🔞WARNING NSFW ADULTS CONTENT💦🔞
Just a Quick Game 🌚💦 Please, Miss Bodyguard.
The salt-laced breeze of Whitesand Bay whips through your hair as you practically skip towards Rafayel's art studio. He'd called, just like always, his voice laced with that impatient cheerfulness you've come to adore. "Miss Bodyguard! Where are you? My muse is missing, and my canvas is weeping from neglect!" Honestly, the man was a drama king, but that's part of his charm, isn't it? You smile, the familiar scent of turpentine and paint already tickling your nose as you reach the vibrant blue door of his studio. He is clingy, and he hates waiting. But knowing Rafayel, the impatient wait will likely be forgotten the moment he sees you. And you, well, you can't deny you kind of love being his "Miss Bodyguard," even if your actual role is... girlfriend. Though, bodyguard sounds way cooler when he says it.
Part 1
The door bursts open before you even knock, Rafayel’s dazzling smile almost blinding in the afternoon sun. “Miss Bodyguard! Finally!” He pulls you inside, the studio a glorious chaos of colors and canvases. He’s even more handsome in person, his dark purple hair adorably messy, paint smudged on his cheek, and those purple eyes sparkling with excitement.
“Hey, Raf,” you laugh, letting him tug you further into the room. “I came as fast as I could, drama queen.”
“Drama? this is passion!” He winks, his arm already snaking around your waist. “But you know what this room is missing? Your touch.” He gestures to a blank canvas propped up on an easel. “Come Cutie, paint with me.”
“Paint? You know I’m more of a… stick figure artist,” you tease, but his enthusiasm is infectious.
“Nonsense! Art is feeling. And I feel… the need to teach you.” He grins, pulling out a fresh canvas and a palette of vibrant colours. “Sit, sit.” He pats his lap.
You raise an eyebrow playfully. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Best seat in the studio.” He looks at you with those irresistible puppy-dog eyes, and you melt, giggling and settling onto his lap. It’s surprisingly comfortable, his warmth radiating through your clothes.
He hands you a brush loaded with a vibrant cerulean blue. “Now, imagine the ocean, Miss Bodyguard. The way it crashes, the way it whispers… let it flow onto the canvas.”
You tentatively touch the brush to the white surface, feeling a little self-conscious but also thrilled by his closeness. He gently guides your hand, his fingers warm and sure against yours. “See? Don’t be afraid. Just feel it.”
As he leans over, explaining about mixing colours, his cheek brushes against yours. A soft, fleeting kiss that makes your heart flutter. You glance up at him, a smile playing on your lips.
“Focus, Miss Bodyguard, focus!” he chuckles, but then nuzzles your cheek again, a longer, sweeter kiss this time. You giggle, trying to concentrate on the canvas, but his playful kisses keep distracting you. He kisses your cheek again and again, each one sending shivers down your spine.
“Rafayel,” you laugh, “stop it! I’m trying to paint!”
“But you’re so much more interesting than paint,” he murmurs, his breath tickling your ear. “You’re my masterpiece.”
He steals another quick kiss, making you burst into laughter. He’s being utterly ridiculous, ridiculously lovable, and ridiculously flirty. And you’re absolutely eating it up.
Part 2
As you start to get into the rhythm of painting – swirling blues and greens across the canvas, trying to capture the essence of the Whitesand Bay waves – Rafayel’s focus shifts again. He leans his head closer, his breath warm against your hair.
“Mmm, you smell amazing.” He gently inhales, his nose buried in your hair. “What is that perfume you’re wearing?”
You blush, suddenly self-conscious. “Just… just something my grandma gave me. Why?”
“Why?” He pulls back slightly, those golden eyes looking deeply into yours. “Because it’s intoxicating. Like wildflowers and sunshine.” He kisses your cheek again, soft and lingering.
You giggle, pushing playfully at his chest. “Hey.. Rafayel, stop! Really, I need to focus.”
He pauses, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Okay, okay.” He leans back a little, giving you some space… for all of two seconds. Then, his lips are back on your cheek, this time moving lower, tracing a path down towards your jawline.
He kisses along your jaw, then down your neck, each touch sending little sparks through you. You gasp softly, trying to keep your focus on the swirling colours of your painting, but it’s getting harder and harder.
“Mmh, Raf…?” you whisper, trying to sound firm, “stop, ah.. Seriously.”
He ignores you, his mouth now at the hollow of your throat, gently sucking at your skin. A wave of heat washes over you, your paintbrush slipping from your fingers and clattering to the wooden floor.
You instinctively move to pick it up, shifting on his lap. As you lean forward, your backside brushes against something undeniably hard and throbbing against his thigh. Rafayel lets out a low whine, his arms tightening around your waist, pulling you back against him.
“Woah!” you gasp, startled. “Rafayel!”
“Shhh, just… stop moving for a second,” he murmurs into your ear, his voice suddenly husky, different.
You freeze, your heart pounding against your ribs. He’s still hugging you from behind, his chest pressed against your back, his breath warm on your neck. And then, he starts to move his hips. Slowly, deliberately, grinding his bulge against your backside.
A gasp escapes your lips. You can feel him, very clearly, pressing against you. "Cutie," He whimpers again, a low, guttural sound, still holding you tightly. The scent of paint and turpentine is suddenly overwhelmed by something else, something hotter, more primal, radiating from him, and now, from you too.
Part 3
Just as you’re about to completely lose your grip on coherent thought, your phone buzzes loudly in your pocket, shattering the charged atmosphere. You groan inwardly, pulling it out to see Tara’s name flashing on the screen.
“Oh, damn it,” you mutter, pulling away from Rafayel slightly. “It’s Tara. I’m supposed to meet her for coffee…” You turn to face him, apologetic. “Sorry, Raf, I totally forgot.”
He looks at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, his breathing slightly ragged. “Tara?” he repeats, his voice low. He reluctantly loosens his grip on you, letting you slide off his lap.
“Yeah, my bestie. We made plans ages ago.” You gather your things, feeling a strange mix of disappointment and relief. “I should probably go.”
You start to walk towards the door, feeling his gaze intensely on your back. You reach for the handle, but before you can open it, he’s there. He catches you, his arms wrapping around your waist from behind again, his body heat instantly engulfing you.
“Rafayel!” you breathe, your cheeks flushing crimson.
He nuzzles your neck again, his hold tightening. Then, with a decisive click, you hear the lock engage on the door. Your eyes widen. “Raf? What are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he smoothly scoops you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly and carrying you towards a sturdy wooden table near the window, cluttered with art supplies. He gently lays you down on the table, amongst the scattered brushes and tubes of paint.
You look up at him, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning with desire. His body is pressed against yours, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. You can feel the heat radiating off him, feel the hard ridge of his desire against your stomach.
“Miss Bodyguard,” he whispers, his voice thick with passion, “I am so bad, so fucking horny right now.” He cups your face in his hands, his thumbs stroking your cheeks. “I need you. Just once. Before you go.”
You try to protest, to squirm away, but his body is a heavy weight on yours, trapping you against the hard table. He’s already lifting your skirt higher, his fingers brushing against your thigh, sending shivers of anticipation down your spine.
Resistance melts away. You surrender, the urgency in his eyes igniting a fire within you too. He fumbles with his belt buckle, the sound loud in the suddenly silent studio. Then, he’s pulling down his zipper, and you feel the hot, thick length of him pressing against you, right through your panties.
He positions himself between your legs, lifting your hips slightly. And then, he’s inside you. Hot, deep, filling you completely. "A-ah," You gasp, a surprised moan escaping your lips as pleasure explodes through your senses.
“Oh.. mmh, ah f-fuck..” he groans, starting to thrust, slow and deep at first, then faster, harder. You wrap your legs around his waist, meeting his rhythm, your moans echoing around the studio, mingling with his guttural sounds of pleasure.
“Ah- Raf… Rafayel…” you cry out, your body arching off the table. He thrusts deeper and deeper, his hands gripping your hips, holding you tight as he fucks you, his gaze locked on yours.
The sensations are overwhelming, building and building until a wave of pure ecstasy crashes over you. "I- rafayel!" You cry out his name as you come, your body convulsing around him. He keeps moving, his thrusts becoming frantic now, his breathing ragged.
"Ah.. yes.. Cutie, i'm close,"
Then, with a final, shuddering groan, he comes, burying himself deep inside you, his orgasm pulsating, filling you with his seed, again and again, hot and thick. He collapses against you, still inside, panting, his heart hammering against yours.
Part 4
You lie there, breathless and exhausted, the scent of sex mingling with the paint fumes in the air. Rafayel’s weight is heavy but comforting. He lifts his head slightly, looking down at you, his eyes still dark with desire.
“Not satisfied yet,” he murmurs, his lips nuzzling your neck. He starts to move his hips again, slowly at first, then picking up pace. "Ah- ahh,"
“Ngh, no wait- ahh! Rafayel, wait…” you moan, trying to push against his chest weakly, but he’s too strong, lost in the throes of passion. He keeps fucking you, his thrusts becoming deeper and more insistent.
He lifts you off the paint-splattered table, somehow managing to carry you across the room while still deeply connected. He stumbles slightly, then gently places you on a plush, paint-stained couch. He doesn’t break contact, his body still fused with yours as he continues to fuck you on the soft cushions.
“Ahh, Rafayel,” you whimper, your hands clutching at his shoulders, your head thrown back against the couch. The sensations are still intense, the pleasure almost unbearable.
Suddenly, a shrill ringing cuts through the haze of passion. Your wrist-watch alarm. Tara. Again.
Rafayel slows his movements, his golden eyes locking with yours, questioning. You know you can’t possibly meet Tara now, not in this state, not after this.
With a shaky hand, you reach for your watch, answering the call with a trembling voice. “Hey, Tara… uh, hi.” You try to sound normal, failing miserably.
“Hey! You almost ready? I’m already at the coffee shop,” Tara’s cheerful voice rings through the watch.
“Um… Tara, listen,” you stammer, trying to regain some composure. “Something… something came up. I can’t make it.”
“What? What came up? Are you okay?” Tara sounds concerned.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you rush out, avoiding Rafayel’s probing gaze. “Just… something at home. Raincheck?”
“Oh… okay, sure. Raincheck. Everything really alright?”
“Yeah, totally fine! Talk to you later, okay? Bye!” You practically slam the ‘end call’ button, your breath catching in your throat.
Rafayel’s gaze is still fixed on you, intense and questioning. But then, he smiles, a slow, knowing smile that sends shivers down your spine all over again. He throws his head back and laughs, a deep, rumbling sound of pure satisfaction.
And then, he starts fucking you harder again, faster, more urgently, as if fueled by your little act of defiance, your choice to stay with him, here, now. "Hah.. baby, look at me," He thrusts and thrusts, until finally, with another earth-shattering climax, he comes again, and you come with him, your bodies shaking with release.
This time, when he collapses, it’s with true exhaustion. You both lie tangled on the couch, limbs intertwined, breathing heavily, until the studio is bathed in the soft glow of twilight.
He showers you with kisses, whispering sweet, slightly possessive words in your ear, caring for you as if you were made of glass. Later, he draws you a warm bath, the scent of lavender filling the air. "Stay here tonight, " he says. And that night, you don’t go home. You sleep in his bedroom, wrapped in his arms, feeling utterly content, completely and utterly his, and maybe, just maybe, a little bit like his very own, very lucky, Miss Bodyguard.
- The End - 🌚💋💦
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