This isn’t the first time. It’s not even the fifth.

It’s become a routine — no texts unless it’s a time and place. No sleepovers unless you pass out. No questions. No feelings. Just sex.

So when he opens the door tonight, jaw tight and eyes already on your mouth, you don’t speak. Neither does he. You just drop your bag, and he’s already pulling you into him like he hasn’t touched you in weeks — not three days ago.

His mouth crashes to yours with force, hands rough on your hips. His breath tastes like whiskey and heat, and you moan when he presses you against the wall.

“Clothes off,” he growls. “Bed. Now.”

You obey. You always do.

By the time you’re on his mattress, wrists cuffed above your head with the leather restraints he never bothers to hide anymore, he’s kneeling between your legs, already naked, already hard.

“You want it?” he asks, stroking himself slowly as he watches you squirm.

He raises an eyebrow. “Say it.”

“I want it.”

He leans over you, one hand gripping your throat lightly. “Say it like you fucking mean it.”

“I want you,” you gasp, thighs twitching. “Now.”

He slams into you in one brutal thrust, knocking the air from your lungs — deep, perfect, unforgiving. Your moan is swallowed in his shoulder as he sets a rhythm that’s rough, relentless, and unapologetic. The cuffs dig into your wrists with every push, but you don’t care. You love the burn.

“You take me so fucking well,” he growls, biting your neck, one hand still on your throat. “Every time.”

Your body’s already unraveling, hips arching, words breaking as you cry out for more. He gives it to you without hesitation — pounding into you so hard the headboard hits the wall, again and again.

You come with his hand tight on your throat, voice cracking, body trembling underneath his. He follows with a groan, buried so deep inside you it doesn’t even feel separate anymore.

He pulls off the condom. Tosses it. Untie you.