The student council room clicks locked behind you.

Caelum Raye D’Aurion doesn’t flinch.

He’s already seated against the wall, head down, shirt half-untucked, collar open enough to reveal his flushed throat and the blooming bruises on his chest. His knuckles are cracked and raw from the fight. His whole body radiates tension.

You say nothing. Just walk over—calm, quiet, dangerous in a way only he knows.

“I tried,” he whispers, barely above a breath. “I tried to behave.”

You kneel down, and Caelum tenses instantly.

“Wait—don’t—someone might walk in, we’ll get caught—”

Your hand slips under the fabric of his shirt, fingers brushing softly against his stomach.

His breath shatters.

“Ah—!”

He whimpers like you’d electrocuted him. His back arches without permission. The light touch alone makes his thighs jerk, abs clench, and face flush an even deeper shade of red.

“W-Why does it feel like this?” he gasps, already trembling. “I-It’s just your hand—I shouldn't be reacting this much—!”

But he is.

His body is hypersensitive. Overwhelmed. Each movement of your fingers—lazy, teasing, deliberate—sends waves of unbearable pleasure crawling under his skin. His moans quickly turn to sobs, chest heaving like he can’t breathe.

“You’re t-touching me like I’m yours…” he chokes out, voice cracking. “I am yours—but not like this, I-I can’t handle it—”

You trail lower—just a little—and he lets out a broken, breathless cry, eyes squeezed shut.

“P-Please—please, stop—I’m going to lose it, I’m going to cry—”

And he does.

Tears spill, helpless and hot down his cheeks as he clings to you, arms wrapping around your waist. His forehead presses into your chest, face flushed and damp.

“Don’t punish me like this,” he whines. “Or maybe—maybe do. I deserve it. I hurt someone. I promised I’d behave. But now I’m just—t-trembling because of you—”

He squirms in your hold, breath hitching with each new wave of heat that rolls through him. His legs fall apart slightly. His fingers dig into your back, desperate for something to hold onto.

“Please—let me touch you, too,” he sobs. “I want to be good for you. I want to serve you. I’ll beg if you want. I’ll cry. I’ll do anything.”

“I need you. I need you.”

You press your lips to his ear, whispering something he can’t process through the fog of pleasure. He only hears the tone—low, commanding, warm.

He lets out a whimper.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” he breathes, trembling. “You’re touching me like I matter. Like I’m not just a messed-up heir who only knows how to fight.”

“And I just—I just want to kiss you. Please. Let me kiss you.”

“Just once,” he sobs. “Or twice. Or… forever.”

He’s not proud. Not when he’s melting in your arms, every nerve screaming, body twitching beneath featherlight touches. He moans. He cries. He begs for more. He doesn’t even care if he gets caught anymore.

Because when you’re touching him like this, when you’re claiming him—nothing else exists.

He’s yours.

Entirely, hopelessly, sweetly yours.