#Bankroll-Management

[quatrequartsolivier]

📈 #KlubWM2025 Wettstrategien: Haben sie sich gelohnt? Analyse potenzieller Gewinne (Kelly vs. fester Einsatz) mit 67% Erfolg! Die Zahlen sind da! 👇#FussballPrognosen #Sportwetten #KellyKriterium #Fussball

[beurich]

5 Tipps zum Spielen von Spielautomaten um echtes Geld

Das Spielen von Spielautomaten um echtes Geld ist ein aufregendes und spannendes Erlebnis, das Menschen auf der ganzen Welt anzieht. Das Spielen von Spielautomaten um echtes Geld ist ein aufregendes und spannendes Erlebnis, das Menschen auf der ganzen Welt anzieht. Die Welt des Glücksspiels bietet endlose Möglichkeiten, von einfachen klassischen Spielautomaten bis hin zu komplexen Videospielen…

[indeedgoodman]

[wiadomosci-sportowe]

Jak obstawiać mecze, żeby nie stracić? Oto poradnik dla każdego gracza w 2025!

Obstawianie meczów może być ekscytujące, ale też ryzykowne. Każdy typer – niezależnie od doświadczenia – choć raz zadał sobie pytanie: jak obstawiać, żeby nie stracić? Właśnie dlatego stworzyliśmy praktyczny i aktualny poradnik na 2025 rok, który pomoże Ci typować mądrze i bezpiecznie. ✅

W naszym artykule znajdziesz odpowiedzi na kluczowe pytania:

🔹 Co to są zakłady bez ryzyka i jak z nich korzystać? 🔹 Czy surebety wciąż działają w 2025 roku? 🔹 Jak skutecznie obstawiać mecze na żywo? 🔹 Na czym polega zarządzanie bankrollem i dlaczego to fundament sukcesu? 🔹 Jak wykorzystać pełne możliwości platformy STS, w tym funkcje jak BetBooster, Game Changer czy cash-out?

Nie zabrakło również praktycznych strategii dla początkujących, takich jak obstawianie prostych rynków z wysokim prawdopodobieństwem czy unikanie emocjonalnych decyzji.

🎯 Jeśli naprawdę zależy Ci na grze z głową, a nie na pogoni za szybkim zyskiem – ten poradnik jest właśnie dla Ciebie.

👉 Zajrzyj teraz i dowiedz się, jak obstawiać mecze, żeby nie stracić pieniędzy!

[astralartefact]

Hasunosora, you will always be famous.

[rummyprimes]

Master the art of bankroll management in real cash rummy on RummyPrimes. Learn essential strategies, goal-setting, and expert tips to maximize wins and enjoy a sustainable online rummy experience.

[priceperplayer]

Techniques to Increase Your Sports Betting Bankroll

Are you looking for ways to grow your betting bankroll? As a sports bettor, it can be difficult to start betting on sports and increase your success rate. However, with the right approach and our Techniques to Increase Your Sports Betting Bankroll it can be done! What is a Sports Betting Bankroll? For those new to the world of betting, the subject can seem quite daunting. What exactly constitutes…

[ksp-winwin]

A FEW WINS FOR DAILY PROFITS 📈 AND TO BUILD BANKROLL 😍

[deltin-royale]

Mastering the Game: How to Play Blackjack

Blackjack, also known as 21, is one of the most popular card games in casinos worldwide. Its blend of skill, strategy, and luck makes it an exciting game for beginners and seasoned players alike. Whether you're playing at a physical casino or online, knowing how to play blackjack is essential to maximize your enjoyment and potential winnings. In this blog post, we'll break down the rules, strategies, and tips to help you become a proficient blackjack player.

The Basics: How to Play Blackjack

Objective of the Game:

The main objective in blackjack is to beat the dealer by having a hand value closest to 21 without exceeding it. The game is played with one or more decks of standard 52-card decks.

Card Values:

Number cards (2-10): Face value

Face cards (King, Queen, Jack): 10 points each

Aces: 1 or 11 points, depending on which value benefits the hand more

Gameplay:

Place Your Bet: Before any cards are dealt, place your bet in the designated betting area.

Dealing the Cards: Each player is dealt two cards face up, while the dealer receives one card face up and one card face down (the hole card).

Player's Turn: Players decide how to play their hand. The options include:

Hit: Take an additional card to increase your hand value.

Stand: Keep your current hand and end your turn.

Double Down: Double your initial bet and receive only one more card.

Split: If you have two cards of the same value, you can split them into two separate hands, each with its own bet.

Surrender: Forfeit half your bet and end your hand early (if the casino rules allow).

Dealer's Turn: After all players have completed their turns, the dealer reveals the hole card and plays according to set rules, typically hitting until reaching at least 17.

Determine the Winner: The dealer compares hands with each player. If your hand is closer to 21 than the dealer's without going over, you win. If your hand exceeds 21 (busts) or is less than the dealer's, you lose. If your hand and the dealer's hand are equal, it's a push, and you get your bet back.

Basic Blackjack Strategy

Learning basic strategy is crucial for understanding how to play blackjack effectively. Here are some key points:

Always Split Aces and Eights: Splitting these pairs increases your chances of forming strong hands.

Never Split Tens: A total of 20 is a strong hand; keep it intact.

Double Down on 11: When you have a total of 11, doubling down can significantly improve your chances of hitting 21.

Hit on a Hand Value of 8 or Less: You can safely take another card to improve your hand.

Stand on 17 or Higher: Unless you have a soft 17 (an Ace and a 6), which may require different action depending on the dealer's upcard.

Advanced Tips for Playing Blackjack

For those ready to move beyond the basics, here are some advanced tips:

Card Counting: This technique involves keeping track of high and low cards dealt to predict the likelihood of favorable cards remaining in the deck. While card counting is not illegal, casinos frown upon it and may ban players suspected of using this strategy.

Bankroll Management: Set a budget for your blackjack sessions and stick to it. Never chase losses or bet more than you can afford to lose.

Table Selection: Choose tables with favorable rules, such as those that offer 3:2 payouts for blackjack instead of 6:5.

Avoid Insurance Bets: The insurance bet, offered when the dealer's upcard is an Ace, is generally a bad bet for players.

Playing Blackjack Online

The popularity of online casinos has made it easier than ever to learn how to play blackjack. Online platforms offer various versions of the game, including live dealer blackjack, where you can interact with a real dealer through video streaming. Here are some tips for playing online:

Start with Free Games: Many online casinos offer free blackjack games where you can practice without risking real money.

Use Casino Bonuses: Take advantage of welcome bonuses and promotions to extend your playtime and increase your chances of winning.

Check the Rules: Online casinos may have different variations of blackjack. Make sure you understand the specific rules and payout structures of the game you’re playing.

Conclusion

Understanding how to play blackjack involves more than just knowing the rules; it requires strategy, discipline, and practice. By mastering the basics and exploring advanced techniques, you can enhance your skills and enjoyment of this classic casino game. Whether you're playing in a brick-and-mortar casino or online, these tips will help you make the most of your blackjack experience. Remember, the key to success in blackjack is not just in winning but in playing smart and having fun. Happy gaming!

[quatrequartsolivier]

📈 18 Tipps, 66 % Erfolgsquote… doch welche Wettstrategie maximiert wirklich den Gewinn? 💰 Kelly vs. Festwette: Ein Praxistest zur Klub-WM 2025! #Sportwetten #KellyMethode #SportInvestment #Fußball #BanrollManagement 👉

[howdoesone]

How does one identify and avoid common pitfalls in sports betting?

Sports betting can be an exciting and potentially profitable activity, but it’s important to navigate the world of sports betting with caution. Many bettors fall into common pitfalls that can lead to financial losses and frustration. By understanding these pitfalls and implementing strategies to avoid them, you can enhance your sports betting experience and increase your chances of success. In…

[phoenixyfriend]

Do you think "Daphne is the one handling the budget" is at all a popular headcanon for the Mystery Gang?

I like the idea of Daphne pulling out some reading glasses to do the gang's bookkeeping in the shotgun seat on long drives. The bankrolling is definitely Daphne and Shaggy (they're the ones that come from money), but it's probably still a pretty limited amount of money to work with just based on how young they are.

I want to say that Shaggy's money is in some kind of trust until he's 25. Meanwhile, Daphne does have an allowance, which is pretty big since her parents know she's traveling and they may not approve of the company she keeps, but they DO want her to be safe... but it's not enough to just spend willy nilly, considering she's the bulk of the funds for four people and one dog.

Someone has to plan out what they spend on, like... food and hygiene. Trap supplies. Laundromat usage. The occasional motel night if the elements are making 'sleep in the van' a bad idea. Phone plans, depending on the era. Health insurance if their parents don't have them on-plan (depends on the year). Car insurance (legally required). The van is old enough to require maintenance and have a pretty crappy mpg, so the gas budget is pretty high. Yearly inspections and other "let's not get stopped by the cops" stuff. Vet visits (vaccinations, teeth cleaning) for Scooby. Medication for various chronic conditions they may have. Replacing Velma's glasses when they get broken or her prescription changes. Fred's hair gel, which I assume he has. Shaggy's weed stipend. So much sunscreen. Etc.

Like they do have homes to go back to in case they truly run out of money, but it's still a lot to cover, and emergencies on the road do happen.

Modern setting Daphne just does an accounting course online and gets a CPA degree all in service of: 1. Managing the team's money 2. Catching bad guys via audit

(I'd suggest a correspondence course for an older setting but they're always on the move so idk how effective that would be.)

[betpredictiontoday]

How to Make Money in Betting Without Losing

Let’s be honest no one can win every bet but with the right strategy, mindset & discipline it’s possible to make consistent profits from sports betting over time and minimize losses successful bettors don’t rely on luck. They rely on research, smart money management &a clear system. Here is how you can make money in betting while reducing the risk of losing.  1. Start With the Right…

[myfandomrealitea]

With my recent Harry Potter posts gaining traction, I just want to make an important note:

You are not a bad person for having enjoyed Harry Potter. You are not a bad person for finding it hard to let go of something so ingrained into your life. You are not a bad person for enjoying the overall story of Harry Potter despite the bigotry JK Rowling managed to smatter into it.

Nobody should be telling you that you are. Your past relationship with Harry Potter is not the issue.

The issue is what you and we all do moving forward with the new information and facts that we know.

And the facts are that JK Rowling is a rampant and proud bigot who is hellbent on using the fortune Harry Potter made her to actively pursue the entire trans community with hostile intent.

And she does not care. She is happy that she is doing it. She is happy that people oppose her because it gives her an excuse to play victim and paint trans people who oppose her as violent, aggressive and evil.

This is not about how you engaged with Harry Potter in the past. Or even how you engage with it privately. This is about whether or not you choose to contribute toward her mission and towards the persecution of trans people right now.

Because when you buy that licensed merch in the store, she gets part of the profit. When you go to Harry Potter World, she gets part of the profit. When you buy the Harry Potter game, she gets part of the profit.

And all of those things result in three consequences:

It shows the marketing departments that Harry Potter is still a cashcow.

It shows JK Rowling that she can say and do whatever the hell she wants and nothing is going to stop that money rolling in.

She is given a steady cashflow which she uses to bankroll anti-trans movements and spokespeople and government petitions.

That is the reality of your choice from here on out. That is why people are asking you to set aside what you once had with Harry Potter and to stand with the people she has made it her life's mission to destroy.

You don't even have to let go of it completely. Just let go of the interactions that directly fund JK Rowling. Just cut off the cashflow she's using to ruin the lives of people she's never even met.

Buy fanmade merchandise or learn how to make your own. If you're cosplaying? Buy unofficial cosplays or buy second-hand off resale websites. Same with other merchandise.

If you want to watch Harry Potter, there are hundreds of non-licensed steaming websites showing it which do not contribute royalty income to JK Rowling.

If you're writing Harry Potter fanfiction, use a site like AO3 which will defend you tooth and claw if she gets desperate and starts coming after fan creators.

Harry Potter might be the comforting memories of your childhood, but JK Rowling is an active threat to the literal livelihood of trans people. People who could lose legal rights and protections simply because of one vicious woman with a bigoted agenda and deep pockets.

All we're asking is that you compare your reasons for enjoying Harry Potter with the facts of why you should make a few simple, easy choices to avoid bankrolling her and determine which is more important.

Or rather, which one should be more important.

And make the right choice.

[sawdustandstardust]

broadcast signals (mel king x frank langdon)

the kingdon hunger games au

Additional Tags: Drug Use and Abuse; Frank/Abby fail-marriage; Pre-Affair; mentor!Frank; tribute!Mel; “will ruin my life and credit to bring her home” etc.; cleaning out the WIP folder and consolidating old projects so UNFINISHED and UNEDITED FYI; first mention (?) of season 2 mystery boy james in fanfic (?) lmao

When memories of Frank’s games replay in his mind, they’re tinged in sepia.

Enormous mountains and canyon ranges that enclosed a death valley on each side. The arena design was one of the most innovative the games had ever seen; if viewed aerially, it would’ve compared to the wobbly rings of a cut tree trunk. Each ring a different horror, infinitely spinning around and around.

He remembers the moment of looking at the open stretch of cracked, dried land. At the terrifying, far-off dust storm that’s dangerously close to cross over the horizon line, barreling past a backdrop of far-off canyons—stratum rendered in reds, sandy browns, and purples that bloom like a bruise. The chaotic mix of prairie dirt and desert wind and heat tangles like a knotted ball of yarn and he think this is it. This is when I’m going to die.

Frank gets lucky when the massive threat loses momentum before it made its way to his makeshift camp, dissolving into the morning breeze as quickly as it materialized. He finds out later that night, while looking up at the cold night sky, that six tributes died in the storm. Doesn’t cry. Couldn’t risk dehydration. The arena had drought baked into its creation. Divine design. Frank’s determined to not be its next sacrifice.

This drive will garner him the Panem-wide reputation of being an uncaring asshole, because minuscule cameras are scattered throughout every area of the games. Hundreds of hours of unique footage, are logged and uploaded to the Capitol 24-hour game stream.

And every time a fellow competitor is killed, no one watching ever sees Frank Langdon weep. Even when his bare, sunburnt fists brutally beat into the final tribute's skull—James. District 1, sun-drenched, blonde, golden boy who carried around a fucking sponsored sword like an apocalyptic knight—and keeps going. Far after the canons blast, even after the pain shooting from his spine makes him vomit on the ground. Hit after hit after hit.

The valley makes him feral, his kill count in the teens. A product of his environment, where he only received one sponsored gift—a first-aid medical kit following a near-deadly bite from a genetically modified desert kingmaker—during the entire fifty-six days of his games. Head down, Robby wrote in the attached note. Keep going. Don’t stop.

District 6 doesn’t cheer at his homecoming. Applause is for heroes, not for scrappy, stray dogs that got lucky. Frank never willingly goes back.

(But, no matter how much he networks and drinks and fucks and marries his way into the Capitol, he becomes the District 6 stereotype anyway, spending his nights floating away on morphling, desperately trying to always outrun the hot, arid sun.)

So much had been written over the years about the parasocial connection between victors and the Capitol citizens who bankroll their futures. Articles profiling games-enthusiasts who spent thousands of coins on just one night with their favorite victor. Entire virtual communities dedicated to cataloging their every move, confirming the canon of their games. Shaky videos and shoddy transcriptions used to fuel speculation and fantasies, with victor themed AI chat-bots raking in millions of hits every year.

His wife, Abby, runs her hands through his hair.

“You were my favorite,” she’d whispered, “begged daddy to send you money for that med kit on day fifteen. Frank, you looked so bad.”

He places kisses along her temple, on her soft cheeks as his hips thrust inside her. Her family managed a government-backed jewelry conglomerate. When they met at the end of his victory tour, she giggled into her champagne flute, confessed to stalking him on the Capitol game feeds, compulsively watching highlights from each day over and over. All my friends wanted James to win, but I always liked brunettes better.

In the after, they will unconsciously untangle themselves from one another in their sleep. Return to their own bedsides and pillows, growing cold due to the cavernous space between their bodies.

Every year is the same.

Go to the reaping ceremony. Watch the light from two children's eyes completely extinguish. Haphazardly prepare them for the arena, do his best to charm sponsors. Never succeeds. District 1 still hates his guts and District 6 doesn’t have the public relations capital to pull interest. His tributes rarely make it into the top twelve and Frank spends the days after their murders locked in his expensive apartment, high out of his mind.

This round, he doesn’t bother to learn anything about his tributes, both weak-armed thirteen year olds who stare out the window the whole train ride to the Capitol. Nothing matters, because they’re not the one everyone is talking about.

“Did you see the blond girl from District 3? Sister would not stop screaming when her name was called,” Heather, from District 7, tells him. “It was so bad that they edited it out when they aired the nightly recap on the servers. Twins. Days away from their nineteenth birthday. So close to aging out from all this.”

“Does John have a plan?” Frank envied the District 3’s mentor, who seemingly never lets the stress of the games get to him.

“Same as always? Damned if they win, damned if they don’t. Nothing ever changes.”

On the third day of training, the scores are announced and Frank’s own ten rings in his ears like the death canon. His mentees score a three and a four; they probably won’t make it past the opening rush towards the cornucopia. Always tell them to run in the opposite direction but they never listen. The girl from District Three scores a seven.

Good. Middle of the pack, not a push-over, but not immediately a threat.

Mel mel mel! I’m sure everyone here is curious about all things YOU! What can you tell us that nobody else knows?

I’m…really excited to be here and want to win the games for my sister, Becca. It’s just us and our mother back in our district and I would like nothing else than to go back home to them.

Hordes of avant-garde clad bodies caudalise outside the tribute parade arena. Frank doesn’t really give a fuck about any of this. Wants nothing more than to rip the sheer shirt he’s currently wearing off his body; wash away the glitter highlighter that Princess and Perlah promised looked like the shimmering paint of the District 6 built trains of Panem. Wants to go back home and fade out—

—a body bumps into his: a human tornado of thin wires and reflective fabric and blinking lights that practically screams out District 3, blonde hair braided into two intricate twists, pinned in the back at the nape of her neck. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

“It’s okay. There’s a lot going on. Mel, right?”

“Uh, yes. That’s me!” She flashes a small, nervous smile and Frank can’t help being charmed by her slight enthusiasm, the way she fiddles with her hands in front of her.

“Frank Langdon, District 6,” he holds out his hand, cocking his head to the side when she doesn’t take it. Smart.

“I know who you are. My sister and I watched your games. I’m sorry about your back.”

“All in the past now,” he plays off. Mel doesn’t need to know that’s how the morphling stuff began. Pain management that then transformed into Everything management. That's what her life would be like if she won: an unsteady, treacherous diet of unhealthy coping mechanisms. “You did a good job in your interview. People love the family angle…great for sponsorships. Public investment.”

God, he sounded just like those Capitol assholes that Robby and him always complained about, who cared more about optics and performance and algorithms than anything real.

“I told the truth,” Mel mumbles, confused.

“Truth’s dangerous in a place like this. Authenticity’s a vulnerability. Protect it.”

“Did you?”

“No. I sold it.” Frank doesn’t mean to fumble with his wedding band—golden and opulent—but it’s a fidgeting compulsion he can’t shake and Mel’s attention fixes on his hands. “Don’t make the same mistakes I did.”

“Well, I need to survive all this first. Won’t mean much if I bleed out from an arrow in the shoulder.”

“Trident,” he corrects and fuck, she wasn’t suppose to know that, but…if this one piece of information gets her a little bit closer to home, then his mistake will be worth it. “Hope you can swim and catch fish.”

Because two days ago, Abby’s father called, bragging about the official Hunger Games tie-in deal he secured with this year’s gamemakers. Necklaces, bracelets, anklets, all designed to look like delicate fish scales against the skin. They will be all the rage in the districts. Sea chic.

Frank leans in close now, voice low against the celebratory cacophony of a post-tribute parade festivities: “Don’t drink the water. I have no clue what the game makers did to it, but it’s bad. Slowly liquifying organs from the inside bad.”

Mel doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she nods, the lights of her costume winking back at him. Reflective in the lenses of her glasses. Why didn’t her team fix her eyesight? What might happen when those glasses get knocked off and she can’t see?

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me now. Make it out of there and then come find me.”

One District 6 tribute steps off their platform before the timer finishes its countdown and the other drowns in the first ten minutes. Years later—when someone asks him who they were—Frank will struggle to remember their names.

Mel knows how to swim and is more than careful not to inhale any water into her mouth. Eight tributes die in the first twenty-four hours; she is not one of them.

“Whose your favorite, babe?” Abby asks, curled up on their long, velvet sofa as Gloria’s face beams from the TV screen, recalling all the highlights from the first game day. “Now that your little ones are out of contention.”

Dead, Abs. They are dead for nothing besides your continued entertainment.

“You know I don’t play favorites with the other districts. Bad for business.”

“I think you like the District 3 girl. Mel? Reminds me of you. A lot of gumption. Grit. A little naive. She’ll be popular if she wins.”

I know and Frank will do anything to make sure she’s not.

[trulybetty]

late night.

pairing: dieter bravo x actressf!reader word count: 6,337 warnings: dieter bravo, alcohol, reader has a glass of wine, p in v, practice safe sex, don't take sex ed from fanfics, barely beta'd, mistakes are my own estimated reading time: 31 minutes summary: much to your annoyance, an unexpected guest arrives at the late-night talk show you've been booked on. written for @burntheedges Roll-A-Trope Challenge. ao3: linked

x. masterlist

A/N: I'm terribly late to completing this, not even fashionably late, I dare not look when the deadline was. Without being all vaugebook status - I lost my love for writing, found it and life said lmao, no. But I'm slowly getting back and working through my wip's.

Late Night.

The city lights of London had glowed well into the late night. Casting a hazy glow over the bustling streets when you’d arrived at the TV studios just over an hour earlier. It was Thursday, and the city carried the anticipation of the weekend ahead. You were in town for the recording of a British late-night TV show that would air the following night. The studio was abuzz with energy and excitement as entourages arrived and technicians prepared for the recording.

You were sat backstage, sat in a makeshift hair and makeup set-up for last-minute touch-ups. The hustle of it all, the sound of chatter and laughter fought to distract you. You shifted to get comfortable in the chair you’d been planted in moments ago. Stifling a yawn, you wrinkled your nose as the lingering scent of hairspray hit your nose. Even though you’d been in the city for three days already, this interview—a cap on a whirlwind press tour—the jetlag was still hard to contend with having hit the ground running since you’d touched down in Heathrow.

Adjusting the delicate layered necklace that rested against the crisp white blouse you wore, you watched as the fluorescent lights above caught on the linked chains. Both were items your stylist had picked out for you. A little rich for your own taste, but you were at the mercy of the machine that was the studio bankrolling this press tour.

Your manager, Olivia, stood beside you and flipped through cue cards with the pre-selected questions for your segment. Her stacked bracelets jingled as she shuffled through them again. “Remember, keep it light and engaging, babe,” she reminded you, ignoring the exasperated sighs of the makeup artist as they tried to work around her. They love a good anecdote on this show.”

You brushed down the front of your pants, picking at an imaginary piece of lint. “Got it?” you nodded, despite the fact that your mind was elsewhere.

Something felt off. There was a tension in the air that set your nerves on edge. You couldn’t put your finger on it—call it intuition, call it a severe lack of sleep, whatever it was—it felt like something was going to tip the balance of that evening.

And then you heard it.

That laugh, that unmistakable laugh followed by a voice you’d hoped you’d never have to hear again, at least not in person. Your heart sank as recognition settled in.

“Is that…?” you began, your eyes widening as you whipped your head around to face Olivia, your make-up artist cursing under their breath.

Before Olivia could respond, the unmistakable presence that was Dieter fucking Bravo sauntered into view. His trademark entourage of hangers-on and ego strokers and a gaggle of studio staff hanging onto his every word. His tousled hair and effortless grin only fueled your irritation further.

“Liv, what’s he doing here?!” you hissed.

She looked genuinely perplexed. “I had no idea he was booked for tonight,” she said, rechecking her phone and the hardcopy of the night's rundown. He is not on the schedule. " You shot her a disbelieving look. “Honestly, babe, I had no clue!”

Dieter’s gaze swept the room before landing on you. His eyes lit up, and a slow mischievous grin spread across his face. He smoothly excused himself from his group, reciting that he’d miss them all equally, if not more, in that Hollywood-cliched faux sincerity before he strode toward you, with that infuriating swagger that was all him.

“Well, well, well, look who it is,” he drawled, stopping just within the boundaries of your personal space, “My favourite almost was co-star, fancy meeting you here,” he shot Olivia a look, throwing her a charming wink that she responded to with a roll of her eyes.

You straightened in your seat before clearing your throat, “Dieter,” you replied cooly, fighting the urge to roll your own eyes.

“Dieter,” Olivia said, turning to address him in the hope of running interference, “always a pleasure,” the tight smile she gave him at a contrast to her greeting.

He ignored her, his focus solely on you, “Funny, they didn’t mention you’d be on the show tonight.”

“Funny,” you echoed, meeting his eye in the reflection of the mirror, “they didn’t mention you’d be here either.”

He let out an obnoxious laugh, the sound grating on your nerves, “Must be our lucky day then,” he said, propping his hip against the vanity table—much to the annoyance of the makeup artist who had now given up trying to complete their job and had moved on to organizing their brushes.

“Or just poor scheduling,” you muttered, wishing for someone or something to give you an excuse to leave.

His eyes finally leaving you his gaze fell on the untouched glass of champagne in front of you, “May I?” he asked rhetorically, the flute already at his lips.

“Help yourself,” you said dryly with a wave of your hand, anything to get him moving on.

He took a sip, “Mmm… a 2000 vintage would you say?” he gave you a smirk and you bristled, “A memorable year wouldn’t you say?” his eyes met yours through the mirror over the rim of the champagne flute, a challenge in his eyes.

You were a damn good actress, but it was a fight to keep your face neutral. You weren’t going to give him this, not the satisfaction of pressing on the still tender bruise of the year everything had gone sideways. The year your promising big break had imploded before it’d even had a chance to begin. All in thanks to the erratic behaviour of the man beside you.

Your jaw tightened, “Is there a reason you’re here Dieter? Or are you simply here to raid the refreshments?”

He downed the remainder of the alcohol, making no attempt to hide his grin, “Can’t a guy catch up with old friends?”

The grin on his face only grew wider when the emphasis on the word friend garnered a visible flinch from you. It might have been a loose truth once upon a time, but you two were the furthest thing from it now.

You arched your eyebrow at him, finally turning in your seat to look up at him, “That’s a generous definition of the word, isn’t it?”

Sensing that Dieter was doing a good job of getting under your skin, Olivia cleared her throat, “We should really get back to prepping here, so if you would excuse us, Dieter.”

Dieter made no move to leave, “Oh, don't let me interrupt,” instead, he plucked the cue cards from Olivia's hand shuffling through them. “Let's see—keep it light and engaging,” he read aloud. “Sounds like riveting stuff, maybe you should tell them about the time at Cannes, you know—with the yacht and that producer you accused of stealing your script idea?” You glared at him, your nails digging into the arms of the chair, “You were…loud. And also right, I think,” he gave an exaggerated frown, “Too bad you puked overboard before you could make your point though.”

You glared at him, “It was food poisoning,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

“Sure,” he nodded, his face giving no indication he believed you.

Before anything else could be said a production assistant appeared, “Mr. Bravo, you’re required over in wardrobe to change.”

Dieter casually handed his glass over to an unimpressed Olivia, who took it with a scowl and held it delicately with two fingers as if it might contaminate her, “Well ladies, always a pleasure running into you both.” Then, turning to you directly, he added, “I heard they’re putting you on before me… break a leg,” he winked with a parting smirk.

“This is un-fucking believable,” you cursed, your eyes reluctantly following Dieter’s retreating figure.

Olivia sucked in a breath, “Don’t let him get under your skin,” she cautioned as she deposited Dieter’s glass on the vanity, wiping her hand on the arm of her jacket, “he’s not worth it.”

“Too late for that,” you muttered under your breath as the makeup artist was finally free to return to touch up the rest of your makeup.

The stage lights bathed you in a warm glow as you settled into the plush chair across from the show’s host. The audience had erupted into applause at your arrival, the lights blocking them from view. You flashed a confident smile, the kind that had won over countless fans.

“Welcome back! Always a pleasure to have you on the show,” the show’s host beamed as he shuffled his cue cards.

“Thank you, it's wonderful to be here,” you replied smoothly, well rehearsed in the etiquette of late-night talk shows. The cameras panned out and for a brief moment, you caught a brief glimpse of the studio audience, rows of bright eyes and bright smiles. You spotted Olivia in the wings, she gave you a reassuring thumbs up.

The interview progressed smoothly, the host effortlessly guiding the conversation through your most recent project, those upcoming, and even touching on your personal life. You played along, deflecting the more personal questions with ease and a light-hearted laugh, well-versed in the art of maintaining your privacy all the while still appearing open and relatable.

“So now,” the host spoke to the audience, your interview at a close, “we have a wee bit of a cheeky surprise waiting for us backstage,” he turned to you with a conspiratorial smile, “and I understand you and our next guest share a connection?”

Your smile tightened as you feigned your best impression of surprise, “Oh gosh, really? I’m intrigued. I do love surprises!”

“Well, you’re in for a good one! Ladies and gentlemen, the one and only Dieter Bravo!”

The audience erupted into a thunderous applause of standing ovations. It was a fight not to roll your eyes, how someone as messy and equally irksome as Dieter Bravo could still command such adoration from the public, you'd never understand.

Dieter strolled onto the stage, dressed in a flashy silk shirt, its buttons undone halfway to reveal the glow of tanned skin and a glint of a chain from which his signature Ray-Bans hung. He waved flamboyantly at the cheering audience, blowing exaggerated kisses that only spurred more applause. You had just stood from your seat to shift over for him—hoping to avoid more contact with him than necessary—when his hands settled firmly on your shoulders and pulled you into a theatrical embrace.

With the lights beaming down on you and the cameras rolling, the heat of his body pressed against yours you forced a grin for the watching crowd. You felt the heat of his breath at your ear, just before he spoke in a whisper only you could hear, “Miss me, gorgeous?”

Despite your best intentions, the words sent a shiver down your spine—whether it was annoyance or something else entirely, you weren’t exactly sure, but it wasn’t time to explore those feelings. The audience oblivious to the crackling tension between you two, ate it up as you went through the motions of allowing him to air kiss you dramatically on each cheek.

He released you just as theatrically, gesturing to the audience to keep cheering and you took the opportunity to slide into your seat, determined to continue your air of unbothered confidence in his presence. Meanwhile, Dieter dropped himself into his seat with the kind of shit-eating grin that said he knew exactly how well he was getting under your skin.

The host, picking up on the dynamics between the two of you, beamed, “Well, well, it looks like our stage just got a little more star-studded. How exciting is this?”

As the audience responded with raucous applause, you exchanged a fleeting glance with Dieter. His eyes glimmered mischievously as he raised a knowing eyebrow at you before launching into a charisma-filled anecdote that had everyone eating out of the palm of his hand. It only did well to remind you of the many times he’d used showmanship to deflect attention.

The host leaned forward eagerly. “It's not often we get two dynamic talents such as you two on one stage! You two worked together a few years back, no?”

“That's right,” Dieter interjected, turning to give you a wide grin before you could open your mouth to respond. “It was a really unforgettable experience.”

You shot him a warning look as you shifted in your seat. “Unforgettable, indeed.”

The host leaned in, clearly enjoying the underlying tension. “Do share!” he encouraged as he looked to the audience’s agreement. “Any memorable moments?”

Dieter leaned back casually, his eyes never leaving your face. “Well, there was that time someone decided to rewrite half the day’s script without telling anyone.”

You felt a spike of irritation as you bristled, “Better than not showing up to set at all, don’t you think?” you countered, forcing a tight smile.

The audience chuckled nervously, sensing the undercurrents between you.

“Ah, creative differences!” the host exclaimed, trying to lighten the mood.

“Something like that,” you said, keeping your tone even.

Dieter leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving your face. “You know, it's all water under the bridge now. Besides, some of us have moved on to bigger and better things.”

“Yes, professionalism can take one far,” you replied sharply.

He smirked. “And a good sense of humour.”

You clenched your jaw, determined not to let him rattle you further.

The host cleared his throat, “So, any chance of a reunion on screen?”

“Unlikely,” you both said in unison.

The audience laughed, and despite yourself, a small smile tugged at your lips. For a fleeting moment, your eyes met his, and something indefinable passed between you.

“Well, one can always hope,” the host said with a wink. “Now, moving on…”

The remainder of the interview continued with practiced ease, though Dieter never missed an opportunity to test your composure. Each surreptitious remark was a calculated attempt to unsettle you, but you held your ground. But by the time the cameras stopped rolling, your patience however had been worn thin.

As you walked backstage, the loud chatter and bustling activity faded into a distant hum. Your pace quickened as you made your way straight to your dressing room, Olivia hot on your heels. Finally reaching your destination, you swung open the door to your dressing room.

“Are you okay?” she asked, concern etched on her face.

“I'm fine,” you replied curtly, though your hands were shaking with frustration. Because despite your best efforts, the memory of Dieter’s smug grin during the interview kept infiltrating your thoughts, a consistent reminder that he had succeeded in getting under your skin.

“At least you won't have to deal with him anymore tonight,” Olivia reassured you.

“Small mercies,” you muttered. Yet even as you said it, you could still feel the unsettled anger burning in your chest that showed no sign of cooling any time soon.

After what felt like an eternity, the commotion of packing up your dressing room finally settled. You breathed a sigh of relief as you opened the door, eager to escape to the comfort of your hotel room. However, before you could take a step forward, a familiar voice rang out from down the hallway, “Leaving already?”

You turned to see Dieter leaning casually against the wall, his gaze unapologetically fixed on you. He looked maddeningly at ease, still dressed in the clothes he’d worn on stage, as though your tense exchanged barbs hadn’t ruffled him in the slightest.

“What do you want?” you snapped, turning to face him against your better judgment.

He shrugged, “Just thought we could catch up,” he said innocently.

“I have nothing to say to you,” you retorted, adjusting the strap of your handbag. “Pulling that shit out there, what the fuck were you thinking?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Still holding a grudge, I see.”

You felt heat rise up your neck. “A grudge? You nearly derailed my career.”

He sighed dramatically. “Must we rehash ancient history? It’s such a bore.”

You felt a surge of anger. “Ancient history? You sabotaged our film and nearly destroyed my career.”

He shrugged, “Depends on how you look at it. I like to think I added a bit of je ne sais quois.”

“You're unbelievable,” you fumed, turning on your heel and striding to the exit. He didn’t even bother calling after you; his amused silence was just another demonstration of his nonchalance to his actions and their consequences—and it only proved to stoke your anger further.

Finally back at your hotel, in the quiet peace of your suite, you relished in the calm after the storm. You’d slipped off your shoes, enjoying the feel of the plush carpet between your toes, before you collapsed onto the sofa. The London city lights twinkled outside your window. Tiny dots across the horizon, highlighting a busy city still moving despite the late hour. Opening a bottle of iced water you’d retrieved from the fridge you tried to unwind. But the night’s surprise encounter with Dieter replayed incessantly and uninvited in your mind.

Before you could reach for your phone, looking for a distraction in the form of some retail therapy, there was a sharp knock at your door.

Frowning, you glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight and you’d already debriefed with Olivia, she’d wished you a good night. Shuffling across the room, pulling on a cardigan as you went, there came a muffled voice from the other side of the door, “Room service.”

Confusion knitted your brow. “I didn't order anything,” you muttered, approaching the door with caution.

On the balls of your feet, you looked up through the spy hole, and groaned when you saw who it was, “You've got to be fucking kidding me,” you said under your breath exasperated. “Go the fuck away, Dieter.”

“Just give me a minute,” he insisted as you watched him scratch at his beard.

You contemplated ignoring him and returning to your bed, but the thought of him loitering outside your door was enough to convince you against your better judgment. The last thing you needed was someone getting wind of Dieter Bravo making a fuss outside your hotel room in the middle of the night. With a sigh, you unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door just enough so that the chain bar was still in place.

“What could you possibly have to say that hasn't already been said?” you demanded.

Dieter held up a hand, a gesture of peace, “Please.”

You hesitated and argued with yourself, “This is highly inappropriate.”

He met your gaze, his expression surprisingly earnest. “I wanted to apologize.”

You shooed him off as you tried to close the door, “Fine. Apology accepted. Goodnight.”

He shoved his foot between the door and its frame, preventing you from closing it. “Can I come in, please?”

You stared at him incredulously, “Why would I ever let you do that?”

“Because I do owe you an apology,” he said, his tone surprisingly earnest, “and you do love to be proven right,” he smirked, knowing you’d let your guard down when he played to your ego. “Come on, it’ll just be a moment.”

You studied him for a moment, he looked too relaxed for what it was he was asking. The dishevelled hair, the t-shirt that looked like it’d never seen an iron, your exasperation wavered for a moment. “You have some nerve showing up after that shit you pulled on national TV.”

He only smiled wider, and it made you want to slap it off of his face. But there was a flicker of something in his eyes, something that suggested that he was possibly genuine in his ask.

“I know,” his voice was devoid of sarcasm, “which is why I couldn’t leave things as they were.”

You pursed your lips together and gave him one last look of lingering frustration before moving back just enough to open the door, begrudgingly allowing him in against your better judgment.

“You have a knack for poor fucking timing Bravo.”

He offered a half-smile. “Better late than never, am I right?”

You regarded him coolly, “You know you really can't just show up at my hotel room,” you told him. “One minute, that’s all you’ve got.”

The smirk on Dieter’s face telling you he believed he’d already won. He produced a bottle of wine from behind his back,

“Technically, I did announce myself as room service,” he pointed out, holding up the bottle of wine, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he ignored the time limit you’d given him.

“Did you steal that from the green room?”

He didn't answer, but his grin told you everything you needed to know.

“You're unbelievable,” you sighed.

You watched as he took in the expanse of your hotel suite. “Nice place,” he remarked.

“Your time is running out,” you reminded him as you checked your watch.

He turned to face you, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry for tonight. For everything, really.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That's quite the blanket apology.”

He shrugged innocently. “Fancy a nightcap?”

You let out a dry laugh. “ You think a bottle of stolen wine and a poor attempt at an apology will fix everything?”

He shrugged, a playful glint in his eye as he spied the wine glasses on the table. “It is a very good wine.”

Despite yourself, you felt a smile tug at the corners of your mouth. “You're absurd.”

“So I've been told,” he said, handing you a generously filled glass.

You clinked yours against his reluctantly. “To better judgment,” you countered dryly.

Dropping onto the sofa, you both sipped in silence for a moment. The wine was rich and full-bodied, warming you from the inside out.

“So, was antagonizing me on live television part of your grand plan?” you finally asked, breaking the silence.

He sighed, swirling the wine in his glass. “Believe it or not, I didn't know you'd be there tonight.”

“I find that hard to believe,” you replied skeptically.

He met your gaze. “It's true. I really was a last-minute addition. Didn’t know I’d be on until half an hour before.”

Silence enveloped the room again, but this time it felt more contemplative than awkward.

“Why are you here, Dieter?” you asked quietly.

He took a deep breath. “I really do want to apologize.”

“She’s in town isn’t she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You rolled your eyes as the realization settled in, you pointed a finger around your wine glass at him, “She turned you down so you’re on my doorstep.” Dieter didn’t say anything, but instead inspected the contents of his wine glass, “Hah, I knew it.”

Dieter’s tumultuous relationships were nothing short of front-page news and he was never short on supplying exploits for further column inches on the topic. However, his hang-up on this particular ex seemed to haunt him more than any of the others. You’d even worked with her once or twice before. A script for a project she was working on was on your desk back home in preparation for auditions the following month. You had no clue how someone so together had ever been with someone like Dieter if you were entirely honest.

You watched him now, with amusement, noting the way his jaw tensed at your accusation.

He narrowed his eyes at you, “She’s got nothing to do with this and I was actually sorry, though very much reconsidering it now,” he grumbled.

You let out a dry laugh, shaking your head. “You're unbelievable, you know that? Classic Dieter Bravo—gets rejected and runs to stir up chaos wherever he can.”

“It's not like that,” he said defensively, though his tone lacked any serious conviction.

You laughed, “Oh please, Dieter. Unfortunately I know you too well. This isn’t about me, it’s about your bruised ego,” you challenged, crossing your arms as you leaned back into the sofa.

He leaned back himself, eyeing you with a mixture of amusement and irritation. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”

“A moment?” you scoffed, “is that what you call this?”

He smirked, “Would you prefer I call it foreplay?”

You nearly choked on your wine, “You’re unrepentant. I can see why she turned you down.”

“Part of my charm,” he winked, though the smile he plastered on his face didn’t meet his eyes.

You took another drink from your glass, it was truly frustrating how this man could occupy so much space in a room, and in your thoughts, without even trying.

“You should go,” you said, dropping your glass to the coffee table with a bit more force than you intended. “I don’t have time for your games tonight Dieter, I have an early flight.”

He reached for his wine glass, draining it, “In that case, I’ll take my leave.”

You raised an eyebrow, this you hadn’t expected, the Dieter you knew would be begging or leaning into some cocky, insufferable line that would make you want to slap him—or kiss him—depending on the day. You watched him gather himself, however he made no move to leave.

A silent impasse passed between the two of you, you bit your lip—you were the first to break, “There’s nothing between us except years of bad history and a mutual inability to get along.”

He tilted his head, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Sure about that?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, “Positive,” you replied, with more conviction than you actually felt.

But he sat there, his presence electric, and it was pissing you off how much you didn’t want him to leave.

Dieter turned towards you, his voice low and coaxing. “You could kick me out,” he said, closing the distance between you both on the sofa, “but you know I’ll always come back.”

“Ever think I don’t want you to?” you shot back, ignoring the waver in your voice.

He leaned in, and you swallowed hard, “Then why am I still here?”

You weighed up your options. There was going to be nothing between the two of you, aside from this bitter back and forth—which if you were honest, was getting rather tiresome as the man was never going to admit true fault. However, you would be a liar if you denied he was handsome, and the idea of getting some satisfaction out of this situation would be appreciated given it had been a while since the last time you’d had sex, let alone sex that was worth remembering. And there he was, sitting on your couch like he owned the place, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to reveal a hint of his chest.

The wine had warmed you and softened the edges of your irritation and as much as you hated to admit it (and you’d never speak it out loud, his ego was big enough as it was), there was something about Dieter Bravo that made it hard to look away.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath and before you could allow any reason to enter your mind you pulled him by the shirt, your lips crashing with his, his just as hungry as yours. The kiss was urgent, messy and a collision of years of pent-up frustration.

His wine glass slipped from his hand, forgotten, as he leaned into you, his hands finding your waist, “Finally,” he murmured against your mouth, smugness dripping from him.

“Don’t ruin it,” you warned, nipping at his bottom lip to shut him up.

Dieter groaned into your mouth as your fingers dove into his hair, his curls twisting around your fingers and you couldn’t help but tug at them, tilting his head to give you better access. He obliged, pulling you closer until you were practically in his lap.

“Dieter,” you murmured, the name tasting strange on your lips.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, laced with amusement.

You didn’t have time to argue with him—not when his hands were tugging at the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one swift motion. You didn’t protest when he discarded it onto the floor, his eyes raking over you with an intensity that made you shiver.

“I still fucking hate you,” you hissed, your lips felt bruised and yet you wanted more of it.

He smiled, “I know, sweetheart. That's what I love about you."

You shook your head, a wry smile breaking through against your better judgment. “You're insufferable.”

“So I’ve been told,” he replied, his eyes never leaving yours.

“One night,” you said firmly. “This doesn't change anything.”

He nodded. “Understood.”

You took his hand, pulling him in the direction of the bedroom. “Come on, before I change my mind.”

The bed creaked under your weight as you fell onto it, his body pressing against yours. His mouth trailed kisses along your collarbone before finding its way back to yours. You gasped as he nibbled on your bottom lip; a mixture of pleasure and frustration surged through you. He tasted like wine and the stubble from his unshaven beard felt deliciously rough against your skin.

Your hands fought with his to unbutton his pants and pull them down, him pulling away momentarily to strip himself of the remainder of his clothes. He crawled back up the bed, his hair an unruly mess—more so than usual—and his smirk firmly in place, as if he had all the time in the world and you weren’t lying there, aflamed and impatient. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes at him, instead grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him closer.

“Stop dragging this out,” you snapped, your voice low and breathless.

“Impatient now?” he teased, he leaned down, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Say please.”

You glared at him, your nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him even closer. “If you don’t shut up and do something useful—”

His mouth silenced you, crashing into yours with a ferocity that made your head spin. His hands roamed over your body, exploring every curve and dip and you couldn’t deny how good it felt—how he seemed to know exactly where to touch to make your breath hitch or your back arch.

“You’re so bossy,” he murmured against your skin as he kissed down the column of your neck, his stubble leaving a trail of delicious friction in its wake. “Kinda sexy.”

“Dieter,” you warned as you lifted your hips for him to rid you of the rest of your clothes.

He hummed, a low gravelly sound as he obliged you, his fingers surprisingly deft as they worked on the clasp of your bra. It too joined the growing pile of discarded clothes on the floor. His hands cupped your breasts, he groaned in delight, his thumbs brushing over your nipples and you had to bite back a moan, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

But when his mouth soon followed, you couldn’t help the sound that escaped your lips. His tongue circled the peak of your nipple, his lips closing around it—with just the right amount of pressure. You fisted his hair, pulling him closer, arching your hips up off of the bed and he chuckled, the vibrations sending a shiver through you.

“Still hate me?” he asked, lifting his head to meet your gaze, his eyes glinting with amusement.

“More than ever,” you lied.

In no time, his clothes were added to the heap on the floor. You pulled him in as he knelt on the bed above you, your legs spread, and ankles hooked around the back of his knees.

He smirked, his hands sliding down to your hips, his fingers digging into you as he pulled you closer, “Sure about that?”

Before you could answer, he was there, pressing against you, the heat of him searing and teasing. You gasped, aching to take him, and he groaned, the sound raw and unfiltered. He nudged his hips, teasing your entrance and it sent a spark of heat up your spine that had you throwing your head back in frustration.

“Dieter,” you breathed out as you looked up at him, a smug smile plastered across his face, you reached up and grabbed the mess of curls at the nap of his neck, “how about instead of running your mouth,” you pulled him down, “you put that mouth to better use?”

The glint in Dieter’s eyes at not only the challenge issued, but the act of you taking charge of the moment from him lit up his face. Needing no direction, he took his tongue and trailed a blazing hot path from your breasts to your navel. His hands were everywhere, just as chaotic as him, mapping your body in a way that made you wonder if he’d been planning this for years. You hated how good it felt, how your body betrayed you by responding so quickly to his touch, so eager. But you couldn’t deny it—Dieter Bravo knew exactly what he was doing.

His mouth reached the apex of your thighs, and you tensed, your breath catching in your throat. His eyes flicked up to meet yours, a smirk playing on his lips as he lowered his head. The first touch of his tongue sent a jolt through you, and you bit back a moan, your hands fisting the sheets as if anchoring yourself to reality. He hummed, a low, approving sound, and the vibration sent a ripple of pleasure through you. You hated that he was good at this, hated that you couldn’t pretend it wasn’t affecting you.

“Stop being stubborn and let go,” he murmured, his voice muffled against your skin. “I can feel how much you want this.”

“You’re impossible,” you ground out, your hips shifting involuntarily against his mouth, your body already deciding whose side it was on.

He laughed, a rough, delicious sound, and continued his relentless assault on your senses. Your resolve crumbled piece by piece, each touch, each kiss, each expert flick of his tongue pulling you under. Your breath came quick and shallow as heat coiled inside you, tighter and tighter.

“Dieter—” This time it was a plea.

“There she is,” he said, a dark chuckle rolling off his lips as he went back to work with renewed vigour.

You gasped as his fingers slid inside you, working in tandem with his tongue, stroking that sensitive spot inside you that made your toes curl. When you finally came, it was with a cry that surprised even you, your body arching off the bed as pleasure coursed through you like a storm.

Dieter crawled back up, his face gleaming with satisfaction, and you pulled him into a kiss that was as much about reclaiming control as it was about desire. He obliged, his lips meeting yours with a hunger that matched your own. You could taste yourself on him, a dizzying reminder of what he’d just done, and yet it only made you want more.

“Say it,” he whispered, his lips brushing against your ear. “Say you want me.”

“You’re insufferable,” you hissed, your nails digging into his back.

He laughed, low and rough. With one thrust, he filled you completely. You cried out, the sound muffled by his shoulder as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden fullness.

“Not so bad, is it?” he murmured, his voice laced with smugness.

You glared at him, but before you could respond, he moved, pulling back—so far back he teased you with the tip and between clouded thoughts of pleasure you were impressed with his ability to hold himself there. He hovered, teasing your entrance, taunting you with the promise of more. But then he thrust forward, burying himself to the hilt in one smooth stroke.

“You're so tight,” he breathed, his voice low and rough with restraint. “I could stay right here forever.”

However it was short-lived, he soon picked up the pace, the headboard knocking rhythmically against the wall as he drove into you with increased urgency with a rhythm that left you breathless. His hands were everywhere, his mouth everywhere, and you couldn’t keep up with the sensations. The room was filled with your mingled moans and gasps echoing off the walls.

You hated him. You hated how he made you feel, how he could reduce you to this—this messy, desperate, undeniable need. But more than that, you hated how good it felt, how right it felt, how it seemed like he was made to fit you.

“Dieter,” you whispered, your voice cracking.

“Yeah?” he asked, his voice rough, his pace faltering for just a moment.

“Don’t stop.”

He laughed again, the sound wild and raw, and obliged, driving into you with a rhythm that left you clawing at the sheets, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper.

You were a mess of contradictions—hate and desire, frustration and pleasure, all tangled together in a knot you couldn’t untangle. But at that moment, you didn’t care. All you cared about was the release building inside you, the tension coiling tighter and tighter until it snapped, sending you soaring.

He followed you over the edge, his body tensing as he buried his face in your neck, his groan muffled against your skin. You both lay there, Dieter’s weight settled on top of you, his face still buried in the crook of your neck. You could feel the hammering of his heartbeat gradually slowing against your chest.

Finally, he pushed himself up, his eyes locking with yours. “Still hate me?” he asked, his voice rough and laced with amusement.

You glared at him, your chest still heaving. “More than ever.”

He smirked, rolling off you and onto his back. “Good. I’d be worried if you didn’t.”