The war was over, but Hogwarts carried its scars like badges, cracked stone walls patched with fresh magic, portraits whispering of lost friends, and a seventh year extended for those who'd fought or fled. You were one of them: a Black girl in Slytherin, your skin a striking contrast against the house's silver and green, your tight coils often twisted into elegant braids adorned with subtle enchanted beads that shimmered like serpent scales. Sorted into Slytherin for your fierce ambition and cunning resourcefulness, you'd navigated the house's prejudices with sharp wit and unyielding grace. Post-war, the common room felt different, quieter, haunted, but rebuilding.
Theodore Nott had changed too. The tall, lean Slytherin with sharp Italian features, dark wavy hair that fell over brooding hazel eyes, and a quiet intensity that once bordered on aloofness, now carried a weight. His father's imprisonment had freed him in ways he didn't discuss, but you saw it in the way he lingered in the dungeons longer, smoking Muggle cigarettes by the Black Lake's underground windows.
Late-night study sessions in the common room turned into conversations: him admitting the darkness he'd skirted, you sharing the fear of not belonging anywhere. Tension built like a slow incantation.
Tonight, the Slytherin common room was empty, the hour late. The greenish glow from the lake filtered through the windows, casting ethereal light over leather armchairs and serpentine carvings. You sat by the fire, revising N.E.W.T.s notes, your green-trimmed robes draped loosely.
Theo entered without a sound, the door sealing behind him like a confession swallowed by the dungeons. He let the robe slide from his shoulders, the heavy fabric pooling at his feet, leaving only the black shirt stretched taut across the lean cut of his torso, muscle shifting beneath cotton with every controlled breath. The lake’s submerged light filtered through the high windows in shifting veins of green, painting his skin in cold luminescence, turning the sharp angles of his face into something almost cruel.
He saw you alone by the fire and paused, the air thickening as if the room itself held its breath.
“Still awake,” he observed, voice low, the faint roll of Italian vowels curling through the words like smoke over water.
You didn’t reply at once. Only lifted your gaze and held it, letting the silence coil tighter. The fire snapped once, a sharp punctuation in the hush.
He crossed the distance slowly, each step deliberate, until he lowered himself onto the arm of your chair. His thigh pressed against your shoulder, warm, solid, the heat bleeding through fabric into your skin. One fingertip grazed the edge of a braid, then slipped beneath it to trace the sensitive skin at your nape, slow enough that gooseflesh rose in its wake.
“You’ve been a slow poison all year,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Every tilt of your head in class. Every time you bite that lip over parchment. I’ve catalogued every way I want to take you apart.”
The words settled between you like a spell cast in a dead language, beautiful, dangerous, irreversible.
You turned your face up to his. “Then stop cataloguing.”
He didn’t hesitate.
His mouth came down on yours with the precision of a curse finally spoken: hard, claiming, tasting faintly of smoke and wintergreen. The kiss was all teeth and tongue, no gentleness, only the pent-up violence of months restrained. You answered in kind, fingers twisting into the front of his shirt, dragging him down until his weight pinned you into the deep cushions, the faint scent of cedar and skin flooding your lungs.
He pulled back only far enough to drag his lips along the column of your throat, slow, open-mouthed, deliberate, savoring the velvet heat of your deep brown skin against the cool edge of his breath. Each bite was measured, teeth scraping just enough to sting, tongue soothing the mark immediately after, as if he couldn’t decide whether to worship or wound. Dark blooms rose beneath his mouth, possessive signatures you’d feel for days.
Buttons surrendered beneath impatient fingers. Fabric parted; lace was pushed aside with a reverence that bordered on violence. When he bared your breasts to the firelight, he exhaled a sound too raw to be a word, half Italian, half curse. Palms cupped you, thumbs circling peaked nipples with agonizing slowness until they throbbed in time with your pulse. Then his mouth descended: wet heat closing over one tight bud, suction sharp enough to arch your spine clear off the chair, a broken gasp tearing from your throat.
You reached for him blindly, hands finding his belt, leather sliding free with a soft hiss. When you freed him, he was scalding in your grip, thick, rigid, the velvet weight pulsing against your palm. A low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest as you stroked once, deliberately slow, feeling the slick bead at the tip smear beneath your thumb.
“Careful,” he warned against your skin, voice frayed, “or I’ll finish before I’ve even begun.”
You tightened your grip once more, watching his head fall back, throat exposed, the firelight gilding the strain in his jaw. “Then begin.”
He moved with lethal efficiency.
One moment you were half-reclined; the next, the thick rug met your back, cool against heated skin. Your skirt was rucked high, lace torn away with a sharp rip that echoed like a promise broken. Cool air kissed slick folds, then his fingers were there, two sliding deep without warning, curling with devastating accuracy against that hidden place that made your breath fracture.
He watched himself fuck you with his hand, eyes hooded, lips parted. “Listen to you,” he murmured, voice rough silk. “Soaked. As if your body’s been waiting for permission.”
He drove you ruthlessly, slow withdrawals, punishing thrusts, thumb grinding merciless circles over your swollen clit until pleasure twisted into something almost unbearable. The wet sounds of his fingers filled the cavernous room, obscene and intimate, mingling with the crackle of dying embers and your own ragged breathing.
When you came, it was sudden and vicious, back bowing, thighs clamping around his wrist, inner walls fluttering hard as a cry tore free, muffled against your own forearm.
He gave you no reprieve.
Rising over you, he spread your knees wider, the head of his cock nudging your entrance, hot, blunt, slick with your release. One long, unyielding thrust buried him to the hilt. The stretch burned perfectly, fullness bordering on too much, and you both stilled for a single heartbeat, breaths mingling in the charged space between.
Then he began to move.
Not gentle. Never gentle. Deep, deliberate strokes that dragged over every sensitive ridge inside you, hips rolling with controlled violence. Each thrust drove the air from your lungs in soft, helpless sounds; each withdrawal left you empty only long enough to crave the next invasion. The lake’s eerie light flickered over sweat-slick skin, his pale against your deep brown, the contrast stark and erotic.
His hand splayed low on your abdomen, thumb returning to your clit with relentless precision. “I want another,” he said against your ear, voice ragged now, accent thickened. “I want to feel you break around my cock until you forget everything but how full of me you are.”
You met him stroke for stroke, heels digging into the small of his back, nails carving half-moons down his shirt. The second climax built faster, sharper, coiling viciously until it snapped, pleasure detonating in white-hot waves, your body clenching rhythmically around him.
He followed with a low, animal sound, hips stuttering as he buried himself deep and spilled in long, pulsing surges, heat flooding you, marking you from the inside.
Afterward, he stayed inside you, forehead pressed to yours, breath harsh and mingling. The fire had settled into glowing coals; the lake’s green glow pulsed faintly around you like a living thing.
“This isn’t finished,” he said at last, voice quiet but absolute, fingers tracing the sweat-damp edge of a braid. “It’s only just started.”
You smiled against his mouth, slow and sated, tasting both of you on his lips.
The bass thumped through the walls of the sprawling Tokyo mansion, a sorority house party thrown by some cursed energy enthusiast who'd somehow wrangled half the jujutsu world into attendance. Neon lights pulsed in sync with the music, bodies grinding in the living room like a ritual gone wrong. You were there as a favor to a friend, a low-level sorcerer who'd begged you to show up and "keep an eye on things." But really, you knew why you'd come: the rumors. Gojo Satoru and Nanami Kento, the untouchable duo, rivals in every sense, were both supposed to be here tonight. And you? You'd been caught in their orbit for months, a dangerous game of flirtation and near-misses that felt like a cursed technique all its own.
Gojo was the chaos: tall, white-haired, blindfolded enigma with a grin that could disarm a special-grade curse. He'd corner you in hallways at Jujutsu High, his infinity buzzing against your skin like static electricity, whispering innuendos that left you flushed and furious. "Come on, sweetheart," he'd say, leaning too close, "admit it, you'd love to see what's under the blindfold." Nanami was the counterbalance: stoic, blonde, suit-clad precision, his 7:3 ratio applied to everything, including the way he'd eye you during missions, his voice a low rumble of approval or warning. "Focus," he'd mutter, but his hand would linger on your lower back just a second too long, sending heat spiraling through you.
Tonight, the tension was a live wire. You'd spotted Gojo first, lounging on a couch like he owned the place, surrounded by admirers but his hidden eyes locked on you the moment you entered. He beckoned with a finger, that cocky smile flashing. You ignored him, weaving through the crowd to the kitchen, where Nanami stood alone, nursing a whiskey, his tie loosened, a rare concession to the chaos. "Didn't expect you here," he said, his hazel gaze sweeping over your little black dress, the one that hugged your curves like a second skin, your dark coils cascading down your back.
"Same," you replied, heart pounding as you poured yourself a drink. The air between you crackled; you could feel Gojo's presence approaching like a storm front. Sure enough, he sauntered in, clapping Nanami on the shoulder hard enough to make the older man tense. "Nanamin! And our favorite little wildcard. What a coincidence."
Nanami's jaw tightened. "Gojo. This isn't the place for your games."
"Oh, but it is," Gojo purred, stepping between you two, his body heat invading your space. He leaned in, breath ghosting your ear. "Tell me, who's it gonna be tonight? The fun one or the stick-in-the-mud?"
Your pulse raced, a mix of irritation and arousal flooding you. They were always like this, competing, pushing, with you as the prize. But tonight, the alcohol buzzing in your veins, the throb of the music, it felt different. Dangerous. "Maybe neither," you shot back, but your voice wavered, and they both noticed.
Nanami set his glass down with a deliberate clink. "Or maybe," he said quietly, his hand brushing your arm, "we settle this properly."
Gojo's grin widened, predatory. "Now that's an idea. Upstairs?"
Your stomach flipped. What the hell were they suggesting? But you didn't protest as Gojo grabbed your hand, pulling you through the crowd, Nanami following like a shadow. The stairs creaked under your feet, the party noise fading as you reached a dimly lit bedroom, someone's guest room, bed unmade, door locking with a soft click behind Nanami.
The room spun slightly, not from the drinks but from the intensity of their stares. Gojo peeled off his blindfold, revealing those piercing blue eyes that seemed to glow in the low light. "Last chance to bail," he said, but his voice was rough, hungry.
You shook your head, adrenaline surging. "I'm not bailing."
Nanami moved first, ever the calculated one. He cupped your face, kissing you slow and deep, his tongue tracing your lips with precision, drawing a moan from you. Gojo watched, unbuttoning his shirt with deliberate slowness, his gaze burning. "Share nicely, Nanamin," he teased, but there was an edge to it, jealousy, challenge.
Nanami broke the kiss, spinning you to face Gojo, who claimed your mouth next: wild, demanding, his hands roaming your body, squeezing your ass through the dress. You gasped as Nanami pressed against your back, his erection hard against you, lips on your neck, nipping possessively.
"She's not yours," he murmured to Gojo, but his hands slid under your dress, fingers teasing the edge of your panties.
Gojo chuckled against your lips. "Not yours either. But tonight... maybe she's ours."
The words sent a shiver down your spine, fear and excitement twisting together. What if someone heard? What if this shattered everything, the fragile alliances at Jujutsu High? But their hands were everywhere now, stripping you bare: dress pooling at your feet, bra discarded, panties ripped aside by Gojo's impatient fingers.
They maneuvered you to the bed, the tension peaking like a cursed domain expanding. Nanami sat against the headboard, pulling you onto his lap, his cock freed from his slacks, thick, veined, throbbing as he guided you down onto him inch by inch. You cried out, the stretch intense, your walls clenching around him. "Good girl," he groaned, hands on your hips, starting a slow rhythm.
Gojo knelt in front of you, stroking himself, eyes locked on where you and Nanami joined. "Open up," he commanded, voice low and teasing, but his grip on your chin was firm. You parted your lips, taking him in, salty, hot, his length hitting the back of your throat as he thrust gently at first, then deeper.
The position was obscene, exhilarating: Nanami pounding up into you from below, each thrust hitting that sweet spot, while Gojo fucked your mouth, his hands in your hair. It was the Eiffel Tower, you arched between them, a conduit for their rivalry, their desires clashing through your body. Sweat slicked your skin, your moans muffled around Gojo, vibrations making him hiss in pleasure.
"Fuck, you take us so well," Gojo panted, pace quickening, his rivalry with Nanami fueling the frenzy. Nanami's fingers found your clit, rubbing in tight circles, his breaths ragged against your shoulder. "Come for us," he ordered, voice strained. "Show him how good I make you feel."
The competition pushed you over the edge, orgasm crashing through you like a domain clash, body convulsing, tightening around Nanami as you gagged on Gojo. They followed in quick succession: Nanami first, spilling deep inside with a guttural groan, then Gojo pulling out to paint your lips and chest, marking you as his.
Panting, spent, they collapsed beside you, the room heavy with the scent of sex and unspoken questions. Gojo smirked, wiping a thumb across your lip. "Round two?"
Nanami shot him a glare but didn't disagree. The tension lingered, unresolved, a new challenge begun.
The air in the guest room was thick, heavy with the scent of sweat and sex, the bass from downstairs a distant heartbeat thrumming through the floorboards. You were still trembling from the aftershocks, Nanami’s cum leaking slow and warm down your thighs, Gojo’s sticky release drying in streaks across your chest and lips. Your curls stuck to your forehead, lips swollen, body humming like a live wire. You thought it was over.
You were wrong.
Gojo’s laugh was low, dangerous, as he rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand while the other traced lazy circles around your nipple, pinching just hard enough to make you jolt. “You didn’t think we were done, did you?” His blindfold was long gone, those electric-blue eyes glowing in the dim light, pupils blown wide with hunger. “Nanamin’s all about efficiency, but me? I like to play.”
Nanami, still half-dressed, shirt unbuttoned, slacks pushed down just enough, sat up against the headboard, his usually perfect blonde hair mussed, a rare flush across his sharp cheekbones. He watched Gojo’s fingers on your skin with a clenched jaw, something dark and possessive flickering in his hazel eyes. “Don’t break her, Gojo,” he warned, voice rough, but his hand was already sliding between your thighs again, two thick fingers pushing his own release back inside you like he was claiming territory.
You whimpered, oversensitive, hips bucking involuntarily. “I, fuck, I can’t, ”
“You can,” Nanami cut in, calm but commanding, curling his fingers deep and stroking that spot that made your vision spark white. “And you will.”
Gojo grinned like a devil, leaning down to drag his tongue through the mess he’d left on your chest, lapping at his own cum before sucking a dark mark just above your breast. “Look at her, Nanamin. Already dripping again. Bet she’s thinking about how filthy this is, two of the strongest sorcerers ruining her in some random bedroom while the party rages downstairs.”
He wasn’t wrong. The risk clawed at the edges of your mind, door locked but not soundproof, voices and laughter filtering up from below. Anyone could come looking. Anyone could hear the wet sounds, the moans you couldn’t hold back.
Gojo shifted, kneeling between your spread legs, pushing Nanami’s hand aside just long enough to slap his cock, heavy, half-hard again already, against your swollen clit. The wet smack made you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Sensitive little thing,” he cooed mockingly, rubbing the head through your folds, mixing both their releases into obscene slickness. “You want more? Want us to really fuck you up?”
You couldn’t form words, just nodded frantically, nails digging into the sheets.
Nanami exhaled sharply through his nose, like he was losing a battle with himself. Then he moved, fast, decisive, flipping you onto your stomach with effortless strength. You barely caught your breath before he pulled your hips up, forcing you onto your knees, face pressed into the mattress. “Hands and knees,” he ordered, voice low and lethal. “Now.”
Gojo didn’t wait. He slid underneath you on his back, head between your thighs, gripping your ass to spread you wide. His tongue dove in without warning, long, filthy licks from your clit all the way up to where Nanami’s cum was still leaking out, groaning like he was starving. “Tastes like us,” he mumbled against you, voice vibrating through your core. “So fucking dirty.”
You screamed into the pillow, the overstimulation brutal, pleasure bordering on pain as he sucked your clit hard, two fingers plunging in beside his tongue, curling and scissoring.
Behind you, Nanami shed the rest of his clothes, finally, and you felt the blunt, hot pressure of his cock nudging your entrance again. He didn’t ease in this time. He slammed home in one brutal thrust, bottoming out with a grunt that sounded almost angry. “Still so tight,” he growled, fingers bruising your hips. “Even after taking both of us.”
They found a rhythm immediately, cruel, perfect sync. Nanami pounding into you from behind, each thrust forcing you down harder onto Gojo’s mouth. Gojo sucking and licking like a man possessed, fingers fucking you in time with Nanami’s cock, stretching you wider, filthier.
You were sobbing now, drooling into the sheets, body shaking violently between them. It was too much, too deep, too wet, too intense. Every nerve ending screamed.
Gojo pulled back just long enough to rasp, “Switch.”
They moved like they’d planned it, Nanami pulling out, Gojo sliding up, flipping you onto your back again. Now Gojo was behind you, pulling you up against his chest, one arm banded under your breasts, the other spreading your thighs wide. He sank into you slow this time, letting you feel every thick inch, his mouth at your ear. “Feel that? That’s me owning this pussy now.”
Nanami knelt in front of you, stroking himself, fully hard again, veins standing out, tip glistening. He didn’t ask. Just fed his cock into your mouth, one hand fisted in your curls, guiding you down until your nose pressed against his abdomen. You gagged, tears streaming, but he didn’t pull back, just held you there, throbbing on your tongue.
Gojo started moving, hard, punishing thrusts upward that jolted your whole body, forcing you to take Nanami deeper with every snap of his hips. “That’s it,” Gojo hissed, biting your shoulder hard enough to mark. “Choke on him while I wreck you.”
They used you like that, relentless, coordinated, no mercy. Gojo’s fingers found your clit again, rubbing viciously fast circles. Nanami fucked your throat in shallow, controlled thrusts, groaning your name like a prayer and a curse.
You came again, harder than before, vision blacking out, body seizing so violently they had to hold you up between them. Your muffled scream around Nanami’s cock sent him over, hot pulses flooding your throat as he pulled back just enough to let you taste him.
Gojo followed with a snarled “Fuck, ”, burying himself deep and spilling again, grinding against your ass like he wanted to fuse with you.
When they finally let you collapse, you were wrecked, shaking, covered in them, voice gone, thighs trembling uncontrollably.
Gojo laughed breathlessly, kissing your temple almost sweetly. “Told you round two.”
Nanami, ever the stoic, brushed damp curls from your face with surprising tenderness. But his eyes were still dark. “Round three,” he murmured, “when you can stand again.”
The office door clicked shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the silent finance department hallway. It was after 10 PM on a Thursday, the campus a ghost town except for the distant hum of a janitor's vacuum somewhere far off. You'd been Professor Kento Nanami's teaching assistant for five agonizing months now, grading endless stacks of derivative analyses and portfolio simulations under his watchful eye. He was the department's golden boy, tall, broad-shouldered, with that perfectly tailored tan suit hugging his athletic build, blonde hair slicked back without a strand out of place, and those hazel eyes that could dissect a balance sheet or strip you bare with equal precision.
But you? You were the outlier in this sea of buttoned-up finance bros: a Black grad student with curves that turned heads, your deep mahogany skin contrasting against the sterile white walls. What they didn't know was the real tension simmering beneath it all: the way Nanami's gaze lingered on your hips when you bent to pick up a dropped pen, the electric charge when his fingers brushed yours during handoffs of lecture slides. It was forbidden, unethical, a career-ender for both of you. And yet, here you were, alone in his office again, the air thick with unspoken want.
"Tell me why you're really here so late," Nanami said, his voice a low rumble as he leaned against his desk, arms crossed over his chest. His tie was loosened just a fraction, uncharacteristic for him, a man who lived by ratios and restraint. The desk lamp cast shadows across his sharp jawline, making him look almost predatory.
You swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape. "The midterms... I needed to double-check the answer keys." A lie. You'd finished hours ago. The truth? You couldn't stay away. The pull was magnetic, dangerous. What if someone walked in? The dean? A student? Your mind raced with worst-case scenarios, but your body betrayed you, heat pooling low in your belly as you stepped closer.
His eyes narrowed, seeing right through you. "Liar." He pushed off the desk, closing the distance in two strides. You backed up instinctively, your ass hitting the edge of his bookshelf, volumes on corporate finance digging into your spine. He towered over you, close enough that you could smell his cologne, crisp sandalwood mixed with something darker, more primal. "You've been teasing me for weeks. That skirt today? The way you crossed your legs during my lecture? Don't think I didn't notice."
Your breath caught, pulse thundering in your ears. "Professor, I mean, Kento, " You tried to protest, but his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist with a grip that was firm, unyielding. Not painful, but enough to send a jolt of adrenaline through you. Oh God, what if this was a trap? What if he was testing you, ready to report you for misconduct? The thought made your stomach twist, but fuck, the way his thumb stroked the inside of your wrist... it was intoxicating.
"Shh," he murmured, his free hand coming up to cup your chin, tilting your face up. His eyes bored into yours, dark with hunger. "You have no idea how hard it's been to hold back. Watching you every day, your skin glowing under those lights, your lips when you explain volatility models... It's torture."
You trembled, a mix of fear and arousal flooding your veins. The office felt claustrophobic now, the walls closing in. What if the security cameras caught this? What if this ruined everything you'd worked for? But his mouth was so close, his breath warm against your full lips. "We can't," you whispered, even as your body arched toward him, betraying your words. Your nipples hardened under your blouse, straining against the lace bra, and you knew he could see it.
"We shouldn't," he corrected, but his resolve cracked. In a blur, he yanked you against him, his mouth crashing down on yours with bruising force. It wasn't gentle, it was desperate, teeth clashing, his tongue invading like he owned you. You gasped into the kiss, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer even as panic screamed in your mind. This was insane. Reckless. His hands roamed greedily, one sliding up your thigh under your skirt, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass, the other tangling in your curls, tugging just hard enough to make you whimper.
"Fuck," he growled against your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin there, leaving marks that would bloom purple tomorrow, marks you'd have to hide with concealer or scarves. "You're so damn responsive. I can feel you shaking."
You were, trembling like a leaf, adrenaline spiking as his fingers hooked into your panties, yanking them down your thighs in one swift motion. Cool air hit your exposed core, and you clenched around nothing, slick already dripping down your inner thighs. "Kento, wait, the door isn't locked, " Your voice was a frantic whisper, eyes darting to the frosted glass panel where shadows could appear any second.
He paused, breath ragged, but instead of stopping, he smirked, a rare, wicked curve of his lips that made your heart stutter. "That's the thrill, isn't it?" He spun you around, bending you over his desk with a hand between your shoulder blades, your breasts pressing against the cold wood, papers crumpling beneath you. The risk hit you like a freight train: anyone could knock, barge in, see you like this, skirt hiked up over your hips, ass on display, your dark skin flushed with heat. "Tell me to stop," he challenged, his belt buckle clinking as he undid it behind you.
"Don't," you begged, voice muffled against the desk, shame and desire warring inside you. You were freaked out, pulse racing wildly, but God, you needed this. His cock sprang free, thick and heavy, the head nudging against your soaked entrance. He teased you, rubbing it through your folds, coating himself in your arousal. "Please, Kento, fuck me."
He thrust in hard, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke. You cried out, the stretch burning deliciously, your walls fluttering around his girth. He was huge, filling you completely, and the angle hit deep, grazing that spot that made stars explode behind your eyelids. "Quiet," he hissed, clamping a hand over your mouth as he started pounding into you, each snap of his hips slamming you forward. The desk rattled, pens rolling off, but he didn't care, his free hand gripped your hip, nails biting into your skin, holding you in place.
Sweat beaded on your forehead, mixing with the fear-sweat trickling down your back. Every thrust sent shockwaves through you, building pressure like a coiled spring. You could hear footsteps in the hall, distant, but real, and it only heightened everything, making your clit throb untouched. "You're clenching so tight," he groaned, voice strained. "Scared we'll get caught? Or does that turn you on more?"
Both. Fuck, both. You moaned into his palm, pushing back against him, meeting his ruthless rhythm. He released your mouth to circle your clit with expert fingers, rubbing in tight, fast circles that had you seeing white. "Come for me," he demanded, leaning over you, his chest to your back, teeth grazing your earlobe. "Now."
The orgasm hit like a tsunami, ripping through you violently. Your vision blurred, body convulsing as waves of ecstasy crashed over you, soaking his cock and the desk beneath. He followed seconds later, thrusting erratically before stilling, pumping hot ropes of cum deep inside you with a guttural moan.
He pulled out slowly, leaving you empty and leaking, your legs jelly. As you straightened on wobbly knees, he tucked himself away, composure returning like a mask. But his eyes, still dark, possessive, betrayed him. "This isn't over," he said softly, brushing a thumb over your swollen lips. "But next time... lock the door."
