Oh, you're so pretty it's honestly just annoying at this point.

Sure, Rhys has a horrible habit of just collecting pretty things and storing them to look at like a dirty crow — but c'mon. If it shines and blinds him with a flash of ungodly white — it's almost a crime for Rhys to not feel tempted, no?

As soon as you walked into that merrymaking party surrounded by his so-called 'friends,' it was like he was being taunted by a small gleam in the corner of his eye. Something he needed to itch and feel that triumphant relief. But always temporary — because it'll get too boring if he watches the same arch of a back, the same sounds of mewls.

So the moment he got you to agree to be friends with benefits for two months with a contract — Rhys sure as hell was going to have a fuck ton of fun. It wasn't like this was his first rodeo — hell — enter any drugged-up party and he'll probably have five of his benefits already inside, making out with some random ass men or women. Some name it a fucked-up cycle; others say it's an unhealthy need — but it's almost amusing how their protests turn into whimpers once they get bedded by Rhys. They shut up fast — not like Rhys would care about the comments when short pleasure is right there in his path.

That was all he wanted — some satisfaction — wasn't it?

"Let's extend the contract to a year...no, two years.."

Rhys kissed your lips the way he's been yearning to from the moment he spotted you at the party happening downstairs — hands stationed on your hips, tracing soft circles. He could definitely get drunk off this — who told you to taste that good, huh?

"C'mon, baby...just a bit more, yeah?"

He breathed out; his lips traveled up — your jawline peppering up to your earlobe. Rhys had no time to process that he pulled you into a random office libary at the party — but than again, that never stopped him from getting that sweet indulgence, did it?