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some-distant-star · 11 days ago

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Neck-kisses and Centerpieces

Synopsis: You bribe Rafayel into attending his own exhibition...and make sure he’s the centerpiece of his new collection—lipstick-stained collar and all.

Content warnings: Explicit sexual content, established relationship, possessive behavior, oral sex (f receiving), marking (lipstick), praise kink, mild dom/sub dynamics, biting, messy makeout, public teasing (lipstick-stained shirt as deliberate marking before a public event), semi-public intimacy (in a car and private parking lot), power play, marking (lipstick stains; neck kisses; love bites), vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, messy kissing/lipstick smudging, reader marks rafayel's shirt and neck with her lipstick, rafayel wears her marks like the centerpiece of his collection, sexual overstimulation, soft aftercare implied

Pairings: Rafayel x reader

Word count: 5.5k words

Of course, you had to bribe Rafayel into attending his own exhibition. He’d made a grand display of resistance that morning—burrowed deep into the ocean of satin sheets, his long limbs tangled possessively around you like ivy claiming its favorite pillar. Even the suggestion of leaving the bed had drawn a low, petulant groan from him, muffled where his lips nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

“But I’m so comfortable, cutie,” he murmured against your skin, his voice laced with sleep and silken mischief. “Why would I subject myself to critics and champagne when I have you, warm and pliant, right here?”

He always knew how to say the most damning things in the most honeyed tone—dragging them out like a lullaby meant to soothe you, when it was his own craving he couldn't tame.

His slender fingers drifted lazily over your barely-covered body, moving with a featherlight reverence that betrayed just how thoroughly he’d memorized you. His touch wasn’t urgent—not yet. It was exploratory, leisurely. Like an artist reacquainting himself with his favorite canvas after too many days apart.

And when his hands found your breasts, cupping and kneading them with just enough pressure to coax a quiet moan from your lips, you didn’t stop him. You couldn’t. Not when he was humming so softly in your ear, as though your body’s reactions were the finest aria he'd ever heard.

“You know,” he whispered, as his hand trailed lower, fingers brushing your inner thigh, “I should be getting ready...Thomas wouldn't let me hear the end of it if I don't actually go to this exhibition tonight.”

But he wasn’t getting ready. Not even close. Not when your hips shifted, seeking him. Not when your breath hitched the moment his fingers slipped between your folds, already wet for him. His chuckle was quiet—low and proud.

“Oh? For me, cutie?” he teased, a smile in his voice as he began to circle your clit with maddening precision, watching how you writhed under his touch. “You always make it so hard to be responsible.”

You arched into him, your bare back pressing into his chest, your body wordlessly pleading for more—more of his fingers, more of his heat, more of that damned smirk you could feel ghosting against your shoulder.

And he gave it to you. All of it.

He dipped his fingers inside, shallow at first, watching with those sharp, violet eyes as your thighs parted just a bit wider, your breath catching each time he curled his fingers just so. And when he set a pace—the one he knew drove you to the edge—you whimpered into the pillow, clutching the sheets like they might anchor you to something solid.

“That's it,” he breathed, lips brushing your shoulder blade as his fingers worked you open, deeper, slower. “Be my good little muse and fall apart for me.”

You did. Your orgasm took you under like a tide, sudden and overwhelming, your cries stifled by the pillow as your body trembled in his arms. But he wasn’t done—not even close.

By the time his mouth replaced his fingers, pressing soft kisses to the inside of your thigh before licking a slow, sinful stripe over your aching heat, you were already moaning again—already lost.

He moaned with you, the sound low and desperate, his cheeks flushed as he tasted you like a man starved. His hands gripped your thighs, keeping you open for him, as his tongue drew tight, wet circles that had your breath catching and hips bucking.

And when your gaze met his—those gleaming amethyst eyes peering up at you from between your legs, drunk on the taste of your pleasure—he smiled. Smug. Beautiful. Yours.

And even after all that—after the teasing, the worship, the long hours tangled together in silken sheets—you remained insistent that Rafayel attend his own exhibition.

Predictably, he whined. Lounging beside you with limbs too long and too unwilling to move, he pressed lazy, open-mouthed kisses to your neck, sighing dramatically against your skin.

“Cruel little thing,” he murmured, voice muffled as his lips traced your collarbone. “Sending me off to suffer while you stay here, warm and soft and far more captivating than a room full of hollow praise.” His arms tightened around you, coaxing you closer. “I loathe those insufferable critics, you know. Always sniffing around for something clever to say, when they wouldn’t know art if it bit them.”

You laughed softly, not moving—because you knew he wasn't finished.

“I should stay,” he continued, nuzzling the curve of your throat, lips brushing sensitive skin between every word. “Stay here, cook for you, kiss you until you forget your name, and make you dinner in nothing but paint and bad intentions.”

His pout was theatrical, the kind that would’ve earned a standing ovation if petulance were an art form. But you only arched a brow and met him with a quiet, teasing smile—the one that said you’re not getting out of this, and we both know it.

So yes, cruel you made him go.

You watched him get ready in a haze of golden evening light, trailing kisses and tangled limbs making the process slower than it needed to be. Every time you reached for your book or your glass of water, he’d pull you back with a muttered protest and a mouthful of complaint. Still, eventually, Rafayel rose from the bed in a reluctant sprawl of limbs and attitude, muttering something about "inhumane schedules" as he began to dress.

He stood before the mirror, buttoning a crisp new designer shirt—pristine white, delicately embroidered, decadent in the way all his things were. The fabric clung just right across his shoulders, open at the collar like he couldn’t be bothered to tame himself entirely. He watched you through the reflection, his eyes trailing from your legs to the loose fall of your hair, then pausing—of course—at the shirt you wore.

His.

It drowned your frame in soft cotton and expensive scent, falling off one shoulder, barely reaching your thighs. You caught the shift in his gaze, the slow drag of it, the way his tongue darted out just slightly to wet his lips.

“Keep looking at me like that,” you warned without lifting your eyes from your book, “and you're going to be late.”

“But cutie,” he drawled, smoothing his palms down the front of his shirt with exaggerated dismay. “I already told Thomas not to expect anything punctual from me. You see what a menace you’ve made of me?”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop smiling. He was impossible. “Were you ever punctual, Rafayel?”

You flipped a page, more for effect than content—you hadn’t absorbed a single sentence. Rafayel’s presence was too magnetic, even when he was sulking from halfway across the room. Your words came soft and coaxing, the same way a mother might sweet-talk a child into facing the world: gentle, amused, patient.

And just when you thought he might accept defeat with a final melodramatic sigh, he turned on you. He crawled onto the bed with feline ease, settling at the edge as his hand wrapped possessively around your ankle. With one sharp tug, he dragged you halfway down the mattress.

You yelped in protest, clutching your book to your chest as you glared at him, indignant.

“Rafayel!”

He only smirked. “Shhh, I’m making a very persuasive argument.”

His mouth followed, peppering kisses along your shin, your knee, soft and slow and annoyingly effective. His hands slid beneath the hem of the shirt—his shirt—thumbs brushing your thighs with infuriating intent.

“This isn’t fair,” you muttered, squirming as his lips found the inside of your thigh.

“I know,” he said, sighing dramatically. “But when have I ever been fair?”

His fingers skimmed higher, just enough to tease, not enough to distract completely. Then he leaned up, nosed along your stomach, and whispered against your navel, “Come with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“To the exhibition,” he said, smiling against your skin. “You’ll be the dazzling thing on my arm, and I’ll pretend not to stare at you all night. We both lie beautifully, don’t we?”

You tried to resist—truly, you did—but the kisses turned playful, the touches turned ticklish, and Rafayel’s laughter curled in your ear like silk ribbon. You kicked at him half-heartedly, rolling your eyes and groaning into your palms, but he had already won. He always did, eventually.

So you got up.

The dress you chose was one of many he'd had custom-made for you—his taste, not yours, though he insisted they flattered you better than anything you'd ever owned. Tonight’s was a silky wine-red number, delicate and daring. It dipped low at the back, skimmed your curves, and whispered decadence with every sway of fabric.

You caught his breath hitch as he looked at you—no smirk this time, no quip. Just the quiet, unguarded hunger of a man already planning how to peel it off you again.

“Eyes up,” you teased as you passed him, heels clicking on the polished floor.

He smiled, slow and sinful. “No promises.”

He drove, of course—because no one touched his car but him. The low purr of the engine echoed off the marble-lined driveway as he backed out, one hand on the wheel, the other already reaching for you without looking. You settled into the passenger seat with easy grace, legs crossed and body relaxed, the hem of your dress sliding just high enough to reveal a sliver of bare thigh.

He noticed. His gaze flicked to you as the engine rumbled to life, and then down—lingering in a not-so-subtle double take. A soft, appreciative sound left his lips as his hand wandered, inevitably, to rest on your thigh. His fingers splayed there like they belonged, brushing absent circles against your skin as he pulled out onto the road with all the elegance of a man pretending not to be distracted.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he murmured, almost lazily, but you could hear the heat tucked beneath his voice. “And I was going to suffer tonight anyway. How considerate.”

You smirked, offering no apology, just a sideways glance that said you started this.

He hated these events—especially this one. It was a new collection, something more personal, rawer than usual, and Thomas had practically begged him to show his face at the opening. Rafayel knew he had to attend. He even understood the importance. But that never stopped the dramatic sighs, the mumbled curses, or the reluctant way he clung to you like a lifeline all afternoon, trying to coax you into staying in bed until midnight.

You knew he’d hate every second of it—every empty compliment from people who didn’t understand a single stroke on his canvas, every flash of a camera from critics pretending to care. But he would endure it.

Because you were coming with him.

The two of you were a vision—effortless decadence, the kind of duo that turned heads before stepping out of the car. You knew the paparazzi would be ready, cameras greedy to capture Rafayel, infamous and infuriating, and you—the unnamed muse, the one always just out of reach in the photos. And tonight, you both looked like temptation incarnate.

When he pulled into the private garage beneath the gallery, he didn’t move to exit. Instead, he leaned over and tugged you gently toward him, catching you off guard with a kiss—sweet at first, then deeper, as though he wanted to make a mess of you before you ever made it out the door.

He groaned as your lipstick smeared against his mouth, lips plush and stained and kissed senseless.

“Oh, look what you’ve done,” he whispered against your lips, delighted, licking the red from the corner of his mouth like it was icing. “I’m ruined.”

“You love it,” you breathed back, letting your nails trail idly along his jaw.

He didn’t deny it.

You were the one to pull back first, only for him to chase after you again, another kiss, another soft moan at the back of his throat. He kissed you like he couldn’t help himself, like one taste would never be enough.

When he tried again—eyes dark, tongue flicking into your mouth—you stopped him with a finger to his lips, your voice low and warm.

Your eyes gleamed with mischief and quiet delight as you unbuckled your seatbelt and moved—gracefully, deliberately—into his lap. The luxurious interior of his sports car wrapped around you like a cocoon, tinted windows protecting the little world you created, tucked safely in a private corner of the exhibition’s underground parking.

His arms locked around your waist the moment you settled there, and his eyes gleamed, his fingers sliding up beneath the hem of your dress like he couldn’t help himself. His eyes sparkled, that distinct violet sheen catching the golden interior light—equal parts curiosity and hunger.

You leaned in close, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear as you murmured your terms. A simple little proposal, whispered like a secret but delivered like a dare.

“You behave tonight,” you said, each word slow and deliberate, “smile for the cameras, say something nice about your own art for once… and I’ll make sure you don’t regret it when we get home.”

He gave a soft, sinful laugh—low in his throat, breath warm against your shoulder. “Define behave,” he drawled, hands tightening just slightly.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you smirked and began to leave a trail of kisses along the edge of his neck—slow, intentional, each one blooming into a red mark as your lipstick bled into his pale skin. Then, downward, onto the crisp collar of his pristine white shirt. Petal-soft stains where buttons met silk. Your mouth left deliberate proof in places you knew he wouldn’t bother to cover up.

“You’re so…fuck, you’re cruel, cutie.” he muttered, but he tilted his head to give you more of his throat, voice fraying at the edges.

“And you’re the centerpiece tonight,” you whispered back, lips brushing the sharp line of his jaw, “so I’m just helping you look the part.”

His breath hitched just slightly, but enough for you to notice. His eyes darkened, half-lidded now, no longer playful. His fingers gripped your hips with a slow, possessive firmness, and his body tensed beneath yours as your lips marked him again, and again, painting him like a canvas with nothing but color and intent.

You could feel the shift in him—restraint coiling beneath his skin, battling the very real temptation to forget the exhibition entirely and ruin you right here, in the front seat of his car. But Rafayel was nothing if not dramatic. He’d wait. He’d endure. Because he always performed better with anticipation crackling just beneath the surface.

When he finally surged upward to kiss you, it was with heat and hunger. His mouth claimed yours in a kiss that left no room for games. He kissed you like he wanted to swallow the sound of your laugh, like he needed to taste every corner of your mouth just to keep breathing. And when you pulled back—just before he could kiss you again—you did so with a quiet chuckle, placing one finger against his lips.

“Ah ah,” you whispered. “Be good.”

His lips parted against your finger, as if to argue—but he didn’t. He only exhaled a low sound, eyes gleaming with something wicked.

You let your hand trail slowly down his shirt, admiring your own handiwork—lipstick prints blooming like poppies across silk. You made a soft, approving hum in your throat, pleased.

You could feel him beneath you, the tension in his body, the low burn of desire radiating off him in waves. You knew exactly what he was thinking, what he was imagining. And oh, he would behave tonight—but only because he knew what waited on the other side of those gallery doors. You. Him. That same white shirt on the floor by midnight.

You pressed a single, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth—almost sweet, if not for the smirk curling at the edges—and then climbed off his lap with elegance intact, smoothing down your dress.

As you reached for your lipstick, angling the mirror just so, you could see him behind you—still sprawled in the driver’s seat, still breathless, watching you like you’d stepped out of one of his more dangerous daydreams.

And when you reapplied that perfect shade of red, smiling at your reflection like nothing had just happened, he groaned under his breath.

“Cruel little thing,” he muttered, voice thick with admiration.

You capped the lipstick, turned just slightly, and offered a wink over your shoulder. “I did say behave.”

The moment you both stepped into the exhibition hall—hand in hand, heels clicking against polished marble and the hum of curated ambience pressing in—Rafayel’s grip on your hand tightened ever so slightly.

Not possessive. Not anxious. Just restraint. A simmering tension curled beneath his skin like velvet smoke, elegant and barely leashed. You felt it in the way his fingers flexed against yours, in the slow inhale he took as dozens of eyes turned toward him—some hungry, others expectant, all of them curious.

But Rafayel was smug. Radiantly, shamelessly smug.

He wore the white shirt like it was couture straight from the hands of a fevered designer, the red lipstick stains across his collar and throat blooming like abstract roses. It clung to him like sin made tangible, and he knew it. He moved through the gallery like the shirt itself was the most scandalous piece on display—and perhaps it was.

Because for Rafayel, that wasn’t just a shirt. It was you. Your touch. Your mouth. Your claim. And tonight, he was the exhibit.

The collection—his newest body of work—lined the walls in soft, reverent lighting. Large canvases rendered in moody palettes, strokes that screamed both intimacy and violence. But he didn’t glance at them. Not once.

He didn’t need to.

What was art, after all, compared to the feeling of your lipstick drying on his skin?

Critics swarmed like perfume-choked bees, notepad screens flickering, velvet programs clutched in manicured hands. Questions began to form—about brush technique, symbolism, inspiration—but they faltered when they looked at him. At the crimson smudges along his collar, the faint curve of one perfect lip mark half-hidden beneath the lapel.

The bolder ones tried, of course. "Is that part of the exhibition, or...?"

Rafayel tilted his head, gaze lazy and lidded, the hint of a smirk coiling at the corner of his mouth. His arm slipped easily around your waist, tugging you in just enough to make a point without ever saying one aloud.

“She did that,” he said simply, his voice dipped in honey and just a touch of menace. “And no, it’s not coming off.” He paused, let the weight of his words settle between camera shutters and shallow laughter. “It’s the centerpiece of tonight’s collection.”

The critics laughed, nervously. The journalists didn’t know what to write. But Rafayel didn’t care. Not about their reactions, not about their interpretations, not even about the paintings he’d spent months pouring onto canvas. His eyes only gleamed when he looked at you—the slight tilt of his lips softening just for a breath, just enough for you to catch the truth behind the bravado.

This whole room could burn, and he wouldn’t blink. But you? You left your mark on him, claiming him shamelessly. And he would make damn sure everyone saw it.

————

Rafayel behaved. Miraculously. All night, he remained the picture of composure—poised, smirking, just aloof enough to remain untouchable. But he never let you stray more than a breath away. Whether it was his fingers brushing along the small of your back or the casual drape of his arm around your waist, he kept you within reach at all costs. A silent claim, unspoken but absolute.

And toward the end of the evening, you could feel the shift.

The way his body leaned ever so slightly closer. The way his thumb dragged lazily along your hipbone as another critic rambled on. The way his voice dipped when he leaned down, brushing his lips against the shell of your ear like a secret only meant for your skin.

“Almost over,” he whispered, tone velvety, warm, and low. “And then I’m taking you home, cutie. Not another second here.”

You didn’t need to glance at him to know the look in his eyes. That heat. That hunger. That glint that said he’d had enough of playing nice.

And when the crowd thinned, the cameras dimmed, and the final string of perfunctory goodbyes were exchanged, he all but dragged you through the private exit. His fingers laced with yours as you crossed the quiet parking lot, and the moment you slid into the passenger seat, you knew. He was done pretending.

The ride home blurred. You barely remembered the turns. Just the way his hand splayed over your bare thigh, thumb tracing absent, possessive circles. The quiet hum of the engine beneath you. The way his eyes flicked toward you at every red light, hungry and unreadable.

By the time you stepped through the door, the act had unraveled completely. He pressed you back against the nearest wall the moment it shut behind you, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that was less kiss, more hunger made tangible. You gasped into him, your lipstick already smeared, his breath ragged as he chased the sound of your pleasure like it was oxygen.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your neck, his voice hoarse, the kind of desperate low tone that only surfaced when he’d been holding himself back too long. “You’ve no idea what that dress did to me the whole night.”

His hands roamed like they had a destination and a deadline—under your dress, over the curves of your body, gripping your ass, your waist, your thigh. One hand lifted your leg up and over his hip as he pressed you flush to the wall, mouth dragging along your jaw, down to your throat, groaning softly when you tilted your head to give him more.

He didn’t need to say it. You felt it. The way his arousal pressed against you, so hard it was almost unbearable. The way his body trembled with restraint even as he kissed you like a man starving. The way his hands trembled just slightly when they slid beneath the delicate fabric of your dress.

“You looked divine and all mine,” he muttered, words slurred against your collarbone, teeth grazing as he spoke. “And I was good. All night, I behaved. Even when you marked me like that—made me walk around smelling like you...with the marks of your soft, sinful lips all over my neck and shirt…”

You moaned when he said it, when his voice cracked with need, when he rocked into you harder, his breath turning shallow.

You tangled your fingers into his soft, purple hair, tugging gently until he lifted his face to meet yours. His amethyst eyes were blown wide, glazed with desire, devouring you. His lips were red and stained and parted like he was just waiting for permission.

You gave it to him with a smile.

“Such a good boy,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his ear, letting your breath make him shudder. “You behaved so nicely tonight. So now... you get to do anything you want to me.”

The sound he made was low and broken. And the smirk that followed, oh, it was all teeth and ruin. He wasn’t going to waste a single second.

His hips rolled into yours with aching precision, dragging a moan from both of your throats as if your bodies had conspired to speak the same language. His breath caught, just for a moment, as your heat pressed up against the hard length straining through his black , designer pants—and then his eyes lit with something primal, amethyst catching the low light like stained glass on fire.

And that was it.

He kissed you again—messy, reverent, like you were the only religion he still believed in—and your back hit another wall with a gasp, the coolness behind you a sharp contrast to the way his hands burned against your skin. Your dress was gone in a blur of motion, practically torn from your body between hurried kisses and fingers that clutched like they couldn’t get enough. His shirt followed with a few deft flicks, the buttons scattering like lost thoughts, and then his pants fell away, forgotten somewhere in the space between hallway and bedroom.

He carried you with the kind of impatience that didn’t bother hiding itself—hands everywhere, touch frantic but purposeful, his lips grazing your shoulder even as he stumbled past the doorway. And then, the bed.

You landed with a rustle of sheets, limbs tangled, mouths colliding again. His teeth caught your bottom lip just enough to sting, and then he was gone—sliding down your body with a lazy, maddening grace. His mouth dipped low, tongue teasing you through the drenched fabric of your underwear, every slow lick sending sparks through your spine.

“Rafayel—” you gasped, but he just hummed, nose brushing your skin as if you’d said something amusing.

With one hand, he unclasped your bra—tossing it behind him like it offended him—and the other hand was already closing around your breast, fingers rolling your nipple between their tips. You arched beneath him, helpless and wanting, a moan slipping from your lips as he sucked and licked through the soaked lace below.

His voice was low and wrecked when he finally pulled the fabric down your legs, eyes drinking you in like the sight of you undressed was an answer to a question he hadn’t known he was asking.

“I knew it,” he breathed, fingers brushing through the slick mess between your thighs, “You were wet the whole night under that little dress. Walking around like a work of art…knowing exactly what you were doing to me. You know just how to rile me up, don't you?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but then his fingers slipped inside and you forgot how to speak.

The rhythm he set was steady, sure, merciless in its precision. His thumb circled your clit with slow, taunting ease while his fingers curled inside you, dragging out sounds you couldn’t muffle. Your hands found his hair, tugging him up toward your neck just as he bit down softly, groaning into your skin at the praise that tumbled from your lips between moans.

“How could I not be, when you were so good,” you breathed, voice trembling. “You behaved so well, wearing my marks so proudly the entire night. You deserve this, every second of it.”

He made a sound at that—low, broken, almost a whimper. His teeth sank into the delicate skin beneath your jaw again, and his fingers moved faster, wetter, the obscene sounds of your arousal filling the space between kisses. You shook beneath him, every part of you unraveling with dizzying speed as your climax built, impossibly sharp and near.

And then—release. You shattered around his hand, crying out into his mouth as your body arched and clenched, wetness coating his fingers. He kissed you through it, swallowing your moans, voice raw and reverent when he murmured, “Beautiful. Always so good for me.”

You barely caught your breath before whispering it—desperate, breathless, the need blooming again too quickly.

“I want you inside me,” you whispered against his ear, voice soft and pleading, “You’ve earned it, haven’t you? I want to feel you, all of you. Want to welcome you warmly, make you feel good.”

His breath caught, cheeks flushed, eyes wide and dark and so very undone. His underwear vanished in an instant, tossed with the same careless urgency that burned behind his every touch. And then he was there, between your trembling thighs, his body hot and heavy against yours.

He dragged his fingers over your clit once, twice—drawing another whimper from your lips—and then he lined himself up and pushed inside.

You both moaned at once. He buried himself in one slow, delicious thrust, and the world narrowed to nothing but the stretch, the heat, the fullness. His hands gripped your hips, his jaw clenched tight as he sank into you, pulse pounding in his throat as he bottomed out.

“Fuck,” he hissed, forehead pressing to yours, “You’re perfect. Every time.”

He didn’t wait anymore because he couldn’t. His rhythm built fast—each thrust deep, hungry, desperate in the way only Rafayel could be when he’d denied himself all night. And you took it—took him—with open arms, soft gasps, legs wrapped tight around his waist, your nails dragging down his back like you never wanted to let him go. Because you didn’t. Because you wouldn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about being inside you all night, cutie.”

His voice was a husky whisper against your ear, words blurred at the edges with need, and the thrust that followed nearly knocked the air from your lungs. You clenched around him instinctively, welcoming him deeper, tighter, and he groaned—long and low, as if the pleasure was more than his body could hold.

“Couldn’t stop picturing it,” he rasped, hips snapping harder now, the rhythm punishingly sweet. “You wrapped so tight around my cock, like you were made to keep me here.”

The pace he set was fast, relentless—each movement slick and deliberate, his body pressed to yours like he wanted to crawl inside your skin. He was so hard inside you, every vein thick beneath your palm when you gripped the base of his spine. So tense, holding back, holding on. He always did. That slow burn of disobedience, even now.

Your moans filled the room like soft music—punctuated by gasps as he hit that spot inside you over and over again, perfectly, devastatingly. Your body bowed for him, melted into the mattress beneath his weight, one leg thrown over his shoulder, the other trembling around his waist. He groaned into your skin when you clenched around him again, unashamed.

The kiss you shared was messy and breathless, more tongue than finesse, teeth clashing as his hips rolled faster. His lips dragged down to your neck, your collarbone, and he kept talking through each ragged breath.

“So sweet for me,” he whispered, voice shaky with pleasure. “So fucking good, taking me like you’re addicted to it.”

You weren’t even sure what you replied—just that you praised him back in fevered gasps, telling him how perfect he felt, how much you loved the way he fucked you, how he always knew your body better than you did.

“F-fuck, cutie... you’re squeezing me so hard.” His moan stuttered as his hand slipped between your bodies again, fingers pinching your nipple until you gasped his name. “Wanna come inside you. Want to mark you up, fuck you so full—”

Another moan spilled from his throat, cut off halfway as you clenched around him again, deliberately this time, watching how his face twisted in bliss.

You could feel him trembling. So close. So desperately close.

But Rafayel never let himself come first. That was one of his rules, spoken or not. He held on, gritting through every wave of near-release until you fell apart beneath him first.

It didn’t take much more. Just a few more deep, rough thrusts—his hands on your breasts, his mouth sucking at your neck like he wanted to brand you there—and you broke. Your climax hit hard, your walls fluttering around him in rhythmic pulses, your voice catching as you cried his name like a mantra. His name, again and again, until you came undone completely beneath him.

That was all it took.

A guttural groan tore from his throat as he finally let go, hips bucking once, twice, before he spilled into you with a stuttering breath. His mouth dropped to your neck as he rode it out, panting, body shaking, your nails dragging lazy red trails down his back.

“F-fuck, cutie... ‘m gonna—shit—” His voice fractured as he pressed deep inside you one last time, burying himself completely as warmth bloomed between your thighs.

You stayed tangled like that for a moment, bodies hot and slick, breathing each other in. He kissed you again, slower now, more languid. And when you let out a soft chuckle against his lips, he tilted his head like he already knew something was coming.

“You should let Thomas drag you to your exhibitions more often,” you teased, your voice raspy but full of amusement, your hand sliding through his damp hair.

He groaned—half-exhausted, half-mock offended—and dropped a kiss to your jaw.

“I’ll go,” he murmured breathlessly, smirking against your skin. “If you promise to reward me like this every single time.” his voice dropped to a purr. “I might even start looking forward to them.”

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