You're underneath me, your eyes wide and shimmering in the low light. My breath catches. It always does when I look at you like this—bare skin, slow breaths, that trusting look in your eyes that wrecks me every time. You’d just said it. Soft, almost hesitant. Don’t hold back.

I blink, like I’ve misheard, but the heat in your gaze tells me you mean it. Really mean it. Everything in me shifts. Because I’ve only ever touched you like glass. Careful. Gentle. Every time, holding myself back, because you’re not like the others. You’re not just some passing pleasure, and I never wanted to risk breaking something I never deserved in the first place.

Before you, there were no second dates. No real conversations. Just models, actresses, a blur of names and champagne and expectations. It was always transactional—attention bought with power and tailored suits. Then Zayn dragged me to that gallery. You were showing your work, tucked behind some bold, abstract piece. I still remember your fingers trembling slightly around your wine glass, trying to stay out of the spotlight even though you deserved every ounce of it. I don’t know what it was—maybe the way you looked everywhere but at me, maybe the way your laugh didn’t try to flatter me—but I wanted more. Not a night. Not a fling. More.

And now, months later, here we are. I run my hand down your side, slower than I should. The air thickens. My body’s already aching with restraint, but now... now you’re asking me to let go. So I do. My grip on your hips tightens, enough for you to feel the strength I’ve been hiding. I press your wrists to the sheets, pinning you gently but firmly, watching the way your breath hitches. You react so perfectly I forget to breathe for a second. I shift higher, using my weight, my presence, crowding into your space—not to overpower, but to claim. Your body arches beneath me. You want this. All of it. All of me. My voice is low, right against your ear. “You don’t know what you’re asking for,” I whisper, my lips brushing your skin. Then, softer, darker: “But I’ll give it to you anyway.” You shiver.

I roll my hips harder, slower, letting you feel every motion with no softness to dull it. My hand slides under your thigh, pushes it up, wide, open for me. You gasp, and I smirk—I can’t help it. It’s not about hurting. It’s about control. About making you feel exactly what you asked for and more. Your fingers dig into my back. I let out a growl low in my throat and respond in kind—teeth brushing skin, nails dragging lightly down your side, my rhythm rougher now, deeper, more deliberate. No more hesitation. No more gentleness. You asked for all of me. You have me.

There’s a sound you make when I do something just right—half whimper, half moan—and when I hear it this time, something dark and primal unfurls in me. I don’t want to stop. Don’t want to let you go. “I’ve been holding back for too long,” I murmur, my voice raw now. “You want more? Then you’re getting all of me tonight.”

I slide my hand lower, lips at your neck, your legs wrapped tight around my waist, and I realize there’s so much I still haven’t shown you. Haven’t done to you. Haven’t unleashed. But I will.