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The cold hits your face the moment you step outside—sharp, biting, winter air cutting beneath your jacket and chilling your fingers even in your pockets. The streetlights cast long, golden streaks on the sidewalk, and your boots crunch quietly on the salted concrete. It’s dinnertime, but you don’t feel like cooking. You haven’t felt like much of anything today.
Mostly because it’s been days since you’ve seen him.
Work pulled you both in opposite directions again, another mission, another separation. You're used to it—it's part of the job—but it doesn’t make the silence in your apartment any less suffocating without his quiet presence filling it.
You walk a few more steps before something pulls at your focus. Instinct. You glance back over your shoulder, up toward the second floor, and your feet slow to a stop.
A light is on.
You tilt your head, breath curling white in the air. The curtains are partially drawn, but the light spilling through is an unmistakable indicator that he’s home.
Your stomach flutters—equal parts relief and annoyance. Xavier. He’s back. Without a word.
You exhale a laugh under your breath, the kind that’s more fond than frustrated. Of course he didn’t tell you. It’s so him to show up unannounced, like a cat returning after days of wandering, acting like no time had passed. Equal parts infuriating and impossibly endearing.
You spin on your heel and head straight back inside, swinging by your apartment to change into a sexier pair of underwear, then back out.
A short elevator ride and three knocks later, you’re standing outside his door, your expression set and your tone already laced with mischief.
“Open up, Xavier,” you call out, loud enough to carry through the door. “Or I’m scaling your balcony, and you know I’ll do it.”
There’s a pause, followed by shuffling.
Then the door creaks open just enough for him to appear—silver hair mussed like he’s been dead to the world, blue eyes bleary and soft in the low light. His sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his shirt is all askew like he barely managed to put it on the right way. His voice is groggy, rasping out your nickname like a question.
“…Starlight?”
“You didn’t think to tell me you were back?” you say, shouldering past him with no invitation needed. “You’ve been home for hours and just—what—decided to disappear into your sheets like a sleepy cryptid?”
“I was tired,” he mutters, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. “Didn’t want to bother you…”
You spin to face him with a raised eyebrow. “I’ve been missing you so much I almost cooked, Xavier. Cooked.”
That earns you the barest twitch of a smile. He steps inside fully and closes the door, leaning against it for a beat as he blinks you into focus. A faint blush touches high on his cheekbones—one of your favorite tells. It always gives him away.
“I missed you too,” he murmurs, voice lower now. “Didn’t mean to hide.”
“Well, you’re not hiding anymore.” You hook a finger under the hem of his shirt, flicking it with playful irritation. “Come on. Get dressed. We’re getting food. You’re buying.”
He blinks at you, slow and sleep-heavy. “Now?”
“Yes, now,” you say. “Unless you want me to start rummaging through your fridge to see what expired horrors you’re hoarding this time.”
He stares at you for another beat—like he’s thinking about saying no. Then he sighs, soft and fond and just a little dramatic, and pushes off the doorframe with the resignation of a man thoroughly tamed by one tiny, annoying woman.
“…Okay,” he murmurs. “Just give me a minute.”
You watch as he pads toward the bedroom, dragging a hand through his hair. He disappears into the doorway, and you hear the rustle of drawers opening, the quiet creak of the wardrobe. You let yourself wander to the living room in the meantime, dropping onto the edge of the couch. The apartment smells like him. Clean, cool, and a little citrusy. You missed that, too.
It takes him a couple minutes, but when he returns, he’s dressed in light jeans and a clean hoodie. Still barefoot, hair still tousled, but he’s awake now—more Xavier than ghost.
“Ready?” you ask, tilting your head.
He crosses the room in a few quiet steps and leans down to press a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering a little longer than they need to. His voice is gentle when he answers, but there's that note of quiet heat behind it—the one that always makes your breath catch.
“With you?” he says. “Always.”
The cold bites again as you step out together, but it doesn’t feel as sharp with Xavier beside you. His shoulder brushes yours every few steps, the two of you walking in that comfortable, slightly-lazy way that happens when you’re used to being near someone. Your breath fogs the air, and so does his—both of you exhaling puffs of white as you make your way down the street toward the little food stall tucked on the corner.
You glance up at him from beneath your lashes. His hair is still a mess, hood half-pulled up, hands buried in his hoodie pocket. He’s warm even like this—quiet, heavy-limbed, still shaking off sleep like it clings to his skin.
“You really weren’t going to tell me you were home?” you ask, voice light but edged with something genuine. “You’ve been gone for days, Xavier.”
“I know.” He glances down at you, apologetic. “Didn’t mean for it to be that long. The hunt stretched out longer than expected. We got rerouted through two no-hunt zones.”
You hum. “I figured. Still would’ve been nice to know you were alive and sulking somewhere in a hotel room.”
He smiles faintly. “I wasn’t sulking.”
“You always sulk when the mission sucks.”
He pauses. “...Okay. Maybe I sulked a little.”
You laugh, and it softens something between you.
There’s a lull, just for a few steps. Your fingers twitch at your side, itching to reach for his—like you want to make sure he’s really here, that he’s solid and warm and real beside you again. But instead of taking his hand, you shift a little closer, until the backs of your knuckles bump gently against his thigh with each step.
He doesn’t move away. He never does.
“So,” you say after a moment, “are you going to tell me what the mission was like? Or should I guess based on how many bruises you’re hiding under that hoodie?”
Xavier exhales a breath that might be a laugh. “Not much to tell. Wanderer horde two hours south-east of Linkon. We cleared it, but…” He hesitates. “The other team lost someone.”
The way he says it makes you pause.
“That’s terrible,” you say, quieter now.
He just nods. “Doesn’t get easier. I didn’t sleep well after.”
You let the silence stretch again, thoughtful. Then, without looking at him, you nudge him lightly with your shoulder. “Then tonight, you do sleep well. On a full stomach. With me next to you.”
He gives you a sideways glance at that, and even in the dim streetlight, you catch the pink start to dust the tops of his cheeks again. “Starlight…”
“What?” you ask, feigning innocence. “You think I invited you to dinner for food ?”
He huffs a quiet sound that might be laughter, and you grin to yourself.
Because you missed him—more than just the company. More than his voice and his presence and the way he hums under his breath when he’s thinking. You missed the way your body reacts to him. How warm you feel when he’s around. How easily heat coils low in your stomach when you look at him too long.
And now that he’s here, all of it stirs up again.
The way he walks. That unbothered swing of his arms. The curve of his neck under the hoodie. The broad lines of his shoulders, and the easy power behind every step. He doesn't even notice the way your eyes drift over him. Doesn’t catch the way you bite the inside of your cheek when you imagine what those hands would feel like again, gripping your hips, spreading you open—
“Are you cold?” he asks, glancing at you, misreading your little shiver.
“No,” you say too fast, then recover with a smirk. “Not in that way.”
His brows knit faintly, like the implication only half lands. He’s still tired—his reactions a step slower than usual. You decide to take mercy on him and don’t push it. Not yet.
You reach the food stall a few minutes later, the scent of sizzling oil and grilled spices wafting toward you. It’s not busy—just one couple tucked under the heated canopy. You find a table near the edge, close to one of the overhead heaters, and settle in across from him. The vendor gives you both a knowing nod, and you place your usual orders.
Xavier slouches in his chair the way he always does, legs splayed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. His hair falls over his brow as he leans back and exhales like the day’s finally caught up to him.
“Food’s going to help,” you tease, nudging his leg under the table. “So would letting me climb you like a tree later, but I’m trying to be respectful of your exhaustion for now.”
That one earns you a visible reaction.
His eyes flick up to meet yours, wide and caught. His mouth opens slightly—like he wasn’t prepared for that level of directness—but no clever comeback follows. Just that bright, helpless flush blooming high on his cheeks again.
You smirk and lean forward, chin resting in your hand. “You okay there, Xav?”
“…I’m fine,” he says, a little too quiet.
You don’t miss the way his throat bobs as he swallows, or the slight shift in his posture—like he’s trying not to squirm.
He’s catching on now. Just a little.
You let him off the hook for now as the vendor returns with your food, the smell of fresh rice, seared meat, and savory broth filling the air. As you both start to eat, the conversation turns softer again—updates on missions, a few jokes about mutual colleagues, even a quiet moment where he compliments the way you handled the last Wanderer you fought, like he’s still in awe of you sometimes.
But even with the quiet talk and the gentle mood, the tension never fully fades. It lingers in every glance you steal, in the way your knee brushes his under the table and he doesn’t move away. In the soft, tired way he watches you eat, eyelids heavy, like the sight of you is enough to bring him peace.
He’s exhausted—but you’re simmering.
And once you get him back to his apartment, you’re going to let him know exactly how much you missed him—and exactly how good he is at helping you unwind.
The walk back is slower, quieter—but the air between you crackles with unspoken things.
You steal more glances than you should. At his profile under the streetlights, at the way his jaw flexes when he yawns. At how broad he looks under that hoodie, how inviting. You don’t say anything at first, letting your mind wander and your body warm just thinking about the way his hands feel when they’re not tucked into his pockets, but on you.
He doesn’t notice—or maybe he’s too tired to.
When you finally do speak, it’s lazy and suggestive, wrapped in amusement like silk over steel.
“Gotta say,” you murmur as you walk side by side, “I don’t hate the thought of being snowed in with you for a few days. Your bed’s warmer than mine. Bigger, too. Easier to do things.”
He hums, blinking slowly. “Like sleep?”
“Sure,” you say, biting your bottom lip. “Let’s go with that.”
You’re fairly certain he doesn’t even register it.
Which should annoy you. Except it kind of turns you on, how unguarded he is right now. Sleepy, beautiful, all soft limbs and warm voice, totally unaware that you’re practically radiating want. It stirs something feral in you. You want to wake him up. Want to make him realize exactly how much you've missed him.
When you get back to his apartment, he unlocks the door with slow fingers, and the familiar scent of his home—clean and subtle, citrus and something faintly herbal—wraps around you like a comfort blanket.
It’s just as you remember. The walls are a soft cream, bathed in warm light from overhead fixtures and hidden LEDs. Cherry wood furniture grounds the space with polished elegance, and the white leather couch at the center practically gleams. Bookshelves line the far wall, overflowing with everything from technical manuals to poetry, while plants trail from high shelves and ceramic pots like he’s trying to cultivate a jungle inside. And here and there, in quiet, beautiful ways—the same shade of blue as his eyes. Throw pillows, a framed print, the thin glass of a record player cover.
It’s so him you could scream.
Xavier sighs as he kicks off his shoes, already tugging off his hoodie and dropping it onto the back of a chair. “Do you want to watch a movie?” he asks as he moves. “There’s a new drama that’s supposedly pretty good.”
You pretend to consider it. “Sure. I’ll be back in a few.”
He nods and sinks into the couch, long body folding into it like it’s been calling his name since he got home. He doesn’t even glance at the book on the coffee table. Just exhales deeply and lets his head fall back.
You turn toward the bathroom with purpose.
Inside, you strip off your jacket, your sweater, your jeans—everything, bit by bit, until you’re standing in front of the mirror in nothing but the soft, barely there black lace set you specifically put on when you knew you were going to see him again.
You freshen up, fix your hair, give yourself one last look. Your skin is flushed, pupils blown. The subtle scent you wear is warm and sweet, and your thighs press together just at the thought of how you’re about to crawl into his lap and ruin him .
When you open the bathroom door, anticipation curls in your belly like a tightening coil.
But when you step back into the living room—
You stop.
Xavier’s head is tilted against the back of the couch, mouth parted slightly, one arm draped over his stomach, the other dangling over the side. Completely out cold.
Your hands twitch at your sides. You stare at him.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whisper.
You cross the room slowly, standing in front of him, hands on your hips, mouth pressed into a line as you burn. The desire still crackles under your skin—hot, sharp, and unsatisfied . You’re standing here in lingerie, body humming, heart thudding, and he’s asleep.
Your gaze drags over him. His lashes flutter with each slow breath. His chest rises and falls in the rhythm of deep, dreamless rest. That godsdamned flush is still on his cheekbones.
You contemplate throwing a pillow at him.
You also contemplate climbing on top of him anyway.
Instead, you inhale slowly and curse under your breath as you clench your thighs again.
Because now, you’re alone in the soft light of his perfect apartment, painfully turned on, and the man responsible is snoring softly on the couch.
You stare at him for another ten seconds.
Then twenty.
Then you whisper, under your breath, “Fuck it.”
You turn away from the couch and step toward the armchair near the edge of the living room, the one angled just enough to give you a perfect view of him. The leather creaks softly as you sink into it, your thighs still warm and buzzing with the ache of everything you had planned to do with that body currently sprawled unconscious and completely useless across from you.
You shift in the seat, slow and deliberate, legs draped open just enough, and slip your hand between them.
Your fingertips trail under the band of your panties, down the heat that’s been growing since dinner, since the walk, since you laid eyes on him again. One brush of your fingers and you’re already slick—your body more than willing to pick up where your plans left off.
Your breath catches in your throat as you circle your clit, slow at first, teasing even yourself. Your eyes stay locked on him the whole time.
Xavier, stretched out on the couch like a goddamn painting. Head tilted back, jawline sharp and exposed. His hoodie rides up just a little, revealing a sliver of pale, toned skin above the waistband of his jeans. You know what’s beneath them. You remember.
Your other hand slips to your chest, palming over your breast, fingers brushing over the lace that barely hides your nipple. A soft sound escapes your lips—quiet, breathy. You bite it back and press harder.
You imagine him waking up to the sight of you like this. Watching as your hips start to roll subtly in the chair. His sleepy, confused expression turning to something darker when he realizes what you’re doing. The moment his eyes would drop between your thighs, and see your hand working yourself open, wet and desperate, just for him.
Your breath comes faster now. Fingers circling tighter, slipping lower, teasing the edge of your entrance with the kind of practiced touch that only comes from knowing exactly what you want.
You picture his hands instead—big and calloused, the way they grip your waist when he pulls you against him. You picture his mouth—how hot and hungry he gets once he’s finally woken up, once he realizes you’ve been left alone too long. You imagine him between your legs, tongue dragging slowly over your clit while his fingers work inside you, filling you, stretching you just right.
Your hips lift slightly off the chair, tension coiling tighter.
And he’s still there, across from you. Asleep. Completely unaware. Mouth slightly parted, chest rising and falling, hair a mess. You want to ruin him. You want him awake and buried inside you. You want his weight holding you down and his voice in your ear while you fall apart on him again and again.
But for now, you take what you can get.
Your body arches as you slip a finger inside yourself, slow and deep. Then another. The angle isn’t perfect, but the image of him makes up for it. Your breath stutters as you move your fingers, chasing friction, your other hand squeezing your breast as you pant through the building heat.
You’re so close already. It’s humiliating how little it takes when it’s him.
And when you finally let go, when your eyes flutter shut and you come with a quiet, bitten-off whimper, it’s his name that escapes your lips in a low, desperate moan.
“Xav…”
Your body trembles. Fingers slow. You blink up at him through the haze of release and flushed skin, and there he still is— fast asleep.
And now, you’re a mess. Flushed, soaked, panting quietly in his favorite chair, your body still thrumming with the aftermath.
You don’t know whether to laugh or throttle him—because you’re not sated. Not even close.
That little wave of relief—it barely took the edge off. You’re still aching—hot and hungry and unfulfilled . You didn’t want to come like that, alone, with your fingers. You wanted him .
You stare at Xavier. Still passed out. Still beautiful and oblivious.
And the want rises again, fast and dark and angry.
“Fuck you,” you mutter under your breath—not with any real venom, but with pure, pent-up frustration. “You’re not even awake to see what you’re doing to me.”
Your hand slips back down.
This time, there’s no teasing. No patience. You shove your panties aside roughly, fingers slick from earlier but still eager as you rub tight, deliberate circles over your clit. You’re already sensitive, but that only makes it better—sharper and dirtier.
You tilt your hips, adjusting your angle in the chair so you can press your thighs wider, giving yourself more room to move. Your other hand slides under your bra, fingers pinching hard at your nipple now. You want this to hurt. You want it to feel like him.
Your breath catches in your throat as you start fucking yourself harder with your fingers, remembering the weight of his body when he’s over you. The stretch when he pushes inside you, thick and deep and so damn good you see stars.
You bite your lip, grinding into your palm now.
You picture the way he groans your name when he’s close—low and guttural, like he’s being torn apart. The way his hands grip your waist, hold you in place while he slams into you. The way he loses control when you beg for it—when you whimper that you need him deeper, rougher, more.
Gods, you want him to leave bruises. You want to feel him tomorrow when you walk. Want to wake up sore and wrecked and full of him.
You gasp, body arching, hips rolling up as you chase it harder this time. Sweat clings lightly to your skin. Your fingers are soaked. You don’t even try to stay quiet now.
A low, desperate moan escapes your lips.
The couch creaks.
You freeze for a second—but your hand keeps moving, too far gone to stop.
Xavier’s voice, low and rough, like it’s still halfway caught in sleep:
“…Starlight?”
You glance over, and your breath hitches when you see him.
He’s sitting up now, eyes wide and hazy with sleep, but locking on you instantly. His mouth parts, stunned into silence as he takes in the sight: your body splayed in the chair, your panties pushed aside, your fingers buried between your thighs, your chest rising with every breath, your lips parted in ecstasy.
You don’t stop.
You meet his gaze and moan again, long and quiet, rubbing yourself harder.
His eyes darken fast. His breath catches. You can see it happen—the sleepy fog cracking and falling away all at once, replaced by raw, stunned hunger. His hand shifts toward his lap instinctively, where he’s already starting to harden just from looking at you.
He gets to his feet and moves closer, getting to his knees in front of the chair like he’s about to lean in to taste you, to take over from you.
“No,” you say sharply, voice breathless but firm.
He pauses, and you lift one foot and plant it flat on his chest before he can get any closer. You press him back, forcing him to stay where he is—just out of reach.
He freezes.
Your tone comes out lower, wicked and scolding. “You don’t get to come over here now.”
Xavier stares at you, flushed and barely breathing. “Starlight—”
“No,” you repeat, pressing your foot a little harder into him. “You chose sleep over me. You came home, didn’t tell me. You passed out on your couch when I came over needing you . ” You gasp through another wave, your hips rolling into your fingers. “So now I’m taking care of it myself.”
He swallows, his chest rising under your foot. “You… you’re really—”
“Touching myself?” you finish for him, voice dripping with heat. “Yeah. While thinking about how good your cock feels when you fuck me hard enough I can’t speak.”
His whole body shudders.
“I was gonna ride you,” you continue, eyes locked on his, hand moving faster now. “Pull your hoodie off, lick those stupid abs, sink down onto you slow—so fucking slow—and make you beg to touch me.” Your voice falters as a tremor rushes through you, pleasure building again, higher and hotter. “But you were asleep. So I made myself come, and guess what, Xavier?”
He doesn’t even breathe.
You pant, teeth catching your bottom lip as your climax edges closer. “It wasn’t enough. I’m still dripping, still aching. And you don’t get to help. You get to watch. ”
His eyes are blazing now—blue gone dark and stormy, his arousal obvious beneath his jeans. One twitch of his hands and you know he’s holding himself back by a thread.
Your foot stays firm on his chest.
Your fingers don’t stop moving.
He stares like he’s been punched in the gut by lust itself, frozen in place, watching as you fuck yourself right in front of him—on his chair, in his apartment, wearing his favorite lingerie.
And you talk, because the words are as much for you as they are to punish him.
“This isn’t very good boyfriend behavior, you know,” you breathe, hips rocking into your palm. “Coming home without saying a word. Passing out when I’m like this.” Your voice curls low, almost mean. “I waited six days, Xavier. Six days wanting you. Needing you.”
His hands clench at his sides, jaw tight. You see the tension tremble down his arms.
“You know what I needed?” You slide two fingers deep inside yourself, gasping. “ This. Your cock. Your hands. Your mouth.” Your head tips back, and you moan softly. “I needed to ride you until I couldn’t think. I needed you to pin me down and make me scream your name into your sheets.”
You press your heel into his chest harder—just to make him stay. Just to feel the heat and want coiled under his skin.
“And you fucking slept. ”
His throat works around a sound he doesn’t let out.
“Gods, Xavier, do you even know what you do to me?” you pant, pushing your fingers deeper, working yourself toward that second crest with furious, focused determination. “I think about you when I’m alone. I grind against pillows when I can’t sleep, wishing it was your thigh between my legs. You get me so wet I ruin my sheets.”
He swears under his breath—just a whisper of your name—but still doesn’t move.
“Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep quiet when I finger myself in my shower, knowing if you were there, you’d have me against the glass, making me beg?”
Your body tenses. The build is sharper this time—raw and almost painful.
Your voice drops to a ragged whisper. “You’re so fucking big, Xavier, and when you stretch me out, when you fuck me until I can’t even close my legs after— that’s what I need. That’s what I want.”
Your spine arches, your mouth drops open in a strangled cry, and your whole body contorts in the chair as your orgasm crashes over you. You twitch and whimper through it, thighs trembling, sweat slicking your skin, your back bowing against the leather. Your head falls back, mouth parted, eyes squeezed shut as you ride every last spasm with your fingers still moving, desperate to wring every drop from your body.
And somewhere, distantly, you hear the snap of denim. The soft rustle of movement. A breath, sharp and hitched. The telltale click of a belt unfastened and a zipper dragged down.
You barely get your eyes open before strong arms grab you—one under your thighs, the other at your back, lifting you clean off the chair in one swift, jarring motion.
“Xav—!”
You barely get the name out before you’re being carried the few heavy steps to the couch, your breath stolen by the sudden manhandling, your body limp and still twitching from aftershocks.
And then you’re bent over the back of the couch, chest pressed into the soft white leather, ass up and legs spread before you can even catch up. His hands shove your panties to the side, and you can feel the heat of him behind you—bare, thick, hard, already leaking against your folds.
He doesn’t say a word. He just grabs your hips with both hands, pulls you back into position, and thrusts into you in one deep, claiming motion—no teasing, no patience.
You cry out, body jolting forward from the force, hands scrabbling for purchase on the cushions as he buries himself to the hilt .
“Fuck—Xavier!”
He lets out a low, feral groan—like all the restraint he’s been holding onto finally broke.
“You don’t get to do that,” he growls, his voice rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “You don’t get to touch yourself like that, make those sounds, say those things , and think I’ll just sit and fucking watch.”
His hips slam into you again—hard.
And again.
And again.
Every thrust is punishing and perfect, deep and brutal, driving you forward into the couch cushions as he holds your hips like he’s afraid you’ll slip away again. You’re still soaked from your orgasms, but it’s him now—him filling you up, hitting deep spots that make your toes curl and your mouth fall open in moan after helpless moan.
He leans over your back, panting in your ear as he thrusts. “You needed me?” His voice is a snarl now, possessive and low and furious . “Then you should’ve woken me up like this. Bent over my couch. Begging.”
Your cheek presses to the soft white leather of the couch as Xavier slams into you from behind, each thrust a brutal snap of hips that rocks your entire body forward. The force of it lifts your toes slightly off the floor with every drive, your knees only just managing to stay under you. Your fingers claw at the cushion edge, barely able to hold on.
His grip on your hips tightens—fingers digging in so hard you’re sure you’ll bruise, and you want them. You want the reminder tomorrow. The dull ache that says he did this to you.
Your mouth drops open, trying to form words, trying to say something , but all that escapes is a strangled moan.
He’s panting behind you, voice rough and low, hot against the back of your neck when he leans in—never stopping, never slowing.
“Look at you,” he growls. “So fucking desperate. Couldn’t wait ten more minutes, could you?”
You gasp as his cock slams deep again, forcing your breath out in a choked sound.
“Touching yourself in my chair,” he snarls. “Wearing that pretty little set I love, legs spread—moaning like a goddamn porn star.”
You whimper, and it only fuels him further.
“You think I was gonna just sit there? Watch you fuck those fingers into yourself like you didn’t need me?” He punctuates each word with another devastating thrust.
You’re drooling into the cushion now, eyes fluttering, brain starting to fracture around the edges of pleasure. Your skin is hot, your core throbbing, every inch of you slick and pulsing and ready to fall apart again.
He grabs a fistful of your hair and pulls your head back just enough to speak right into your ear.
“I can feel your pussy still twitching from the last one,” he mutters darkly. “You’re still stretched open from your own fingers—and you know it’s not enough. You’ll never get yourself off the way I can. No one touches you like I do, not even yourself.”
You cry out , body buckling.
He groans when he feels it—how tight you’re clenching around him again.
“Already close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Fuck, starlight, you’re so wet. You were fucking soaked before I even touched you. And now you’re dripping all over my cock.”
Your mouth tries to form words, but all you can do is moan his name—broken and pleading.
“Say it,” he commands, hips still slamming into you, the sound of skin on skin echoing in the soft, elegant space of his apartment. “Tell me how much you need it. Tell me how badly you wanted this.”
“I—Xav—please, please—” you stammer, voice wrecked.
He growls, one hand slipping forward between your thighs, fingers zeroing in on your clit without mercy.
Your scream chokes into a gasp as your knees nearly give out. His cock never stops moving—driving into you, dragging out every last bit of sensation as your mind begins to white out. His fingers rub fast, hard, relentless, perfect.
“You’re gonna come for me again,” he snarls. “Right here. On my cock. Just like you should’ve the first time.”
You try to hold it— want to hold it, but you can’t.
Your vision blurs, pleasure ripping through you like a lightning strike. Your body shakes, your back arches into his chest, and you scream as your orgasm slams into you, violent and all-consuming.
You’re gushing now, your cunt clenching around him like a vice, and Xavier lets out a broken curse.
“Fuck— yes —just like that, starlight. That’s it. That’s what I wanted.”
Your breath comes in gasps, your fingers gripping the back of the couch like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the world. Your thighs are shaking, your vision blurred, and your cunt is still fluttering from the orgasm that just shattered you.
But Xavier isn’t done.
He drives into you again, and you yelp —a ragged, high-pitched sound as overstimulation crashes down on your raw, twitching nerves.
“X-Xav—wait—!”
“No.”
The word lands sharp and final.
You feel his body close behind yours, the heat of him burning along your spine. One hand stays locked on your waist, anchoring you to the couch. The other suddenly grabs your inner thigh and lifts—pulls your leg up and forces your knee to rest on the back of the couch, spreading you wider, baring you deeper.
“Lift your leg,” he growls, voice rough and breathless against your ear. “Wider. Let me in. ”
You whimper but obey, because you can’t not. Your body moves before you even think, and the new angle lets him sink deeper with the next thrust. It punches a moan right out of you—louder this time, wrecked and shameless.
“That’s it,” he snarls. “You wanted this. All that teasing—rubbing yourself in my chair, saying all that filthy shit. Now you’re gonna get it.”
He pulls almost all the way out, just the tip inside—and then slams forward again, making you choke on a sob as the sound of skin on skin echoes in the space around you.
“I don’t care if it’s too much,” he pants, hips snapping into you harder, faster, mercilessly . “You don’t get to come twice in front of me and act like I’m done with you. You said you needed me, starlight—so now you’re getting me.”
Your whole body trembles, leg trembling where it’s perched, sweat sticking your hair to your neck and temples. You’re stretched wide, split open on him, every thrust shoving you forward against the couch, every drag of his cock lighting you up like fire under your skin.
Your voice is nearly gone, every moan coming out half-broken and slurred. You can barely hold yourself up anymore—but it doesn’t matter.
Because he’s holding you there.
Because you’re his to fuck now, and he’s not letting go.
“Listen to you,” he growls, his pace brutal. “Fucking whining. Shaking. And you’re still so tight. You don’t want me to stop.”
You shake your head weakly.
“Say it,” he hisses. “Say you want more.”
“I—fuck—Xavier—more—please—”
His hand grips your jaw, pulling your head back again so you’re forced to feel the heat of him pressed to your back, panting against your skin.
“Good girl,” he growls. “Now take it. Just like that. All of it.”
He doesn’t let you breathe.
Every thrust hits deep , hitting that perfect spot over and over again, sending electricity through your spine. The overstimulation becomes something else entirely—white-hot, chaotic, delicious. Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you start to lose yourself, your third orgasm spiraling into place far too fast, too violently.
You’re sobbing now—not from pain, but from how good it feels. From how full you are. From how he keeps taking, keeps owning you, like your body was made for this.
The edge is right under your feet, promising to be blinding and unbearable. Every thrust sends sparks up your spine, your thighs trembling where you’re still lifted, stretched around him, your fingers clawing uselessly at the couch cushions. You’re a mess: flushed, soaking, aching, wrecked beyond recognition, and so close it’s terrifying.
Your body begs for release. You can feel it coil, ready to snap. You’ve already come three times, and it still isn’t enough—you need it again, harder, deeper , until your brain shuts down completely.
Your voice breaks on a gasp. “Xav—I’m—fuck— please —I’m gonna—”
And then he slows.
He doesn’t stop—no, he’s crueler than that. He shifts just enough to ease the angle, lets the power of his thrusts soften, just slightly. Barely. But it’s enough.
Enough to keep you right there , burning in it.
“No you’re not,” he breathes against your shoulder, low and dangerous. “You’re not coming yet.”
The whimper that escapes you is shattered. Your hips try to chase it, to grind back, but his grip on your thigh tightens, keeping you exactly where he wants you—open, aching, twitching, denied.
“Xav— please —I’m right there—”
“I know,” he says, dragging his cock slow and deep, grinding into you just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to tip you over. “I feel it.”
Another whimper, high and sharp, leaves your throat. You’re sweating, your thighs shaking violently now, overstimulation and denial twisting into one delirious mess of unbearable need.
“You were going to come without me again,” he murmurs darkly, his voice like velvet wrapped around steel. “You don’t get to do that anymore. Not now. Not when I’ve got you spread out and dripping and mine. ”
You sob into the couch, hips trying to move again—but he stills, cock buried inside you, keeping you impaled on him without friction, without relief.
“You’ll come,” he promises. “But when I say.”
Your legs twitch. Your fingers tremble. You’re shaking with the force of what he’s keeping you from.
“Please,” you gasp, broken and desperate. “Please, I need it—need you—”
“I know,” he says again, slower this time, deliberately cruel in how calm he sounds. “That’s why I’m not letting you have it yet.”
Every nerve is lit up, raw and screaming for release, but Xavier keeps you there. Holds you in place. Keeps the rhythm just enough to tease, just enough to deny.
And it’s fucking unbearable.
You sob into the couch, whimpering, hating how wet you still are, how your walls clench uselessly around him with every inch he drags out of you and pushes back in—slow, intentional, and purposefully cruel.
“Still close?” he murmurs behind you, and his voice is nothing but silk-draped fire. “Still aching for it?”
You nod frantically, unable to even form words. You’ve been there for what feels like forever, strung so tight you might snap from a whisper.
“Didn’t I tell you you’re not allowed to come?” he says, voice lower now, teeth grazing your shoulder. “Didn’t I make myself clear?”
You try to answer. Try to obey. But another sound bursts from your throat—something between a sob and a moan—because it’s too much . Your body bucks backward again, desperate, hopelessly chasing a friction that doesn’t belong to you anymore.
Xavier moves—pulls out—and you cry out at the sudden emptiness, thighs trembling, your cunt spasming around nothing. You don’t even get a chance to beg before his hand grabs your ass, firm and unyielding.
“I warned you,” he says.
The sharp crack of his palm meeting your ass echoes through the room, and your hips jerk from the sudden sting.
Another.
And another.
Hard, open-palmed slaps that leave your skin burning, your breath heaving, your body tightening even more from the electric sting that shoots through your spine.
“Xav—!” you cry, nearly crawling over the couch in shock and need.
“You think you get to tease me like that,” smack —“get yourself off while I sleep,” smack —“moan my name while you finger yourself in my fucking chair—”
Smack.
Your legs nearly give out, your knees wobbling beneath you. You’re sobbing now, tears streaking down your cheeks, drool wetting your lips, completely gone in the punishment, in the heat, in the way he makes you feel like you don’t own your body anymore—he does.
“—and then come on my cock without permission ?”
He grabs you again, pulls you back into place, and pushes back inside in one deep, vicious thrust. You scream, body convulsing, pussy clenching around him like you’re ready to fall apart again.
But he doesn’t let you.
“You’re going to learn,” he pants, hips moving again—deep, slow, grinding, fucking you open like it’s discipline, like it’s ownership. “You come when I tell you. Not before.”
You nod helplessly, blubbering, yesyesyes, please, I’m sorry, I’ll be good, and it only makes him groan low and deep, his hands gripping your waist harder.
He leans over you again, lips brushing your ear as he rocks into you, brutal and slow, his cock dragging against every nerve inside you with devastating control.
“I’m not done yet,” he whispers. “You don’t get to come until you forget your own name.”
Your brain is static, nerves frayed, muscles locked tight as Xavier keeps you bent over the couch, trembling, soaked, your cunt wrapped around him and desperate. He fucks you slow again now, but it’s not gentle—it’s calculated. Every motion is measured to ruin you. Deep strokes that drag across every sensitive spot inside you, just fast enough to wind you up, just slow enough to keep you right there.
Your thighs quiver violently. Your vision swims.
You’ve begged. You’ve whimpered. You’ve whispered promises and pleas you can’t even remember now.
And still, he doesn’t let you come.
His hand is still on your ass—fingertips digging into the pink skin he’s already marked—and his mouth is right at your ear again, that soft, ruined growl of his voice owning every thought in your head.
“Listen to you,” he murmurs, rolling his hips into you again. “Fucking whimpering for it. Like a little bitch in heat.”
You sob, cunt clenching so hard around him it makes him groan. His voice shakes when he speaks again, like it’s taking effort to hold back.
“You’re not even talking anymore,” he says, the words curling over your skin like a brand. “You’re just panting and crying, so fucking desperate to come you can’t even think.”
He pulls out just enough to make you wail, then sinks in deep and slow again, letting you feel every inch of him.
“Do you feel how wet you are?” he growls. “So fucking soaked I slip right in—no resistance, just open for me.”
You mewl, brain short-circuiting with every word, every drag of him inside you.
“Is this what you wanted, starlight?” he pants, voice full of dark satisfaction. “To get used like this? Bent over my couch, punished and dripping, begging like a cock-drunk little slut?”
You nod frantically, body burning.
“Too fucking bad,” he snarls. “You don’t get to come until I say. You don’t get to take anything from me without earning it.”
Another thrust—deep, slow, and mean.
“You wanted to come without me?” Thrust.
“You wanted to tease me, play with yourself in my chair like a needy little show-off?” Thrust.
“You thought I wouldn’t make you regret it?” Thrust.
You’re incoherent now. Your shaking legs barely hold you up, your hands flat on the cushions, knuckles white, your mouth open but useless. Tears wet your cheeks, lips red and bitten, eyes wide and begging.
And still— still —he holds you right there, on the edge, wrecked and helpless.
His hand snakes around your waist again, palm pressing down over your lower stomach, pinning you still, keeping your hips tilted just right as he grinds deep into you again, voice like gravel and heat against your ear.
“Not yet,” he whispers. “Not until you break. Not until you’re sobbing my name like it’s the only word you remember.”
Xavier keeps fucking you, dragging your ruined body along the edge again and again. Your legs are jelly, your back bowed, your arms barely strong enough to keep you upright. Your pussy clenches desperately around him with every thrust, your body trying to chase the high he won’t give you.
You don’t know what the final push is—maybe it’s his voice, low and ruthless in your ear. Maybe it’s his cock grinding against that tender spot that makes your eyes roll back every time. Maybe it’s just how much you need him.
“Please,” you sob, raw and shaking. “Please, Xavier— please, I can’t— I need to come—I need you— please— ”
He groans behind you, the sound wrecked, and you feel him twitch inside you at the sound of your voice, your tears, your surrender.
His hand leaves your waist, and you barely have time to register the loss before his palm comes down on your ass again with a sharp crack that sends another cry ripping from your throat.
“That’s for coming without asking,” he growls.
Another spank.
“And this is so you never do it again.”
You scream brokenly as your hips buck and your body tries to flee the sting, but he holds you firm, buried inside you to the hilt, owning you.
“You’re mine,” he hisses. “My pussy. My sounds. My tears. You don’t get to come without me—you don’t moan like this without me.”
His hand snakes back around, fingers rough and fast against your clit, and you’re so far gone that the touch feels violent —too much, too sharp, too perfect.
“You hear me?” he growls. “Come for me. Right fucking now. Do it. ”
It slams into you like a lightning strike, violent and all-consuming, tearing a scream from your lungs as your pussy clenches so hard around him it rips a guttural snarl out of his throat. Your back arches, toes curling off the ground as white heat blinds you, your walls pulsing and fluttering in helpless, frantic spasms. You don’t even register that you’re sobbing until your voice comes out broken with it, babbling his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.
“Xav—Xavier—fuck— fuck— ”
With a curse hissed through gritted teeth, he slams into you deep, grinding as he empties inside you—hot, thick, and utterly possessive . You feel every pulse of it, every twitch as he fills you, hips jerking, breath stuttering out against your back.
“Fuck—starlight— mine —all mine—”
You both fall.
Not physically—he still holds you up, buried inside, his chest pressed against your back—but mentally, emotionally, physically, completely . Your bodies shake together, breaths shallow and erratic, sweat cooling on your skin.
He wraps his arms around your waist from behind, forehead resting between your shoulder blades as his chest rises and falls against you.
You can still feel him inside. Still leaking with him. Your legs feel numb. Your mind is dust.
You don’t even know what language your sounds come in anymore. Just breath. Just soft, exhausted whimpers and the ghost of his name.
And behind you, Xavier kisses your spine gently like he’s trying to ground you again after dragging you so far out.
You whimper when he begins to pull out, your hips twitching, your body instinctively clenching to keep him there. The movement sends another wave of sensitivity rippling through your overused, overstimulated core.
“Shhh,” he whispers softly against your back, as if soothing an ache with his voice alone. “I’ve got you, starlight. Just breathe.”
He brushes a hand down your spine—soothing, reverent—and gently eases himself out of you. The moment he slips free, your pussy clenches again, angry with the loss. You whimper sharply, your whole lower half pulsing with soreness and need, even though you have nothing left to give.
“Easy,” he murmurs again, both hands now smoothing down your sides as you sag forward over the couch, limp and shaking.
Then, without asking, without hesitating, he scoops you up.
Your breath stutters as your legs leave the floor, your entire body cradled against his chest like you weigh nothing. His hold is strong, but careful—one arm under your knees, the other at your back, pulling you close as your face tucks against his neck.
He carries you into the bathroom.
The lights are warm, not too bright, and you’re distantly aware of him turning on the shower with one hand while still holding you with the other. The water warms quickly, steam beginning to fill the room.
He sets you down gently on the edge of the tub and kneels in front of you, his hands smoothing over your thighs, checking for bruises, tracing each place he marked you like he’s trying to soothe them with touch alone.
“You okay?” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, as he peels off your underwear.
You nod slowly, blinking at him through damp lashes, and try to smile. It’s wobbly, but real.
He helps you up, walks you under the stream of hot water, and keeps a hand on your waist the whole time. You let the heat soak into your skin while he takes care of everything—washing your body with slow, circular motions, gentle fingers massaging away the tension. He murmurs soft praises under his breath, pressing kisses to your shoulder and temple as he works.
Once you’re rinsed and steady, he kisses your forehead, steps out, and cleans himself up quickly, efficient and quiet, before grabbing towels for you both.
When he scoops you up again, you don’t protest. You just curl into him, letting yourself be carried like you belong in his arms.
He lays you down on the bed with care, joining you beneath the covers. His arms wrap around you instantly, tugging you in close, legs tangling with yours, chest pressed to your back.
For a long moment, there’s only breathing. The rise and fall of your bodies. The cooling moisture on your skin. The safety of his touch.
“Holy fucking shit,” you croak, voice hoarse and half-laughing.
Xavier huffs a breath that might be a chuckle and presses a kiss to your shoulder, his voice soft but warm. “Yeah.”
You twist slightly, glancing back at him with a bleary, sated smile. “I can’t feel my legs.”
“I warned you,” he says, and even though it’s teasing, it’s also full of that quiet pride. Like he wanted you ruined, and got exactly what he wanted.
You give him a look. “You also ignored me trying to crawl out of my own body.”
His fingers drag soothingly over your side. “Mm. You started it.”
You snort—then wince, because your whole core throbs.
His voice dips lower, playful and sinful. “If you want me that badly next time, just wake me.”
And then, after a beat:
“Or… do what you just did again—and I’ll fucking own you again.”
You exhale a soft, shaking breath.
“I think you already do,” you murmur.
He kisses your shoulder again. “Good.”