“There we go, baby,” he hums, his voice low and warm as his breath skims the curve of your neck, lips brushing lightly over sensitive skin.

For once, he was trying—actually trying—to be patient.

And still… nothing.

You refused him. Not a word, not a sound—your face turned stubbornly away, denying him even a glimpse of your expression. Just those faint, measured exhales slipping past your lips, controlled to a fault, like you’d rather choke on them than let him hear anything sweeter.

His jaw tightened.

His pride was taking a hit, and he knew exactly why.

He shouldn’t have said it.

Shouldn’t have laughed it off when you’d asked—really asked—if he meant anything he said to you, or if you were just another distraction to pass the time. And instead of answering properly, he’d smirked, brushed it aside, made you feel small for even needing reassurance.

Now you were here, silent and stubborn, holding onto that hurt like a blade.

Anyone else would’ve paid for that kind of defiance.

But you weren’t anyone else.

So instead of anger, he found himself lingering—hovering close, hands steady but careful, like he was handling something fragile he’d already cracked once.

“Talk t’me, baby,” he murmurs, softer this time, though there’s still a teasing edge beneath it. Something needier than he liked. “C’mon… I know you’re holdin’ back.”

Your body betrayed you in the smallest ways—tense, responsive, reacting despite your best efforts—but you refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing it. Refused to let him think he could smooth things over that easily.

A quiet huff of amusement left him, though it lacked its usual bite.

“Mm,” he breathed, leaning closer, brushing another slow kiss along your neck. “That’s it… act like you don’t feel it. Your body’s a lot more honest than you are.”

He all but rocks into you—deliberate and coaxing—all four eyes pinning you across the plush bedding. Your muscles burn at the mean angle he has you folded in, heavy hips meeting yours each time he bumps into that gummy spot inside, making it impossible to ignore him.

“You’re still mad,” he mutters, more to himself than anything, his voice dipping as his forehead nearly rests against your shoulder. “Yeah… I earned that.”

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter:

“Wasn’t supposed to sound like that. I just… didn’t think you’d believe me anyway.”

His thumb brushes absentmindedly along your arm, slower now, less demanding.

“…Wan’ me to say it right this time?”