Mine
Plot: Surrounded by the noise and chaos of the party, desire and jealousy simmer just beneath the surface. A silent battle of possession and temptation unfolds between you—each touch, each look, a claim neither is willing to surrender. In the heat of the night, only one truth remains: he’s yours.
Genre: Smut
Warnings: jealousy
A/N: Had this in mind since 5 months, big thanks to @jkkyks for adding more spice to it 😩❤️
Taglist: @jkkymb-10 @hood-jabi
There was something intoxicating about fancy parties—the glint of chandeliers casting flickering light over polished floors, the soft murmur of silk dresses brushing past, and the low hum of whispered secrets. Every glance felt like a secret waiting to be uncovered, every touch a promise of something just beneath the surface. It was a world of masks and mystery, and he loved playing the game.
Music hums through the air, bass low and seductive, mingling with the clink of glasses and the murmur of beautiful people lost in beautiful conversations. But none of it holds your attention—not really.
You walked in with him. Kylian.
You told yourselves you’d mingle. Just an hour. Be social. Play it cool.
But you can’t stop looking at him.
You’d felt it the moment he stepped out of the car with you—this low hum of heat between you. The kind that coils deep in your stomach, equal parts pride and hunger. He smelled like citrus and spice, something warm and dizzying. His hand grazed your waist as you entered, and he said something in that low, teasing voice—something that made you bite your lip and roll your eyes just to keep from dragging him back to the car and forgetting the party altogether.
Kylian is across the room, laughing at something, glass in hand, suit clinging to every inch of him like it was stitched straight onto his skin. That deep, dark fabric stretched across his chest, his thighs—commanding attention without trying. The open collar, the way his skin peeks out just enough to make your mouth water… it’s obscene.
He hasn’t looked at you once. Not since he let go of your waist at the door. Not since he whispered “Behave tonight.”
And you’re trying.
But then he leans back on the couch—legs parted, hand resting on his thigh, slow smirk tugging at his mouth like he’s perfectly aware of what he’s doing. Of how wet you are right now.
How desperate.
You shift, thighs clenching under your dress. You shouldn’t want him this much—it’s ridiculous, really. You’ve had him a hundred times. But the way he’s ignoring you? Making you watch him like this?
You’ve never wanted him more.
And the worst part?
You know he won’t touch you until he’s ready.
He’ll finish his drink. He’ll keep laughing. He’ll wait until you’re flushed, soaked, and aching—
Then he’ll finally look at you.
And that’s when you’ll fall apart.
You see him.
Your fingers tighten around the glass in your hand, pulse quickening. You didn’t need words or explanations—just the pull of his presence, the undeniable claim in his gaze whenever it landed on you. Tonight, nothing would come between you. Not distance, not distractions, and certainly not your own simmering need.
Across the haze of candlelight and chatter, leaning against a young woman, smiling. That smile. The one that starts with his lips, tugs up just a little too slow, and ends in a dimple that should be illegal. His laugh rolls out a moment later, soft and rich, like it was poured from his chest just for her.
Her.
She’s touching his arm, all casual elegance, with a glass of wine in her hand and a red silk dress that clings to every move she makes. She says something that makes him lean in—his brow quirks, his lips curve deeper—and then he kisses her cheek. Light. Polite.
French.
It’s nothing. It’s normal.
But it hits you like a slap.
Because tonight, he’s been looking like sin. And she’s touching him like she’s praying for absolution.
A feeling sharp and relentless creeps through you like wildfire. In a room full of strangers, you caught sight of him, close to another, and the heat of it twisted deep inside, daring you to take back what was already yours.
And suddenly, the room feels too tight. Your throat goes dry. That feeling claws up your spine—the sharp, hot sting of jealousy. The ache of wanting someone who is yours, and still managing to feel possessive and primal just watching him from a distance.
You swallow it down. Smile at the stranger still talking to you.
Then you look up—and your eyes meet his.
For a second, he doesn’t move. Just watches you. That dimple flickers again, but softer this time. Knowing.
You’re done waiting.
You cut across the room, heels clicking like thunder, hips swaying with a purpose only he understands. She’s mid-sentence when you reach him. You don’t speak. You just reach out, slow and deliberate, and slide your hand around his forearm.
His skin is warm beneath your fingers.
“Mon amour,” you murmur, voice silk and steel. “Come with me.”
Kylian raises a brow, surprised—and amused. “Everything okay?”
You don’t answer. You just look at him. Really look at him. And something shifts in his gaze—like he feels it too. The heat. The claim. The promise of what’s coming.
He sets his glass down and follows you without hesitation.
Behind you, you swear you feel her stare burning into your back. But it doesn’t matter.
He’s yours.
And tonight, you’ll remind him exactly what that means.
The moment you round the corner and stop in the quiet hallway, you feel him behind you—close, silent, waiting.
You don’t turn around just yet.
“I should slap you,” you murmur, arms crossed, your tone light but laced with edge.
He exhales a quiet laugh, low and knowing. “For what?”
Now you spin to face him.
“You know exactly what,” you say, tilting your head. “Standing there like a full-course meal while she pawed at you like a starving guest.”
Kylian steps closer, hands in his pockets, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. That damned dimple threatens to make another appearance.
“I was just being polite,” he says, voice smooth. “It’s how we say hello. You’ve seen me do it.”
“Not like that,” you counter, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t have to lean in. Or smile like that.”
He shrugs, casually infuriating. “She laughed. I was just being charming.”
“Oh, you were charming, alright,” you snap, taking a step into him. “So charming I almost forgot you walked in with me.”
“Don’t tell me you’re mad about that.”
Your arms fold tightly across your chest. “Would it be okay if I did that with a guy?”
He stares. “What?”
You take a step closer, eyes narrowed. “If I kissed a guy. On both cheeks. Laughing, holding his arm. Would you be okay with that?”
His jaw clenches. “Fuck, No.”
Your voice sharpens. “Why not?”
“Because I know it’s not your tradition!” His voice rises, finally snapping. “So now you’re acting like it’s the same?”
You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, so it’s okay because it’s your tradition? That’s the excuse? Seriously?”
Kylian throws his hands up. “You know it meant nothing! You’re acting like I grabbed her waist and whispered in her ear!”
“It’s the way she looked at you, Kylian!” you shoot back. “You didn’t see it, but I did. And maybe you didn’t mean it—but she did.”
He steps back, eyes blazing now. “So now I’m responsible for how someone looks at me?”
“You’re responsible for how you make me feel,” you snap, voice tight with fury.
A pause. Thick, heavy. His jaw works like he wants to say something cruel, but he catches himself.
The silence between you is brutal, carved with pride and bruised egos.
He takes a breath like he’s about to turn and leave.
Then he stops.
Kylian turns back slowly, his eyes colder now—calm in a dangerous way. The anger hasn’t left, it’s just tucked under a thin layer of control. His voice drops, low and deliberate.
“Ohhh,” he says, with a bitter little smirk tugging at his lips. “I see what this is now.”
You glare at him, refusing to look away.
“You’re jealous.”
Your breath catches—part offense, part truth.
His eyes narrow, scanning you like he’s seeing something new in you. Something vulnerable. Something he likes.
“You didn’t like her touching me, huh?” he steps in closer, his voice a dark whisper now. “Didn’t like the way I kissed her cheek.”
“Oh for god's sake—”
“No,” he cuts you off softly, dangerously. “You’re not mad about the tradition. You’re mad because for a second, you thought I could want someone else.”
The hallway feels too small, too hot. You hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows it.
He leans in, his face inches from yours. His cologne wraps around you—dark spice and something colder, expensive. Intoxicating.
“You think you’re the only one who gets jealous?” he murmurs. “You should’ve seen the look on my face the first time that waiter called you beautiful.”
You freeze.
“But I keep it cool, don’t I?” he continues, voice silky and sharp. “You lash out. I swallow it.”
Your heart thunders against your ribs, and still you don’t move. You can’t.
“I want you jealous,” he breathes, brushing a thumb down your jaw. “Because it means you care more than you’re pretending to.”
Your breath shudders out, lips barely parted. The hallway is too quiet, too close, like the air itself is holding its breath.
“So,” he murmurs, stepping even closer, his body nearly pressed against yours. “Why don’t you say what this really is about, hm?”
His thumb lingers against your jaw, tracing the curve of it like he owns it. Like he owns you.
His eyes flash—something hot and feral behind them. Like you just fed something dangerous inside him.
“You hate seeing someone else touch what’s yours,” he says, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Even if it’s just a kiss. Just tradition.”
You whisper, “I’m possessive of you.”
His smirk deepens. His gaze drops to your mouth. He leans in just slightly—enough to taunt.
“Then do something about it,” he murmurs. “Or are you just going to glare at me all night?”
That’s all it takes.
You grab the front of his shirt and shove him—hard—into the wall.
His back hits with a thud, but he doesn’t move. Just stands there, breathing heavy, eyes pinned on your mouth like it’s something holy.
You grab his collar, tug him down, and kiss him—fierce, possessive, furious. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s a warning wrapped in hunger. Your lips crash into his, open and bruising.
You press your whole body into him, swallowing the sound he makes when your tongue meets his. His hands grip your waist like he needs you to stay grounded, like he’s seconds away from completely unraveling.
The kiss hits like a collision—violent, hot, unstoppable.
You kiss him like you’ve waited hours, days, weeks for it—like every ounce of restraint you had just shattered. It’s mouths open, teeth grazing, tongues tangled in a rhythm that’s anything but sweet. You devour him, raw and hungry, nails digging into his chest through his shirt, dragging him deeper into you.
He groans low into your mouth, hands gripping your waist so tight you feel the imprint. His fingers slide down to the curve of your hips, then your thigh, pulling you closer—grinding into you like he can’t stand the space between.
You shift your hips, press your thigh up between his legs—slow, deliberate, claiming.
His grip tightens. His jaw clenches. And then he pulls you back to him like he’s about to lose his mind if he doesn’t taste you again.
And you let him.
You kiss like you’re both about to burn.
You kiss him like he belongs to you.
You kiss him until he knows it.
And when you finally break apart, breathing hard and lips tingling, you lean in close, your words sharp and slow.
“Keep it clean for the rest of the night,” you whisper. “No flirting. No smiling at anyone else. Got it?”
He nods, dazed. Your lipstick is smudged on his mouth, and he looks like you just rocked his entire foundation.
You smooth his collar. “Now fix your face.”
And you turn and walk back into the party like you didn’t just kiss him senseless against a wall.
The party hasn’t changed, but you have.
The music pulses. People laugh. Glasses clink. But all you feel is heat crawling under your skin.
You move through the room with practiced ease—sipping, smiling, saying all the right things—but your body is still aching, your lips still tingling, and you know he’s watching.
You don’t have to see him. You feel it.
When you finally do catch his eyes across the room, he looks like he hasn’t taken a full breath since you left him in that hallway.
And then he does it—smirks.
That goddamn smirk that says he’s still tasting you.
You glare, and he grins wider.
When he walks past you later, his shoulder brushes yours, and he leans in just enough to whisper:
“Your lipstick’s on my mouth.”
You nearly choke on your drink.
He’s doing this on purpose.
You watch him move through the crowd—tall, relaxed, absolutely wrecked on the inside—and still trying to mess with you.
And when he walks behind you again, brushing your back with his fingers like it’s casual?
You snap.
You grab his wrist, spin, and drag him out of the room—again.
He stumbles a little, caught off guard but so clearly loving it.
You pull him through the corridor, around the corner, behind the towering statue. Cold stone. Dim lighting. Silence.
Then you turn — and shove him hard against the wall.
His chest hits the stone with a thud. His breath left him in a quiet laugh, but you were already there — hands in his shirt, mouth on his neck, biting, claiming. His fingers found your hips instinctively, gripping hard as you push yourself against him.
You don’t speak.
You don’t need to.
And then?
You kiss him.
It starts hot, but then it deepens. His mouth opens under yours, pliant, desperate. His hands are everywhere and nowhere at once—gripping your waist, then sliding to your thighs, then fisting in the fabric of your dress like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.
Your kiss says everything — furious, possessive, desperate. Nails dragging across skin, hips grinding with slow, dangerous intent. His groan rumbles low in his throat.
Even here — in the shadows behind a statue, while the party continued on like nothing was burning.
He moans into your mouth—soft, high, needy.
His breath stutters, and he barely gets a word out before your hands are on him—grabbing, dragging, claiming.
Your mouth crashes into his, all tongue and heat, his gasp swallowed in the kiss. His hands scramble to hold you, like he’s already losing his balance and needs you to stay upright.
You pull back just enough to trail kisses along his jaw—wet, open-mouthed—and down his neck. His head falls back with a shaky moan.
“Fuck,” he breathes.
Your hands slip under his jacket, nails scraping lightly down his chest, your mouth licking just below his ear, then biting gently at the lobe. He jerks like he’s been electrocuted.
“Please,” he pants, his voice ragged. “Baby… please.”
You smirk against his skin, lips dragging up to his neck again, kissing and licking like he’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted.
And that’s when he says it.
“Fuck, baby—yes… make me come again…”
You pause—mouth still pressed to his throat. His chest rises and falls like he’s sprinted through a fever dream.
You lean back, blinking, lips parted.
“Again?” you echo, teasing but breathless. “What do you mean again? We’ve just started.”
His lashes flutter. His eyes are glazed, cheeks flushed.
“I—” He swallows hard, jaw clenching, like he knows there’s no hiding it now. “In the hallway. That kiss… I couldn’t hold it. I came in my pants.”
You blink. Then stare.
Heat flares low in your stomach.
“You came from just that?” you whisper, almost in awe.
“You kissed me like I was yours and I… fuck, I couldn’t hold it. I came in my pants like some teenager.”
A slow, wicked smile curls at your lips. You press your hand down his chest again, slow, until you’re cupping him over his pants—already thick and twitching beneath your touch.
You shut him up with a kiss—slower this time, deeper.
Because if he thought the first kiss broke him?
You’re about to ruin him properly.
You smirk, fingers curling into his shirt.
Your fingers trail slowly down his chest, fingertips barely grazing, sending shivers across his skin. You savor the way his muscles tense under your touch, how his breath hitches, shallow and quickening.
Your hand slides lower, brushing against the waistband of his pants, your touch featherlight but deliberate. His mouth parts slightly, tongue darting over dry lips—he’s already losing control, and you haven’t even started.
You meet his eyes, your gaze heavy with want, dark and burning. You don’t need words; the heat between you says everything.
Then, with a slow, teasing smile, you kneel down in front of him, fingers fumbling at the zipper of his pants, your touch sure and unhurried.
The tension coils tighter in the hall, thick and electric—everything about this moment screams promise.
He swallows hard, his eyes darting nervously toward the staircase above. “Someone could see us,” he whispers, voice low but edged with panic.
You just smile, fingers deft as they work the zipper down, freeing him from the confines of his pants. Already, his length pulses and throbs in your palm, warm and heavy, begging for attention.
Your touch is confident, slow, and teasing — pressing gently against him, feeling his heat, watching the way his breath catches as you start to stroke him lightly.
“Let them see,” you murmur against his skin, your voice dripping with wicked promise. “I like knowing you’re mine.”
His eyes flutter closed, caught between panic and pleasure, as your hand continues its slow, deliberate worship.
His body shudders, a shiver running through him as your mouth moves over him, warm and demanding. He bites his lip, voice trembling but breathless as he murmurs, “God… if anyone sees us…”
You look up at him with a sly grin, your eyes dark with mischief. “Then keep it low,” you whisper, your hand sliding down to cup him gently, your fingers circling his balls with slow, deliberate strokes.
Your fingers wrap around him, slow and teasing, tracing every ridge as you stroke. His breath hitches sharply, a low moan slipping past his lips that sends a jolt straight through you.
Then you lick the tip of his length and he shudders under your skillful touches.
You lean in, taking him deeper, your throat tightening slightly as you gag just a little—but you don’t stop. You want him to feel every inch of your hunger.
He groans, voice thick and husky, barely a whisper against your mouth: “I know, baby… I know it’s big.”
The words send a shiver down your spine, fueling the fire burning between you both.
You pick up the pace, your lips moving faster now, swirling and sucking with more urgency. Your eyes lock onto his, burning with fierce hunger and pride as you watch every flicker of pleasure cross his face.
He groans, voice thick and ragged. “Fuck, yes!… Suck it good, baby…”
His hands grip your hair, pulling you closer, desperate for more. You tease the tip with your tongue, hollow your cheek in perfect rhythm, making him shiver beneath you.
“You know that dick is yours,” he rasps, breathless and filthy, “all yours, baby.”
You smirk around him, proud and unyielding, knowing you’re driving him wild.
His breath catches, a soft moan escaping as the mix of your mouth and your hand drives him wild. The risk only makes it hotter—the thrill of being caught fueling every pulse, every shiver.
He couldn’t keep his eyes on you.
He tried — god, he tried — but the way your mouth moved, the way you owned every inch of him with that aching, hungry rhythm, had his head lolling back against the wall, neck exposed, lips parted.
The air feels too thick. His chest is heaving like he’d just run miles, but he hadn’t moved — you have. You were the one doing this to him.
Kylian drags his gaze upward, just to ground himself, just to breathe.
And there it was. The statue — towering above, caught in soft shadows and candlelit gold. He’d barely registered it before, but now, hazy and desperate, every detail hit sharper, harder. The arch of the lover’s back. The fingers clutching skin. The parted lips caught in a moment that never ended — not quite a kiss, not quite a cry.
Frozen lust.
It mirrored him too perfectly — that aching pause before surrender.
His mouth dropped open wider. His hips bucked, just a little, unthinking.
And then, hoarse and broken under his breath, it slipped out of him.
“Fuck…”
It wasn’t just the way you feel — wet, hot, relentless — it is everything: the sound of your breath between strokes, the flick of your eyes up to him, and that damn statue looming like some ancient mirror to what you were doing in secret.
His hand slides from the wall to your cheek, thumb brushing your skin — grounding himself, savoring you. You moan softly around him, sending heat snapping up his spine. His breath stutters.
He can’t take it — not just the pleasure, but you. The way you give yourself to him, fiercely and completely. His fingers threaded into your hair as he gently, urgently pulls you up, and the second you rise, your mouths crash together.
No hesitation. Just fire.
He kisses you like he is burning from the inside out. Your mouth opens to him, tasting of everything you were — unrestrained, reckless, impossibly alive.
For a suspended moment, the world doesn’t exist. Only breath, only tongue, only the weight of your body against his, flushed and eager.
And above you, the statue watched. Cold. Silent. Immortal.
But this?
This was heat. Pulse. Flesh. Messy, perfect, real.
The marble statue loomed behind him, forgotten. All Kylian could feel was you — warm, reckless, real — pressed against him in the shadows. The low glow from a distant chandelier lit the curve of your jaw as you look up at him, lips parted, eyes daring him to lose control.
And God, he was losing it.
His fingers graze your skin like it is a sin he’d already committed, again and again in his head. You feel like a secret he is desperate to keep, but even more desperate to taste.
“Y/N…” he whispers, your name thick on his tongue like a prayer and a warning.
He isn’t supposed to be like this — not here, at the very least. He is supposed to be composed. Polished. The golden boy with the world watching. But under your touch, that version of him melted. Every calculated move, every carefully managed piece of his image cracks beneath your fingertips.
Your pulse is thundering in your ears. Kylian’s hand grips the edge of the stone pedestal, his other buried in your hair, jaw clenched, chest rising and falling with barely restrained tension.
Then—footsteps.
Heavy and unhurried, coming from above.
Kylian stiffens, fingers tightening in your hair. His eyes flick upward, calculating. He curses under his breath, a sharp whisper from the steps above.
A jolt of cold panic slides down his spine. His heart thunders in his chest, suddenly louder than his desire.
“Shit,” he mutters, turning toward the stairs. “Shit, shit, shit!”
“Get up,” he hisses, yanking you up none too gently.
You stumble slightly as he backs you into the curve of the wall,
“Wh-, What?” You stutter.
“You know I have an image to keep,” he says lowly, voice sharp like the edge of a blade, his breath hot against your cheek.
But you, undeterred, tilt your head and meet his gaze with a slow, dangerous smile.
“Yeah? And I have a boyfriend to keep,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “So which one is it gonna be, Kylian? Me… or your image?”
For a moment, the only sound was the fading echo of footsteps above. His eyes search yours—stormy, conflicted.
Then he leans in, mouth a breath away, voice barely a growl.
His mind races: the interviews, the brand deals, the expectations — but all of it blurs next to you, flushed and beautiful in the shadows, willing and real and his. Not the fantasy version he tries to deny, but the one who haunted his nights and now stands right in front of him, asking for the truth.
“Fuck…” he whispers, looking above.
And in that word, everything cracks — the pressure, the fear, the mask.
Not because he doesn’t care — but because in that moment, caring about you is the only thing that matters.
He grabs you, rougher now, hand at the back of your neck as his mouth hovers over yours, breath hot.
“Get down there,” he growls, eyes burning into yours. “—finish what you started.”
And you were far from finished.
You pick up the pace, your lips moving faster now, swirling and sucking with more urgency. Your eyes lock onto his, burning with fierce hunger and pride as you watch every flicker of pleasure cross his face.
He groans, voice thick and ragged. “Fuck, baby… just like that…”
His head falls back, eyes glazed and heavy-lidded, lips parting with shallow, desperate breaths. Each whispered word trembles on the edge of silence, soft and needy, like a prayer.
“You’re… so good… so good…” he murmurs, voice barely more than a breath, trembling with need. “Fuck, baby… so good…”
His fingers tighten in your hair, trembling as he leans into your touch, his whole body surrenders to the haze of pleasure consuming him.
“Do that thing you do with your tongue…” He says through his teeth.
Truth is.. you have no clue what that ‘thing with the tongue’ is, but whatever it is, your attempt to improvise seems to be working, because when you flick it around his head he bites his bottom lip to keep himself from moaning.
“Yes..” he whispers over and over, each plea more fragile, more raw than the last, like he’s begging for you to keep him grounded.
Heat coils low in your belly, watching him unravel under your hands and mouth, his vulnerability turning you on even more. Your breaths grow heavier, chest rising and falling faster as a warm, burning tension builds inside you.
His body shudders violently, breath hitching and breaking as he spills over you, utterly undone and yours.
But you’re not done yet. Your own need flares, a delicious ache that tightens and twists. You press your hips forward subtly, the wet heat between your legs pulsing, your muscles clenching with the slow, sweet promise of your own coming.
You hold him steady, lips still wrapped around him, tasting every drop—proud, fierce, and completely in control of this delicious moment you’re both lost in.
You deepen your strokes, your mouth lavishing attention as you feel the heat building not just in him, but inside yourself. Your breaths come faster, mingling with his ragged moans, creating a symphony of need that fills the space between you.
Your fingers curl, gripping him gently but firmly, matching the rhythm of your mouth. Every flick of your tongue, every stroke sends shivers through his body, his hips twitching instinctively toward you.
He gasps, words breaking into a broken whisper, “Baby… god… you’re… I am so close…”
Your own body tightens, heat pooling low and fierce. You press your palm against your own thigh, trying to steady yourself as the delicious burn grows. The feeling of control, of power, and the raw connection between you makes your pulse race.
You glance up, eyes locking with his, sharing that same hungry desperation.
“Soon,” you promise breathlessly, before diving back in, worshipping him with every ounce of want you have.
His body tightens, breaths coming faster, eyes fluttering shut as he reaches his edge. With a guttural groan, he spills into your mouth, warm and overwhelming. You hold him gently, swallowing every drop, the taste igniting a fierce pride inside you.
Slowly, you pull back, lips glistening as you rise to your feet. The heat between your legs pulses urgently. Without breaking eye contact, you slip your hand beneath your dress, wetting your fingers with your own arousal.
“Since we’re already doing taste tests,” you murmur, a teasing smile curling your lips, “you might as well lick this too.”
You press your slick fingers to his lips, and with a low, eager groan, he parts them, tongue darting out to lick, savoring every drop.
The heat between you thickens, the forbidden thrill making everything sharper, more intense.
Leaning close, you bring those trembling fingers to his lips, pressing them softly against his tongue. His eyes darken with hunger and surprise as he tastes you—raw, real, and utterly yours.
He drags his tongue slowly over your fingers, tasting you like it’s the sweetest sin. His eyes darken with hunger, lips parting slightly as his breath catches. His fingers tighten around your wrist, pulling you impossibly close, like he wants to erase the space between you.
You press your lips against his neck, voice low and sultry.
He chuckles, breath hot and rough against your skin. “Think they even noticed we slipped away?”
You smirk against him, whispering, “Oh, I hope she did.”
He chuckles, breath warm and low against your skin, the sound vibrating through you like a slow-burning fire. You slip out of his grip and turn, your hips swaying with deliberate, hypnotic ease as you walk ahead. Every movement is fluid, confident—your dress hugging every curve, the soft fabric whispering with each step.
You feel his gaze burning into you, heavy and hungry, drinking in the way your silhouette moves. The heat of it prickles your skin, sending a thrill straight to your core.
Glancing back over your shoulder, you catch the hunger flickering in his eyes and let a slow, knowing smile spread across your lips.
“And who knows…” you murmur, voice low and teasing, “maybe I’ll find someone who noticed I was gone.”
His hand slides possessively over your hip, pulling you closer, the heat between you burning brighter with every passing second.
His eyes darken, his expression turning serious, a flicker of jealousy flashing through them. He mutters softly, “Just make sure it’s me you come back to.”
A/N: That was.... Interesting
