, truly. Calling to a God while certain God fucked you so good you saw literal stars.
But you couldn't help yourself. Oh, you couldn't...not when your pussy clenched and squeezed to accommodate Rafayel's cock, the wet and filthy sounds of his balls slapping your ass echoing in the entirety of his bedroom.
It was too damn good to help yourself, too good to even realize what came out of your mouth. Between the various moans and whimpers of "Too good, Rafayel..." and "There! There, please, 'm close.", you were too far gone to realize you were moaning an entirely different and new thing, something he never heard nor expected to hear you moan in bed.
Calling to a God—to him—because you were too fucked out to manage anything else.
Rafayel found it amusing, how you were gripping his cock too tight, spasming around him with your eyes rolled back in utter pleasure and your pretty mouth beginning a God so sweetly.
How could he not bully you a little, really? You were too cute, pussy fluttering around him, tits bouncing up and down as he railed you so deep into the mattress you forgot even your own name. But never his.
You whimper again, the words “Oh my god” slipping out without thinking, your voice breaking as pleasure crashes over you. Your body shakes from it, every nerve lit up.
Rafayel slows down his thrusts, just enough to pull a frustrated whine from your sore throat. You feel his hips roll slow and easy, in and out of your needy cunt, making sure you notice every bit of him moving inside you.
He leans in close, his mouth right by your ear, his warm breath hitting your skin. “Oh my god?” he repeats, his voice full of that teasing lilt he has whenever he bullies you, the kind that’s all cocky and light. You hear him chuckle low, feel it rumble through his chest into yours. “Which God are you calling to, exactly?”
You open your mouth to say something, but it turns into a gasp when his hand sneaks down between you both, a ghost of a touch following it. You feel his slender fingers find your clit, pinching it light but firm, and it sends sharp sparks right up your back.
Your pussy tightens around his cock without you meaning to, so wet from all the orgasms he pulled out of you tonight. So wet, in fact, that each slide makes a slick, messy sound. You can see the white ring of your cum and his precum mixed together at the base of his shaft when you glance down, a clear sign of how many times he’s made you finish—this is the third time, and your thighs burn, shaking from too much already.
He doesn’t stop. You feel his other hand hold your hip steadily, keeping you right where he wants as he pushes in deep again, slow on purpose. It makes you shift, trying to get more from him.
“Cuz you sure as hell aren’t calling the one who’s making you see stars right now, are you, cutie?” he giggles, that playful sound that gets under your skin every time, and you see his amethyst eyes get darker, fixed on your face like he’s loving every second of this.
You arch your back to get closer, feeling your tits press into his chest. He lowers his head, and you feel his mouth close over one nipple, sucking hard before his teeth scrape it gentle. It pulls a cry from you, “Oh my god, Rafayel…”
Your fingers twist into the sheets, your skin sticky with sweat, and words just spill out in a jumble. “Please… deeper…”
He lets go of your nipple with a soft pop, and you feel his smirk on your skin as he kisses up your neck, leaving a small bite that stings in such a good way. “Oh? So you’re really calling out to me… yeah? Tell me gorgeous, what can I do for you, hm?”
His thrusts speed up a bit, going deeper like you asked, his cock hitting that perfect spot a few times, the one that makes your eyes roll back and your vision blur. You see his flushed face above you, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, cheeks red. You also hear his breaths come quicker now, but he’s still grinning, clearly having fun seeing you like this.
“Hit deeper? Make you scream louder?” he says, teasing fingers starting to circle your clit, matching the rhythm of his hips. You feel it all so much—the stretch from his cock, the wetness letting him move smoothly in and out of your gummy walls. “Make you soak this God’s cock? Is that what you’re praying for?”
You can’t make real words anymore, just fast nods and broken moans, “Yes… God, yes…please please...”
He chuckles again, and you feel him thrust extra deep, like he’s proving a point. When you lean up for a kiss, he pulls back a little, making you follow his lips. You see that smug grin through your lidded eyes before he finally kisses you, messy and full, his tongue mixing with yours in an intoxicatingly sweet kiss.
He pulls away just enough to say whisper tauntingly against your lips, “Calling God as if you don’t already have one inside you, awe.”
You hear him giggle once more, and then his fingers pinch your clit in such a way that your entire body seizes. It pushes you right over, your body clenching tight as you cum again, feeling the release soak everything even more. Your thighs, his thighs, the rumpled sheets already drenched in your sweat. You see stars behind your eyes, your legs trembling hard, and hear him groan from how you tight you must squeeze him.
Even now, he doesn’t stop. You feel him keep thrusting through it, much slower now to drag it out, his hands roaming your sides, thumbs brushing your ribs. Your breath is too erratic, body too sensitive, but you can’t pull away.
He kisses your shoulder, light and quick, then nips at your collarbone, marking another spot. You feel his cock twitch inside you, still hard, and it makes you gasp right into his ear.
“See? That’s what happens when you keep calling for me,” he murmurs, voice breathy but still cocky. His fingers trace down your thigh, lifting it higher around his waist so he can go deeper again.
You feel the sweat on his skin mix with yours, his chest pressing close as he speeds up a little. Your hands move to his back, nails digging in without thinking, and you hear him hiss in what you assume is a good way. He captures your mouth again, kissing deeper this time, ravishing your tender lips.
You feel it all too much, already falling into overstimulation, your pussy fluttering around him as you whimper into the kiss, “Rafayel… too much…”
He breaks the kiss, eyes locked on yours, amused but heated. “Too much? But you’re still clenching like you want more, cutie.”
You feel him shift, one hand sliding under your ass to tilt you up, letting him hit even better. Each thrust sends jolts of electricity through you. Your muscles scream the extortion, but the pleasure overrides it, making you chase the high anyway.
He leans down to suck on your other nipple now, tongue swirling so very slowly, making you feel it deep into your core. His free hand pinches the other one, rolling it gently until your back arches off the mattress again.
“O-oh my god,” you moan out, voice cracking in the middle, and he lifts his head with a laugh.
“There it is again,” he chuckles, thrusting hard once to make his point. You feel him fill you completely, the pressure building too quickly. He’s breathing heavier now, face closer to yours, and you see the flush spread down his neck. His thumb finds your clit once more, rubbing light circles that have you shaking.
You try to speak, but it’s just gasps and his name, over and over. He smirks, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Praying to me some more? Alright, I’ll answer.”
He pulls out slowly, and you whine at the emptiness, but then you feel him flip you over gently, onto your stomach. Your face presses into the pillow, and you feel his hands grip your hips, lifting them up so you’re on your knees a bit.
“Let’s try this way,” he whispers against your sweaty back, voice low and teasing. “See if it makes you call out louder.”
You feel him slide back in from behind, deeper in this position, and it hits different spots that make your toes curl. His hands run up your back, then one slides around to your front, fingers finding your clit again while he thrusts steady. You bury your face in the sheets, moaning, “Oh my God… Raf, please…”
Your can't even feel your limbs anymore, and each touch feels like too much but just right.
He leans over you, chest against your back, and you feel his breath on your neck. “Still calling God, huh? You know it’s me you’re begging.”
His fingers pinch your clit lightly, and you jolt, pushing back against him without thinking. He chuckles, the sound vibrating through you. “That’s it, cutie. Take it like that.”
You feel him speed up, his cock bullying into you, hitting that spot over and over. Your eyes start to cross from the intensity, and you try to look back at him, but the pleasure makes them roll.
He notices how hard you're trying and you feel his hand grip your jaw gentle yet firm, turning your head so you have to face him over your shoulder. “Look at me, gorgeous...” he says, voice husky now. “Want to see those pretty eyes when you moan it again.”
You try to focus, but another one of his thrusts makes your vision blur, so you only manage to whimper, “O-oh fuck, my god…”
He grins, thrusting deeper, his grip keeping you in place. “Yeah, just like that. Who’s making you feel this good?” his other hand slides up to your breast, pinching the nipple as he rolls his hips slow, drawing out the dual sensation.
“You… Rafayel, you are...” you manage to gasp, voice shaky. Your entire body aches, muscles tight from holding your hips into the position, but you don’t want him to stop. He kisses your shoulder, then bites lightly, marking yet another spot.
“That's riiiight, good girl,” he chuckles, releasing your jaw to trail his fingers down your spine.
You feel him pull out once more, and this time he turns you onto your side, lifting one leg over his shoulder. The new angle lets him go even deeper, and you feel every inch as he slides back in. His hand grips your thigh, holding it steady, while his thumb rubs circles on your inner thigh, teasing close to where you’re joined but not quite touching.
“Oh my god, 's too deep,” you moan brokenly, hands clutching at his arms. He laughs softly, leaning down capture your lips, his tongue exploring while he rolls his hips in a slow rhythm,
“Too deep? But you’re soaking me so much, cutie. You love it, yeah?”
He pulls back from the kiss, eyes dark as he watches your face. His free hand moves to your jaw, thumb pressing down on your swollen lower lip as he whispers, “Say it again. Call for your God.”
You can’t hold back, moaning “Oh my god… please, wanna cum...it's t-to much…” over and over, like a broken record.
He groans, flushed and breathing hard, but still so amused at how wrecked you are. His thrusts get rougher, bullying your sensitive spots until you're pretty sure you're close to blacking out from the intense pleasure he's bringing you.
“Keep praying like that, and next time I’ll put you on your knees, cutie.” he teases, voice low and cocky as he thrusts extra deep one last time. “Seeing as you love calling out to God so much, might as well be a good devotee and worship him properly.”
“Zayne…?” your voice echoes in the hall right as the entrance door closes with a thud behind you. The lights are off, and your brows knit in a small furrow. Usually, at this late hour—and especially today—Zayne would be home, either in the living room, typing away at reports, or in the bedroom, cozying up in your shared bed.
But he’s nowhere in sight now, and the lights are all off. You go from the living room to the bedroom then bathroom, and nothing. No sign of him anywhere.
That is, until you hear a soft sound, almost imperceptible, coming from down the hall and into the dark kitchen. Confusion tugs at you, and for a fraction of a second you think you must've heard wrong. But then a tiny flicker of light echoes on the wall, so you make your way there, rounding the corner into the kitchen.
The sight that welcomes you is enough to pause you in your steps, and it does little to stop the bright, almost dazzling smile blooming on your face. It’s simple, so so simple yet as simple as it is, it’s worth the stars in the sky.
Zayne is there, and not only is he holding a big bouquet of jasmines in his hand, but next to him on the kitchen counter lays untouched a cake. As you inch closer, unable to stop even if you wanted to, you notice that it’s homemade. Depicting a sea of snow and two figurines that you assume can only be you and Zayne, holding hands and matching scarves.
It’s messy and not nearly as neat as the ones from the bakery. But it’s nothing short of perfect, as imperfect as it may look, no cake could ever measure.
You barely register the wetness at the corner of your eyes, not until Zayne’s thumb reaches to gently trace under your eye, wiping your tears of happiness away. Your eyes meet, those green forests enveloping you like a cabin’s fire in the middle of a snowy mountain.
“Happy birthday, my love.”
But you're already in his arms, swinging your body forward until there's nothing between you anymore. Zayne’s warmth cocoons you whole, making you bury your face in his neck while his hand soothes over your back in comforting touches.
You stay like that for a moment, wrapped in his arms, the steady beat of his heart against your chest calming the happy tears still lingering on your lashes. His hand keeps moving in slow circles over your back, and you feel the faint press of his chin resting on top of your head. The scent of jasmines from the bouquet mixes with his scent and it makes you breathe out in relief, content to enjoy this moment.
Finally, you pull back just enough to look up at him, your hands still clutching the front of his shirt. “Zayne, this is… did you make all of this?”
He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips as he sets the flowers down on the counter beside the cake. “I did. It took a few tries to get the icing right, but I managed.” His voice is soft, matter-of-fact, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that makes your stomach flip. He reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. “Even though baking isn’t my strong suit, I wanted it to be something from me, not just bought.”
You glance at the cake again, the little figurines of you both in the snow making you grin. “It’s perfect. Really, I love it.” Leaning up on your toes, you press a quick kiss to his cheek, feeling the slight stubble there against your lips.
Zayne turns his head at the last second, catching your mouth with his instead. The kiss is gentle at first, his free hand cupping your jaw as he deepens it just a bit, his thumb brushing your skin. You melt into it, your fingers tightening in his shirt. When he pulls away, his forehead rests against yours. “I’ve been waiting all day to do that,” he murmurs, his breath warm on your face.
A laugh bubbles out of you, and you feel your cheeks heat up. “Sneaky, Doctor. What about the cake? Should we cut it, or are you gonna keep kissing me?”
He straightens up but keeps hold of your hand, guiding you closer to the counter. “There’s plenty of time for kisses after. But first, you should make a wish.”
You turn toward the cake, the light of the candle flickering in your watery eyes, and you close them gently, making your wish with a smile on your face. Content with that, you open your eyes and look beside you to see Zayne already watching you with a too-soft smile and tender eyes, placing a kiss on your temple.
He picks up a small knife from beside the cake and hands it to you, his other arm slipping around your waist from behind. “You do the honors.”
You take the knife, his body pressed lightly against your back as you slice into the cake. It’s soft inside, vanilla with a layer of cream, and you cut a small piece for each of you. Turning in his arms, you hold up a bite on the fork toward him. “Open up, doctor.”
Zayne raises an eyebrow, but he leans in and takes the bite, his lips brushing your fingers. He chews slowly, then nods. “Not bad for a first attempt.”
Before you can respond, he swipes a bit of icing from the side of the cake with his finger and dots it on the tip of your nose.
“Zayne!” you swat at his hand, laughing warmly, but he catches your wrist gently and pulls you closer.
“Here, let me fix that.” his voice drops a little, and then he leans down, kissing the icing off your nose. Then his mouth finds yours again, this time slower, his tongue flicking out just enough for you to taste the sweetness of it. You feel his hand slide down to your hip, squeezing lightly, and a shiver runs through you as if you’re outside in the snow and not in his warm embrace.
When he breaks the kiss, his eyes meet yours with a hint of mischief there. “You taste better than the cake, my love.” he says quietly, his thumb tracing your lower lip. “Maybe we save the rest for later… after I give you your other present.”
Your heart skips, and you bite your lip, feeling the warmth spread through you. “Other present? Now you’ve got me curious.”
He chuckles, low and soft, pulling you in with a gentle tug. “Patience. It’s your birthday and I plan to take my time.” he nudges your cheek with his nose, voice dropping to a whisper, “After all, the most meaningful gifts are the ones you least expect.”
You tilt your head back against his shoulder as he tugs you closer even closer, his hand warm on your hip. The kitchen counter digs into your lower back, but you barely notice with his mouth brushing your ear. “Take your time?” you tease, your voice light but breathless already. “Does the birthday girl not benefit from special treatment on her own birthday?”
As your mind races a little, you wonder how he always stays so composed while teasing and you’re already feeling the heat build inside you. It’s frustrating in the best way, how he draws things out.
Zayne’s lips curve into a smirk you can feel against your skin as he nips at your earlobe. “She does,” he murmurs, his fingers sliding under the hem of your shirt, tracing slow circles on your bare stomach. “Which is why I have every detail of tonight planned out.”
He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, that calm green gaze holding yours while his thumb dips lower, brushing the waistband of your pants. “The night is young, and I plan to make great use of the next hours.”
You swallow hard, your skin tingling where his fingers touch. It’s hard to focus on his words when his hands are on you like this, making your pulse quicken.
Unable to just stand in front of him, you lean in to kiss him, your hands fisting in his shirt. His tongue meets yours right away, slow and coaxing, tasting like the sweetness of the cake. You feel his other hand move to the counter, hear the soft scrape as he scoops up more frosting. He breaks the kiss, smirking again when you chase his lips, but he holds you steady and at a small distance that makes your lips pout.
A small whine escapes you without thinking, your body craving more of that contact. You feel exposed already, even with clothes still on, yet Zayne looks like he really wants to take his sweet time.
“Do you?” you ask, teasing him in a breathless tone even as your chest rises and falls quicker. “Does it, perhaps, involve our bed, doctor?”
His chuckle is low, vibrating against you as he smears a line of frosting along your neck. “A bed, less clothing, And…” he says, his voice steady while he leans down to lick it off, his tongue flat and warm against your pulse. You shiver, your hands gripping his shoulders. “…we can enjoy more of the cake together.”
The warmth of his tongue sends a jolt through you, and you bite your lip to hold back a sound. Your thighs press together instinctively, seeking some relief you know you won’t get just yet.
He kisses lower, dragging his lips to your collarbone, adding another swipe of frosting there before his warm mouth follows. His tongue circles the spot, sucking lightly, and the heat pooling low in your belly is making you even more excited. You arch into him, your fingers threading into his hair. He stays calm, unhurried, that smirk never leaving his face as he pulls your shirt up and over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it aside.
The cool air hitting your skin makes you shiver again, but not for long, because Zayne’s body is pressed close to yours. It’s vulnerable, standing there exposed in the kitchen, but the way he looks at you makes it worth it.
More frosting on your collarbone follows, then down to the swell of your breasts. He unhooks your bra with practiced ease, letting it fall as he spreads the cool icing over one nipple. The sensation pulls a gasp from your throat, the chillness making your nipple harden even more than it already is, but then his mouth is there, warm and wet, licking it clean. His tongue flicks over the hardened peak, teasing it while his hand cups the other breast, thumb rubbing in slow circles. He focuses there, switching sides, sucking the frosting off with slow pulls and twists of his tongue that make your knees weak. You press against the counter for support now that your breath’s coming in short pants.
Your head falls back, eyes closing as waves of pleasure roll through you. It’s almost too much, the mix of cold and hot, and you wonder how much longer you can stand it without begging.
“Zayne,” you whisper, pleading as he kisses down your stomach, adding more frosting in a trail. His tongue follows, lapping it up, his hands gripping your hips to hold you steady.
Every lick makes your stomach tighten, and you feel yourself getting wetter, the anticipation building until it’s hard to think straight.
He looks up at you, eyes dark but still so composed, that smirk tugging at his lips. “Patience,” he says softly, although a teasing lilt accompanies it. He hooks his fingers into your pants, sliding them down to expose your thighs. His fingers place more frosting on your inner thigh now, cool against your heated skin. He kneels slowly, his mouth following, licking it off in long, slow strokes that inch higher each time.
You watch him, your heart pounding, feeling a flush creep up your chest. It’s intimate, him on his knees like this, and it makes you want to pull him closer. Make him give you what you want.
You feel his breath there, warm and close as he spreads more frosting right over the fabric of your panties. His tongue presses against it, licking through the thin material, the sweetness mixing with your own taste. You moan, your hand in his hair tightening as he continues, his licks firm and teasing, the friction of the fabric making everything feel more intense. He doesn’t rush, just keeps that calm rhythm, his hands spreading your thighs wider while he works you up, smirking against you the whole time.
Your legs tremble, and you grip the counter harder, trying to stay upright. The teasing of his tongue over your clothed pussy is driving you crazy, and all you can think about is how much you need more.
“Baby,” you mewl softly, your voice breaking as his tongue presses harder through the fabric. You can’t help squirming against his mouth. “Take them off, please.” you tug lightly at his hair, desperate for more direct contact. “Want to feel your tongue…”
Zayne pauses just long enough to look up at you, his eyes dark with that calm amusement. He scoops another bit of frosting and spreads it over your already soaked panties, the coolness making you gasp. Then his tongue is back, lapping at it slowly. “Is that what you wished for when you blew the candles earlier?” he says, his breath hot against you.
You bite your lip, trying to steady yourself, but the way he licks sends sparks up your spine. Your thighs shake, and you feel a flush creep over your skin.
“Was it my tongue you wished you’d feel tonight… or was it my fingers?” he smirks, giving you those light, kitty licks right over your clothed clit that make you whimper. His fingers tease along the hem of your panties, dipping just under but not pulling yet.
The words hit you, and you feel a rush of heat spread through your whole body, your mind foggy with need. You nod without thinking, your hands gripping the counter tighter as your hips buckle toward his face.
“Or perhaps, you’re a greedy birthday girl and wished for my cock instead?” Zayne smirks again, his voice low and steady as he finally hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and slides them down your thighs. He lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, settling in closer.
Before you can answer, his mouth is on you fully, his tongue circling your clit in slow, firm strokes. You cry out, the direct warmth making your whole body tense. He pushes his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in a rhythm that has you trembling hard.
“O-oh my god, fuck… yes…” you moan, your fingers digging into his hair just the way he likes, pulling him closer. You hear him groan against you, the vibration adding to the pleasure, and he picks up the pace, his tongue working you with more intensity.
Your breath comes in short gasps, and you feel your orgasm building fast, your legs weak as you lean back against the counter.
“Yes, I’m greedy… Want you to fill me up Zayne…” you moan, your body shaking now, every thrust of his tongue pushing you higher. “Won’t you make my wish come true—ohhh fuck ’m gonna cum, baby…”
The words tumble out as your eyes roll back, pleasure crashing over you. Your release hits hard, gushing over his mouth and dripping onto the kitchen floor. You cling to him, riding it out, your mind blank with the intensity.
Your legs still feel shaky as the aftershocks fade, but you push through it, grabbing Zayne’s shirt to pull him up to you. He stands smoothly, his hands steady on your hips, and you kiss him hard, messy, tasting yourself on his lips mixed with the lingering sweetness of the frosting. He chuckles against your mouth, his fingers digging into your flesh just a bit as he kisses back.
You don’t waste time. You turn him around, backing him up against the counter where the cake still sits. Your hands go to his belt, unbuckling it with quick tugs, the metal clinking softly. You unzip his pants next, shoving them down enough to free his cock—it’s already hard, flushed red at the tip and leaking precum that makes your mouth water.
“Now, Zayne…” you say, licking your lips as you smile up at him, grabbing a bit of frosting from the cake and trailing it along the side of his shaft. The coolness makes him twitch, and you feel a thrill at that. “It’s only fair I get to also enjoy some cake, right? You made it for me, after all. It’ll be unfair only you get to taste it.”
You pout a little, then lean in and give a long lick up his shaft, tasting the sweet frosting mixed with his salty precum. You moan at the flavor, your eyes fluttering shut for a second because he tastes so damn good, so damn intoxicating.
Zayne groans, the sound rough as his hand pets your hair gently at first. “Ngh, of course, sweetheart. Then take all of it, and show me how much you enjoy it.” he smirks down at you, and pushes your mouth down onto his cock, guiding it deeper until it hits the back of your throat.
You take him in, hollowing your cheeks as you suck, the mix of tastes making you hum around him. Your hands grip his thighs for balance, and you feel him throb in your mouth. He pulls you off after a few bobs, letting you catch your breath, his cock slick now with your saliva.
“Then… I should show you my gratitude for your efforts, my sweet Zayne,” you say, voice a bit hoarse, looking up at him with a cheshire grin.
He doesn’t say anything, just smirks again and pushes you back down, his hand firm in your hair as you take him deeper this time, working him with your tongue. You feel the heat from his body as you work your mouth around him, taking him deeper with each bob. Your hand slips between your own thighs without thinking, fingers circling your clit before pushing inside, the slickness making it easy. Every thrust of your fingers sends a jolt through you, and you can’t help the moans that vibrate around his cock.
“You take me so well,” Zayne groans, his voice rough as his fingers tighten in your hair. He watches you, eyes half-lidded.
You swirl your tongue around the tip, then hollow your cheeks for a tighter suck, feeling him twitch. Your fingers move faster inside you, matching the rhythm of your mouth, and another whimper escapes around him.
“So eager and impatient, darling,” he groans again, his hips shifting just a bit as you keep going.
The sounds you make get louder each time your fingers curl inside, and he responds with a deep groan, thrusting shallowly into your mouth. You relax your jaw, letting him take over the pace, your eyes watering from the depth his cock gets. But you look up at him anyway, locking gazes, your fingers still pumping in and out of your leaking pussy.
“You’re beautiful when you’re on your knees, desperate yet taking my cock so well as if you never had anything better,” Zayne rasps, thrusting his cock deep until he hits the back of your throat again, his control slipping a little.
You moan around him, the vibrations making his breath hitch. Your whimpers mix with the wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your slack mouth, and you feel him tense above you, followed by his hand gripping your hair harder.
Your desperate moans are what pushes him over. “Time for you to taste the final product, darling,” he groans, eyes fluttering shut for a second before opening again. He grips your hair, tilting your head back gently. “Open wide, beautiful,” he instructs with a smirk, eyebrows drawn together in concentration.
You do as he says, tongue peeking out just in time. His cum hits your tongue and splatters across your face, warm and salty. You swallow what lands in your mouth, feeling yourself squeeze around your own digits as you watch his face relax in pleasure.
Zayne pulls you up right away, his hands firm on your arms as he connects your mouths and kisses you deeply. You both groan into it, the taste of him connecting your warm tongues, desperate in their attempt to get more of each other’s taste.
He starts to guide you toward the bedroom, but you shake your head, dragging him back instead. You jump up onto the counter, smiling at him as you scoop more frosting and put it on your tongue, holding it out like an invitation.
Zayne smirks, cradling your face as his tongue peeks out. He kisses you sensually, both of you moaning as he licks the frosting away, his hands sliding down your sides.
“Here. Fuck me here, mhmm..” you moan between kisses, your fingers digging into his shoulders.
He gathers your thighs up, gripping them tight, and what follows is his leaking cock thrusting between your puffy folds. His tip catches on your swollen clit, and the slide feels so good it makes you clench, desperate for him to push inside and make you feel that stretch of his cock, the one that makes your walls burn in both pain and pleasure.
“Here? Are you sure, sweetheart?” Zayne smirks against your neck, biting softly. “I won’t be able to fuck you as rough as you want here, otherwise your back will sustain bruises.” he chuckles against your neck when you’re reaching for his cock, guiding his tip inside.
“Don’t care…ngh—fuck, want you too bad…” you moan, arching against him. “Please fuck me, baby…” you plead, sucking on his bottom lip.
Zayne groans and manhandles you to the edge of the counter, pushing you onto the cold surface until you’re laid back. He guides your legs onto his shoulders, peppering kisses on your ankles. You shiver at the contrast of his warm lips on your skin.
He smirks while scooping some frosting with two fingers and guides them inside your mouth. “Suck.” he instructs, licking his own lips as his hungry eyes rake over your naked, sweaty body, and the way your tongue is already complying to his words. It pleases him, the way you’re always so responsive and eager to follow his lead.
“Birthday girls get to ask for seconds, and it would be a shame not to take full advantage of that.” his voice follows, stroking your calf and massaging down your leg until it settles on your hip, squeezing the soft flesh.
You suck on his fingers, tasting the sweet frosting. The moment he pushes his cock inside you in one smooth thrust, your mouth gapes around his fingers, a gasp escaping your aching throat. The stretch is what you’ve been silently begging for all evening, and now when he’s finally giving it to you, your mind can barely register just how deliciously good it feels.
“Beautiful, so damn beautiful…” he groans, thrusting steadily inside your gummy walls that keep clamping around him. His groans and your moans fill the kitchen, along with the sound of skin slapping against skin. His other hand pushes down on your belly, making you feel his cock even deeper, and your eyes roll back in utter pleasure, gasping around his fingers that still toy with your mouth.
You feel every inch of him stretching you, and it’s no surprise that your orgasm is approaching pretty fast, your whole body begging for him.
“Nghhh, fuckfuckfuck…” you moan, gripping the counter and his wrist. “Harder, please—oh god, you’re d-deep baby…mmh..” you mewl, feeling him hit even deeper and straight into your cervix, making your body shake and thighs tremble.
“Because you wished for this, I’ll make it come true.” Zayne rasps, kissing your ankles as he fucks you deeper. “My beautiful birthday girl, is that what you want?” he asks but you only manage to nod desperately. He frowns a bit, smirking, “Words, darling. Use your pretty mouth and tell me your wish again.”
“Cum inside, please baby. I wanna be full of you, keep you inside me all n-night…” you moan, tears running down your cheeks as he keeps hitting that sensitive spot inside. His slick fingers come out of your mouth, slick with saliva, and down your body until they tease above your swollen clit, playing with it in slow motions, massaging your folds.
“Oh, oh fuck, f-fuck…” a pitched moan leaves your throat, pussy clenching as you cum around him, vision blurring as he keeps thrusting at the same maddening pace. Your walls flutter hard, squeezing him, and you feel the release wash over you in waves.
“There we go, my love. So sweet, soaking my cock so easily.” he groans, leaning down to kiss you, and you barely keep up with him because you’re overstimulated. “Now, you’re ready to take all of me. Be a good girl and keep it inside, yes?” he murmurs against your ear, thrusting deeper into your trembling body, until he’s spilling his cum deep inside you. Both of you groan as he fucks his cum into you slowly and after a while he stops inside you.
You search for his mouth, connecting your swollen lips into a slow, languid kiss, both of you spent and sweaty with ragged breaths. You chuckle and drag him closer on top of you, whispering into his ear, “Take me to bed, Zayne… I want you to fuck me all night…” your fingers thread through his damp hair, placing a kiss under his ear, “Need you...”
You kiss down his neck, feeling his erratic pulse. “After all, you said I can ask for seconds.” you smirk, chuckling as he’s already manhandling you in his arms, carrying you to the bedroom, his cock still connecting the two of you.
He lays you onto the soft sheets, making you sigh at the sensation. His warm body envelops you, and you’re already pulling him closer, wrapping your thighs tightly around his waist.
“You will get more than just seconds, darling. Sleep is off the table tonight.” Zayne smirks down at you, voice rough. “I’ll make you cum the number on that birthday cake, how does that sound?”
His lips curve into a devastating smirk, calm yet so sure of himself. It’s only when his cock twitches inside you before slowly dragging in and out of your walls that you realize, he’s making good on that promise. You just pull him closer, knowing that you’ll lose the capacity of walking tomorrow, but all you can care about right now is how good his cock feels inside you, and how you’d rather never leave this bed than missing out on how his cock pumps you full, spilling his cum inside you over and over again until you’re too full to take anymore.
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The cool evening air did little to soothe the fever still lingering on your skin. Zayne’s scent clung to your clothes, your hair, your very breath. He stood at your doorway, a study in composed contradiction. His hair was slightly mussed from your fingers, his shirt not quite as perfectly tucked as it had been hours ago, yet his expression held that usual, infuriatingly calm doctor’s demeanor.
“You should get some rest, darling,” he murmured, his thumb stroking the back of your hand. “You have an early day tomorrow.”
“Says the man who kept me up,” you retorted, leaning against the doorframe, a smirk playing on your well-kissed lips.
His eyes, those hazel pools, warmed a few degrees. “I believe you were an enthusiastic participant.”
He leaned in for the goodbye kiss—a soft, closing punctuation to a passionate evening. Or so it was supposed to be.
His lips met yours, a gentle pressure that quickly deepened. It wasn’t chaste. It was a slow, thorough exploration that tasted of memory and renewed hunger. His tongue swept against yours, not demanding, but reminding you of the way he’d tasted every inch of you earlier. A low hum vibrated in his throat, and your hands, of their own accord, fisted in the front of his shirt, pulling him from the threshold back into the dim hallway.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathing heavily. His composure was cracking, a faint flush high on his cheekbones.
“See?” you whispered, your voice husky. “Not so easy to say goodbye, Doctor Li.”
His hands found your hips, large and warm through the thin fabric of your sleep shorts. He pulled you flush against him, letting you feel the hard, insistent line of his arousal straining against his trousers. A jolt of pure, liquid heat shot straight to your core.
“You’re not quite well-behaved tonight, it seems,” he said, his voice a rough caress against your ear. His lips traced the shell, his teeth giving the lobe a sharp, tantalizing nip. “Teasing me when I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“Who said I wanted a gentleman?” you arched into him, rubbing against the solid evidence of his desire. The memory of him moving inside you, deep and relentless, flashed vividly behind your eyes. “I want the man who had me screaming into the pillows an hour ago.”
A groan escaped him, and his control visibly splintered. One hand slid down to cup the curve of your ass, kneading the tender flesh.
“You’re still so wet for me, aren’t you?” he breathed, his other hand sliding beneath your top to palm your breast, his thumb circling a peaked nipple. “I can feel the heat through your shorts. One touch, love, and you’d come apart again.”
He was right. Your earlier satisfaction had been a mere prelude. Your body was alight again, aching and empty.
“Prove it,” you dared, your fingers scrambling for his belt buckle.
With a groan that was entirely feral, he spun you, pressing your back against the wall. The kiss he captured you in was consuming, all tongue and heat and desperate promise. His knee nudged your legs apart, and you felt the thick ridge of him press against your dampening center, a maddening, perfect friction through the layers of clothing.
“You’ll be the death of my good intentions,” he muttered against your throat, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin there. His hands hooked into the waistband of your shorts and panties, dragging them down your thighs in one swift move. The cool air was a shock against your exposed, slick flesh. “Spread for me. Let me see what I’m dealing with.”
Trembling, you obeyed. His gaze dropped, dark and hungry. “So perfect. Already glistening for me again.” he sank to his knees, his breath a hot gust against your inner thighs. “Since you’ve derailed my departure, I suppose one more round won’t hurt…”
His tongue, that clever, tormenting tongue, licked a broad, flat stripe through your soaked folds, and you cried out, your head thudding back against the wall.
The “goodbye” was forgotten, lost to the desperate, playful, and utterly hungry language of your bodies that refused to be sated. He had you at the edge before his lips even closed around your clit, and you knew, with exhilarating certainty, that the night was far from over.
It isn’t the champagne. It isn’t the low light in his house, all cool surfaces and sharp lines, much like the man himself. It’s just him.
Zayne, reclined against the immaculate sofa, a glass of something amber in his hand. And you, hopelessly caught, your gaze trapped on the elegant, beautiful bump on his nose. You’d been staring for minutes, a fact he hasn’t let slip by unnoticed.
His hazel green eyes, usually so coolly assessing, have been watching you watch him. A slow, knowing smile had begun to play on his lips long before he broke the silence. You see the exact moment something shifts, the precise second clinical observation melts into something hotter, hungrier. It stirs in the pit of your stomach, a mirror to whatever darkens his gaze.
“Get on top of me.”
His voice is a low vibration, a command so sweet yet firm, you can do nothing but comply. Your heart stutters, a flush heating your skin. You move, instinct guiding you to swing a leg over his hips, to straddle his lap. But his hands are there, large and sure, guiding you with a gentle, unyielding pressure.
“No, darling,” he murmurs, a beautiful, wicked smirk gracing his mouth. “That’s not your seat tonight. At least, not right now.”
Confusion flickers for only a second before he manhandles you—a firm, purposeful guidance that leaves you breathless. He lifts and turns you, your world tilting until your knees are planted on the cushions on either side of his head, your hips cradling the sharp planes of his face. You look down, and his gaze meets yours, upside down and blazing with intent. The sheer, raw hunger in those hazel depths steals the air from your lungs.
“This,” he whispers, the low cadence of his voice a physical caress against your inner thigh, “is where you’ll sit tonight, beautiful.”
One of his hands splays possessively on your lower back, holding you in place, while the other strokes a slow, teasing path up your thigh, pushing the fabric of your clothes aside. He doesn’t look away from you, his breath hot through the thin barrier separating his mouth from your core.
“You seemed to crave a specific… asset of mine,” he continues, his smirk barely seen where he nuzzles the skin of your inner thigh. “And I intend to satiate your every need tonight.”
His thumb finds the sensitive nub of your clit, circling once, twice, already having you melt in his grasp. You gasp, your hands flying to brace against the back of the sofa.
“Now,” he commands, his voice dropping to a husky, delicious rasp. “Be a good girl and ride my face until you can’t think of anything else but my name.”
He closes the final distance, and his mouth is on you—hot, wet, and devastatingly skilled. There is no hesitation, only deliberate, relentless pleasure. His tongue parts you, laves at you, flicks and presses with a surgeon’s precision and a sinner’s devotion. The hand on your back presses down, encouraging your movements, and you begin to rock against him, a broken rhythm born of sheer, overwhelming sensation.
Every moan you try to swallow is drawn out of you by the expert flick of his tongue, the subtle scrape of his teeth. You’re trembling, a live wire of need, and he is the only ground you know.
“Scream it for me, darling,” he growls softly against your flesh, the vibration shooting straight to your core. He nips lightly, and you cry out. “Show me how much you like riding it.”
His name tears from your throat, a ragged, worshipful sound. “O-oh fuuck, Z-Zayne!”
“Again.” it’s a demand, muffled but unmistakable.
You sob it, chant it, your hips moving of their own accord, riding the relentless, perfect pressure of his mouth and nose, the elegant feature you’d admired now the very instrument of your ruin. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, keeping you right where he wants you, as he feasts with a single-minded intensity that unravels you completely.
The climax hits you like a seismic wave, blinding and brutal. You scream his name, your body convulsing over his, and he doesn’t relent, gentling his ministrations but drawing out every last shuddering pulse until you collapse, boneless and spent, onto the cushions beside him.
He shifts, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes heavy-lidded and satisfied. He pulls you into his arms, your back to his chest, and his lips find your ear.
“Shh, you did so well, beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. “And we’re just getting started.”
Nipping gently under your ear, a shiver runs through you just in time as his voice murmurs another sweet thing that has you dripping even more.
🔞— making out in zayne's car, suggestive and slight nsfw
It was just a break, he reminds himself, just twenty stolen minutes. He should be used to compartmentalizing, to patience. But then he finds himself here, in the driver’s seat of his car, with you straddling his lap and the world outside blurred into nothing by the fogged glass.
His famous control is a thin, fraying wire.
A low groan rumbles in his chest as your mouth moves against his, as you shift and settle more firmly against the hard ridge of his arousal trapped between you. His hands, always so steady, tremble slightly where they grip your hips. He can feel the damp heat of you, even through two layers of fabric, searing into him.
Shit.
He wasn’t good at waiting. Not for you. Not after a week of your texts, your voice, your imagined presence haunting the edges of his focus.
He breaks the kiss, breathing harshly, his forehead resting against yours. His eyes are dilated, the green almost swallowed by black. A fine sheen of sweat glistens at his temples. He looks utterly wrecked, and he knows it.
“Look at what you do,” he whispers, his voice shredded. One hand leaves your hip to cup between your legs, applying a firm, deliberate pressure that makes you cry out. He drinks in the sound, his eyelids fluttering. “Feel that? You’re dripping for me. Soaked, just from kissing, darling.”
He takes a long, shaky inhale, his nose brushing the column of your throat, capturing the scent of your perfume and the underlying, muskier note of your arousal. His mouth waters. He wants to taste it on his tongue, not just smell it on your skin.
His thumb finds a slow, circling rhythm over the fabric, his eyes locked on yours, watching every flicker of reaction. “I can imagine it,” he murmurs, the words a hot, rough confession against your lips. “The beautiful sounds you’d make if I pulled these aside right now. The way you’d whimper when I finally got my mouth on you.”
He grinds the heel of his palm against you, and you jerk, a desperate moan slipping free. A smirk, sharp and proud, cuts across his face.
“There it is,” he praises, his own breath coming short. “Just like I imagined. My sweet, responsive girl.” his other hand comes up to cradle the back of your neck, his fingers splaying into your hair. “You wanted my attention? You have it. Every last bit of my control is gone because of you.”
He claims your mouth again, the kiss hotter, messier, all tongue and teeth and shared, panting breaths. He can feel his own precum leaking, a slick, embarrassing testament to how thoroughly you’ve undone him. He rocks up against you, a slow, grinding roll of his hips, seeking friction, mimicking a deeper, more intimate rhythm.
When he pulls back, his lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed. He looks feverish.
“Use your words,” he breathes, his thumb still working you through your clothes. “Tell me you need it, darling. That you need me, right here.”
His world has narrowed to the steam on the windows, the crush of your bodies in the quiet car, and the overwhelming, wet evidence of your desire pressed against him. The twenty minutes are an eternity and a heartbeat, and he intends to use every second to ruin you, just as you’ve ruined him.
🔞MDNI ⋆. — rafayel lets his guard down with you on ebb day...
⋆. — canon compliant, established relationship, ebb day , vulnerable rafayel, intimacy, nuzzling, kissing, mc takes care of him on ebb day, rafayel lets his guard down with her, body worship, ribbons, light bondage, restraints, handjob, blowjob, multiple orgasms, riding, implied creampie
His wrists are so pretty like this.
That’s what you keep coming back to, in between pressing the damp cloth to his throat and watching his lashes flutter. The silk ribbon looped twice around each wrist, just snug enough to hold, just loose enough that he could shake free of it the moment he wanted to.
He hasn’t wanted to.
That’s the thing that does something terrible and wonderful to the heat pooling low in your stomach. Last year, he’d have laughed you out of the room for even suggesting it. Last year, he’d hardly let you see him sweat.
Now look at him.
The scales are spreading further than they were an hour ago, iridescent and restless, crawling up from the jut of his collarbone, dusting his ribs where the light catches them and makes them flash iridescent blue, then violet. His chest rises and falls too quickly. His cock is flushed dark and heavy against his stomach, already wet at the tip just from your hands in his hair, and when you let your gaze rest there it twitches, as if it knows. As if he knows exactly what you’re looking at, which, of course, he does.
You close your hand around him.
The exhale he releases is enormous. Every muscle in his torso contracts and then releases at once, his whole body bowing into your grip like a tide answering the moon. You work him slowly, a long, easy roll from base to tip, and he’s so warm, so much warmer than usual, the heat of him bleeding into your palm and up your wrist and radiating somewhere behind your sternum. His hips rock up on the second stroke. On the third, his head tips back entirely, the long pale line of his throat fully exposed, the scales on his neck pulsing with every kick of his heartbeat.
You love him so much it frightens you sometimes.
Not in a terrible way. In the way that very large, very permanent things are frightening. The sea at night, the way certain songs sit in the ribcage for days, the weight of his hand in yours when he reaches for it without looking. You love the way his breath is already breaking this quickly, the way his bound wrists strain upward with nothing to hold onto. You love that he let you tie them. You love that he trusts you with the wanting.
You thumb over the head of his cock on the upstroke and he makes a sound like something in him snaps.
His hips buck. He laughs, a little, helpless and disbelieving, and the laugh dissolves immediately into a groan when you do it again, your grip tightening, pace still achingly unhurried. He’s leaking steadily now, slicking your palm, and you spread it down his shaft and feel him shudder with his whole body at the sensation, the muscles in his thighs jumping, the scales on his neck catching the amber light and throwing it back. He turns his face into his own arm, embarrassed by the sounds he’s making, and you use your free hand to nudge it gently away. You want to see him. You always want to see him.
He lets you.
His cheeks are burning, his lips parted, his brow furrowed with the concentrated effort of feeling everything you’re giving him, and he’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever been trusted with. When he cums the first time it’s with his back arched clean off the mattress, a low, breaking sound tearing out of him that he doesn’t try to muffle, and the wet cum spills over your fingers while you coax him through every last aftershock, slow and tender and entirely devoted.
He’s still trembling when you press a kiss to the corner of his jaw. He turns his head and catches your mouth with his, heavy and graceless, tasting like salt. You feel him smile against your lips even while his chest is still heaving.
You give him approximately ninety seconds.
Then you kiss down his throat, his collarbone, the shimmer of scales on his sternum. You feel his sharp intake of breath when you mouth at them, open and warm, because the scales are a live wire on Ebb Day, conducting every sensation straight to his core. His hips shift restlessly. His bound hands drop to the top of your head, just resting there, because he desperately needs something to hold.
You press your lips to each scale you can reach, so so careful and tender, feeling them shiver under your mouth, feeling him shiver under your mouth, his thighs tensing around you as you work lower, kissing the flat of his stomach, the jut of his hip, the soft skin of his inner thigh where he’s flushed deep and hypersensitive and lets out a sound so punched-out and helpless that you actually pause to look up at him.
He’s watching you. Eyes dark, cheeks blazing, chest still rising and falling too fast. He’s already hard again. Ebb Day, you’ve learned, has no mercy for him, the tide in his blood running and running and running, and you’ve made peace with the fact that you’re going to be here all evening. For him. Always for him.
You hold his gaze and take him into your mouth.
The sound he makes is loud. Louder than he usually lets himself be, loud enough that some distant, fond part of your brain notes it as a gift, as him deciding you deserve to hear what you do to him. His thighs bracket your head. His fingers curl in your hair without directing, just gripping, just holding on, while you take your time with him, working your tongue flat along the underside, learning the weight and heat of him with the same attention you’d give something you intend to keep. And you intend to keep him until the end of times.
He tastes like salt and the sea and something faintly electric, and when you hollow your cheeks and pull up slowly he says your name on an exhale so fractured it barely holds its shape.
You stay there for a long time. You don’t rush. You work him with your hand and your mouth in turns, dragging him right to the edge by feel alone, by the way his breathing shifts and his hips lose their rhythm and the grip in your hair goes tight and frantic, and then you ease back just enough to hear him make a desperate, wrecked sound at the loss of it. He laughs again, shaky and incredulous, because he can’t quite believe you. Because you’ve been doing this for a year and he still can’t quite believe you. You kiss the inside of his thigh and feel him exhale in a long, shuddering wave.
Then you take him back in and don’t stop until he comes with his whole body shaking, one hand fisted in your hair and the other twisted in the sheets where the silk has gone loose, his moans spilling out of him open and unguarded and entirely real. His thick cum fills your mouth, and you swallow eagerly, eager to take whatever he gives you, whatever part of him he feels like giving you, whether it’s his desire, his body, his heart or soul or just his vulnerability.
You crawl up his body afterward and he wraps both arms around you before you’ve even settled, pulling you in, face burrowing into your neck with a low, satisfied sound. He’s burning up everywhere. His heart is still slamming. And he needs you close, you know he does, and your heart feels some type of way at the knowledge that he needs you, and shows it to you, too.
You press your lips to the top of his head and he squeezes you tighter, and there’s a minute, maybe two, where neither of you moves and the amber light deepens in the room and his breathing begins to slow.
Then his hands slide up the back of your shirt.
He doesn’t say anything. He just touches you, broad and warm and purposeful, his palms mapping the length of your spine, and you feel his heartbeat begin to quicken again under your cheek, and you feel exactly what he wants pressing against your hip. You lift your head to look at his face.
Still flushed. Still a little dazed at the edges. Watching you with something so open in his expression that it makes your chest ache in the best possible way, something that says... I trust you. I trust you completely. Do whatever you want with it.
You sit up and he watches you undress without touching, arms loose at his sides, the silk hanging from one wrist, and the look in his eyes is so purely unguarded that you have to look away for a moment just to collect yourself.
You swing your leg over him. Settle your weight onto his thighs, and reach between you to line him up, and when you sink down onto him the sound he makes is low and long and shameless. His hands find your hips immediately, not to guide or direct, just to have somewhere to put them, just to be touching you, and you feel the grip of his fingers trembling slightly.
His head falls back. You take your time.
You roll your hips slow and deep and watch him come apart one layer at a time. Watch the flush spread further down his chest, watch his lips part wider, watch his brow work through every iteration of the feeling. He moans freely, with his full chest, the sounds coming out of him loose and uncontrolled and generous, each one louder than the last because he is doing this on purpose, you understand, because he decided somewhere in the soft ruins of the last hour that this is what he wants to give you.
All of it. The sounds and the openness and the trust laid entirely bare. He isn’t performing. He’s giving. And there’s something so special in the way Rafayel gives things, the way he gives parts of himself to you. Only to you. Always to you.
You brace your hands on his chest and feel his heart hammering under your palms and move, and he lets you. And the light in the room goes amber and then deep and his scales throw it back in blues and you lose track of time entirely.
When he cums the third time he pulls you down against him so tightly you feel it through your whole body, his face pressed into your hair, his arms around your back, shaking and shaking and shaking.
Afterward, he keeps holding you.’
He doesn’t let go for a very long time.
You don’t want him to. You press your lips to his throat, his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and he makes a soft sound against each one like he’s receiving something he didn’t know he needed. His hands move slow and sleepy across your back. The scales settle. His heartbeat gradually finds its pace.
“Still with me? It’s okay, I got you. You’re safe.” you murmur into his jaw.
The only response you get is a low, content hum. His arms tighten fractionally.
Still with you. Still with you. So entirely and completely still with you.
