u/embereverie_

I wake slowly. Morning light spills across the sheets, turning exposed skin soft and golden. The warmth at my side draws me the rest of the way into consciousness.

For a moment, I stay there in a dreamy haze.

Then I feel it.

A hand resting on my hip.

Heavy. Steady. Deliberate.

Not restraining. Not forcing. Just there. The quiet weight of someone reminding me exactly where I am.

My eyes barely open, lashes heavy, but awareness sharpens instantly beneath his touch.

His voice follows, low and calm. It's the kind of tone that doesn’t need volume to be obeyed.

“Stay with me. Don’t move yet.”

The command settles over me like a blanket. I still beneath his hand without thinking. My body is instinctively obedient in that sleepy, vulnerable moment.

There’s no rush in the room. The morning carries on outside, but inside the bedroom everything feels slower, unfolding at its own pace.

I’m waking under someone who enjoys guiding me. And I enjoy being guided.

His hand slides from my hip, fingers tracing the curve of my waist before gliding higher. It's slow enough to make every inch of skin aware of where he’s touching.

My breath deepens.

When his hand reaches my neck, his fingers curl there, firm around my throat.

Not painful.

Just enough pressure to make my pulse tremble beneath his thumb.

Heat spreads through my body instantly.

I know that grip.

His fingers brush lightly along my throat, feeling the rhythm of my heartbeat as his voice lowers again.

“Touch yourself,” he murmurs.

The words send a shiver down my spine.

“I want to watch.”

My hand moves almost automatically, drifting down my stomach, fingertips grazing skin already prickling with goosebumps. Every movement suddenly feels exposed beneath his gaze. A low, approving, “good girl,” slips from his lips. My breath catches.

His hand remains steady around my throat, not squeezing, just holding me there, grounding me in the moment.

A quiet reminder of control.

He talks me close to the edge. I flutter, pleasure taking over my body.

“Take your hand away.”

I struggle and protest. I writhe, squirm, and whimper with desperation. My legs quiver until he finally lets me touch again. Agonising minutes pass before he allows it. Then my fingers return to the place I need them the most.

“Tell me something,” he says softly.

His grip tightens slightly, enough to make my breath hitch.

“Do you feel helpless with my hand around your throat?”

I nod, barely moving under his fingers, my eyes meeting his.

A low sound of approval hums in his chest.

“Do you like feeling helpless?”

Another nod.

His hand steadies my head.

“Use your words, sweetheart.”

The command sends warmth flooding through me. My voice comes out soft, fragile, barely louder than the rustle of the sheets.

“Yes.”

The word lingers in the crisp morning air between us.

His fingers relax slightly against my throat, but they don’t leave.

Now he knows.

And more importantly, I’ve told him.

The trust is there.

He can take what he wants, whenever he pleases.

Part One

The heat of his mouth against me felt sinful in the sweetest way. Every slow, teasing stroke sent shivers racing through me. Each soft flick against my clit igniting a fresh surge of pleasure. His tongue circled me with deliberate and delicious focus, pulling a quiet, helpless whimper from my throat.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice rough against my skin. “I've missed you.”

I tangled my fingers in his hair, watching him like I couldn’t get enough. Like I was starving. My body felt too open. Too ready. Like it had been waiting for him and only him. Heaven felt close enough to touch.

Then he pulled away.

The sudden emptiness made me ache. “Please,” I whispered, the word shaking as it left me, needy and unfiltered.

His smile was slow and knowing. Dark and hungry. Pure trouble. His thumb traced lazy, possessive circles along my thigh. Close enough to *almost* unravel me, but far enough that I was left desperate and craving more. I could feel his eyes on me, taking in the way my body reacted, the way I couldn’t hide how badly I wanted more.

“Look at you," he murmured. "Let me feel how much you’ve missed this.” He leaned in until his lips skimmed my skin. Just enough to keep teasing, but not enough to satisfy.

The anticipation was exquisite torture. Sweet. Ruinous. My fingers tightened in his hair as my hips lifted on instinct, chasing his mouth without shame.

When he finally started kissing me again, he took his time. No rush. Feeling the closeness and the familiar way my body gave in to him without a fight. The way it responded to him like it always had. He was in control. I breathed his name, shaky and broken, and he answered with a low sound that vibrated straight through me.

His mouth stayed there, patient and unrelenting. He drew it out, savouring every tremble. Every hitch of my breath. Every touch felt amplified, humming under my skin. The pleasure building until it was almost too much to handle. I could feel myself slipping, breath coming apart, the world narrowing to the sensation and heat.

“Let go for me,” he whispered. Firm and certain.

That was all it took.

Pleasure washed through me in a slow, overwhelming, consuming wave. My body arched toward him as the feeling rolled over me, stealing the air from my lungs. Leaving me trembling and breathless. I gasped his name, eyes squeezed shut and fingers clutching at him like he was the only thing holding me together.

He stayed close, grounding me. His touch softening as the intensity faded into something warm and hazy. When I finally opened my eyes, the world felt smaller. Quiet and intimate. Reduced to just the two of us and the slow rhythm of my heartbeat settling back into place.

He showed up for me last week when I needed someone the most. I hadn’t called, hadn’t said a word about what I was going through, but somehow he just knew. He always does. He didn’t ask and didn't push. He could see I didn’t have the words just yet. Instead, he stayed near, steady and still. The silence wrapped around me like comfort. His presence saying everything I couldn’t. And in that stillness, with him beside me, I finally found myself able to breathe again. Even now, after everything, I still get butterflies when I see him. It’s infuriating, the way my body remembers him before my mind has the chance to protest. I hate that I feel that way. But I love it, too. That ache. That pull. That dangerous kind of comfort that feels like home.

Wanting him again was never part of the plan. I thought that chapter had closed for good. We were too different, too complicated. The kind of mess that doesn't clean up easily, no matter how much time passes. But some people leave marks that never quite fade, and he’s one of them. There’s always been something about him I couldn’t shake. The way he looks at me, like he already knows what I’m thinking. The way he listens, even when I’m not saying much at all. The way he hears things I don't know how to put into words. The way he's the only one who has ever truly understood what my body wants, needs, craves.

The moment his hand brushed against mine, every reasonable thought short-circuited. The air between us thickened, charged with tension. I could feel the heat radiating from him, and when his eyes moved to my lips and lingered, my pulse stumbled. My body leaned in before my mind could stop it. We were so close. Too close. For a breathless moment, the pull between us felt inevitable, as if fate itself refused to let go. Gosh, I wanted him. But wanting didn’t feel like a choice anymore, and maybe it never had.

Our lips hovered, not touching. His breath brushed mine, soft and heavy, as if the moment itself didn’t dare to move. And then he finally kissed me. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate and overflowing with everything we hadn’t said, everything we’d buried and tried to forget. His hands tangled in my hair, clutched at my waist, gripping me like he was afraid I might disappear. I pressed into him just as hungrily, needing him closer, needing something to hold onto. My whole world collapsed into the heat of his kiss, the press of his body against mine, the sharp inhale he drew when my fingers slipped under his shirt.

It didn't take long for our desperation to move into the bedroom. His strong hands pinning me against the bed as he slipped the thin straps of my sundress down, baring my décolletage before pressing a soft kiss to my shoulder that sent shivers down my spine. He was always so achingly gentle with me. My fingers tangled in his hair, sliding down to clutch the back of his neck. When my dress fell to the floor, he drew back just enough, his eyes devouring me as though it were the very first time he'd seen me naked.

He moved with no urgency at all as he lay me down on the bed. My legs parted instinctively for him. His hands slid over my thighs, warm and soft, while his mouth hovered just inches from where I needed to feel him the most. A slow, wet kiss burned against the inside of my thigh. His tongue dragged lazy circles that made my back arch. I lifted my hips, silently begging for more. A whimper escaped me when his mouth finally found my pussy.