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the-lonelybarricade · 3 years

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Can't Keep My Hands to Myself

My @acotarsecretsanta fic <3

My SS requested a NSFW Feysand sugar daddy/modern AU set on solstice. This is what I've created, it's the most explicit thing I've put on AO3 and tumblr to date, and I hope you all enjoy it!

Words: 6,941

Read on AO3

Some days Feyre felt like she was in a Groundhog Day loop and had just never paid close enough attention to notice. The days came out and in, an ever marching grind of school work and double shifts that were so monotonous she would have believed someone had just hit copy and paste on her life. Surely there was variation in the faces that came through the cafe, but for each unmemorable customer there was at least one regular to remind Feyre that her life was subject to unending routine.

There was only one face that broke this cycle—a customer with a pair of eyes so vividly blue they almost looked purple under the cafe’s fluorescent lights. Unlike most regulars, who stopped by on their trips to and from work, his appearance didn’t seem scheduled. Sometimes Feyre held her breath wondering when he would come in each day—for he always showed up at some point. Every day, without fail.

That her break from monotony hinged on the arrival of an unpredictable customer wasn’t lost on her, but there was something about him that always made her heart stop. He was unfairly handsome, so much so that Feyre had nearly forgotten how speech worked the first time he’d visited. They’d never exchanged words beyond coffee orders, and that was fine. Judging from the suits he always came in wearing, it was obvious he was wealthy and far outside of her league.

But that didn’t stop her heart from stuttering each time he walked through the door, practically exuding fortune and power from his walk alone, someone clearly used to commanding a room. He only ever ordered the same thing, so by the time he reached the counter, Feyre usually had his large black coffee already in hand.

“Good morning, sir,” she usually greeted him, sliding the coffee across the counter.

To which he usually quirked his lips into something that looked more like a smirk than a smile, but was dazzling all the same. He’d press a crisp ten dollar bill onto the counter, raise his coffee gratefully, and say, “keep the change, darling.”

That was always the extent of their conversation, and perhaps she was imagining things, but with every passing day it seemed the warmth in his eyes seemed to grow, the quirk of his lips approaching something more genuine.

Just when Feyre thought she was truly going to succumb to the exhausting drudgery her life had become, something came along to finally break her routine. A phone call, coming just after the morning rush where the crowd flow was manageable enough to leave to her manager, who smiled permissibly.

Feyre ducked into the back room, frowning when she saw the call was from her landlord.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Feyre. This phone call will be accompanied by an email and written letter so you have everything in writing, but I’m calling to let you know in advance that we’ll be increasing rent on all tenancies in the next calendar month.”

Feyre squeezed her eyes shut, taking a heavy breath. “By how much?”

“For your tenancy, it will be an additional $650 per month.”

650. Feyre was barely making ends meet as it was, and that was almost an entire extra week of work.

“I know times are hard right now, Feyre, that’s why I wanted to give you as much of a heads up as possible.”

“Thank you for letting me know,” she croaked, not feeling the least bit grateful at all. She hung up the phone, trying to take a steady breath to regain her composure before she went back on the floor.

She was trying her best not to descend into a spiral of panic, wondering how she could possibly afford to pay the rent increase. Feyre was living paycheck to paycheck, she didn’t have enough saved up for a deposit to move somewhere more affordable.

Though she tried to switch back to her customer service face, her manager, Alis, seemed to read right through it.

“Received some bad news, I take it?”

Feyre bit her lip. “Would it be possible to increase my hours?”

“Increase your hours?” Alis repeated incredulously. “Honey, you already work a double nearly every day. You’re working yourself to the bone as it is.”

“Can I take Sundays?”

Alis narrowed her eyes. “That’s your one day off a week, Feyre. When are you going to have time for school?”

“They just increased my rent, Alis,” Feyre said quietly, wishing her voice didn’t crack. “I won’t be able to afford it otherwise.”

Alis pursed her lips. “Let me go check the books, maybe we’ll be able to afford giving you a pay rise.”

Feyre nearly sagged in relief. “Thank you, Alis.”

The older woman clucked her tongue, offering her an affectionate pinch on the cheek before she snuck into the back, leaving the floor to Feyre.

Feyre looked towards the counter, cheeks burning when she realized that he was standing at the counter, purple eyes boring into her. She flushed, plastering an apologetic smile on her face.

“My apologies for the wait sir, I’ll get started on that black coffee for you.”

She took to the task, grateful for both the distraction and the excuse to duck her head out of his sight, praying he hadn’t overheard very much of her conversation with Alis. How utterly embarrassing.

When she slid the coffee over to him on the counter, his usual ten dollar bill was replaced by a crisp benjamin franklin. At first, Feyre thought nothing of it, scooping the bill up as she asked, “how would you like your change back?”

“Keep it,” he said.

Feyre paused. Astonished. “You don’t have to do that, sir.”

He only smiled, this one much more genuine than the rest, showing off his perfectly white teeth. “I want to. See you tomorrow, darling.”

Completely stunned, Feyre broke the $100 into the correct change, adding it to the tip jar. “Only 550 left, then,” she mumbled, struck sentimental by the generosity of a stranger.

That was until he tried to do it again the next day.

“Sir, I really can’t accept this,” she said. “It’s far too generous.”

He raised a perfectly groomed brow. “From what I overheard yesterday, it sounds as though you need the extra help.”

“I’m not looking for a benefactor,” she said tightly. “I don’t feel comfortable accepting this kind of money from a stranger.”

He only smiled, extended his hand. “Rhysand.”

“Sorry?”

“Rhysand—that’s my name. So now we aren’t strangers.”

She couldn’t help her small laugh of disbelief. “I’m afraid knowing your name does little to change the fact that you’re a stranger.”

Shaking her head, she handed him back his change, but could do little against the fact that he immediately popped it into the tip jar and went on his way without another word.

The next time he came in, Feyre pointed her finger at him menacingly, which he seemed to find very amusing. “I’m not serving you until you promise me that you won’t leave a tip.”

He only grinned. “That’s a bit unconventional.”

Feyre fixed him with a heavy stare, and with a sigh he relented, holding up his arms amicably. “I promise I won’t tip you.”

She handed him his coffee, and to her relief, he didn’t tip her. He just winked and said, “see you tomorrow, darling.”

Sure enough, the next day Rhysand had gone back to his regular ten dollar bill, to Feyre’s relief and his seemingly unending amusement. And though she gotten a handle on the too generous customer—who at least now had a name—there was still the dilemma of being able to pay rent.

Which was how Feyre ended up moving in with Mor, her closest friend who was more than excited to let Feyre live on her sofa. It was only temporary, until she’d saved up enough money for a deposit. And with Feyre’s schedule, it’s not as though she spent very much time in the house at all—it was mostly just a place to sleep between shifts and classes.

“I’m worried about you,” Mor told her one morning around a mouthful of cereal, watching Feyre dash around to get ready. “This isn’t sustainable, babe. You’re going to burn yourself out if you keep it up.”

“I know,” Feyre sighed. “I just have to get through this last semester.”

She threw open the door, in a hurry to get to her shift, and ran smack into the broad chest of a man standing on the other side. Strong arms reached out to catch her, and the apologies spilling from her lips dried up the second her eyes met a pair of burning violets.

“Oh, Feyre, this is my cousin Rhys,” Mor said from behind her. “He usually gives me a lift to work. Rhys, this is the friend I was telling you about, Feyre.”

“Hi,” Feyre squeaked, mind swirling in disbelief that the customer she’d been hardcore crushing on just happened to be her best friend’s cousin. Rhys looked to be just as shocked, but as he opened his mouth, Feyre scrambled out of his grip and apologetically explained that she was late for work. She practically fled to her car, not daring to glance back and see if he was watching.

Feyre supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised when he showed up to the cafe later that day.

“Feyre,” he said in greeting, voice rich and dark as the coffee she handed to him.“To think the pretty girl at the cafe is the one who moved onto my cousin’s sofa.”

She tried to muster a smile, wishing her attention didn’t catch on the word pretty like a scratched record. “Small world.”

“We’re not strangers much at all, it seems.”

“I’d still consider you one,” she asserted, raising a brow.

“What can I do to change that?” Rhys asked, leaning forward. He hadn’t paid yet—though there was no one else in line, it made Feyre feel nervous since she had no excuse to duck out of the conversation. “Can I take you out to dinner?”

She was lying to herself in saying she wasn’t tempted. And she felt better knowing that he was related to Mor, but—“Honestly, Rhysand, my schedule is crazy. I barely have time to eat a granola bar let alone go out to dinner.”

His lips twitched, as though trying not to smile. Feyre couldn’t fathom what could have possibly been amusing about what she said, but at least he finally slid her a ten dollar bill.

“I think I liked it better when you called me sir.”

Something about the implication of those words made Feyre feel as though she’d swallowed a hummingbird, and it was still fluttering around in her chest. She prayed her blush wasn’t obvious as she handed him back his change, hardly paying attention as he dropped it in the tip jar and left.

⟡⟡⟡

As the holidays loomed closer Feyre was finding she was busier than ever. The cafe was swarmed constantly and every class had deadlines that needed to be completed before the end of semester. She really was starting to feel burnt out, but she could hardly take a break when every aspect of her life was demanding so much from her. The pressure was starting to feel crippling, but if she just pushed a little longer—

Her internal monologue was disrupted by the heavy crash of a tray of coffee as it hit the floor.

She’d been rushing to deliver drinks to a pair of seated customers, and was trying to focus on so many things at once that she hadn’t noticed the man who’d stepped into her path.

The sight of the spilled coffee with a line nearly to the door was almost enough to put her on the verge of hysterics, made all the worse when she looked up to apologise to the victim and saw it was none other than Rhysand, with a dark stain all over the front of what was an undoubtedly expensive shirt.

“We should stop meeting like this, Feyre Darling.”

“Rhys—“ she choked, feeling the tears welling up and trying so desperately to fight them. “I am so sorry. I’ll pay for you to get that dry cleaned and I’ll get you a coffee on the house. And—“

“Hey,” he chided, pressing a hand to her shoulder. “Take a deep breath, darling. Go deal with the line, we can talk after.”

She thought his wording sounded vaguely ominous, but his eyes were gentle. It settled her nerves enough to nod and rush back behind the counter to remake the drinks she’d just dumped on his chest.

The line was endless and lasted until the end of her shift, but Rhys waited, looking thoughtful from where he sat at one of the high tables. She let him stay as she closed up, making him a coffee before she turned off the machines.

He looked up as she joined him at the table.

“Sorry again,” she said, sliding the coffee to him like a peace offering. “I should have been paying better attention.”

“That’s alright, darling.” His long, elegant fingers curled around the cardboard cup. Feyre’s wished she wasn’t always so scrutinous to detail—she had been doing just fine without noticing Rhys’s perfect fingers, and now she felt quite wrecked at how much she wanted to feel them elsewhere. As her eyes finally trailed up to meet his face, she saw that he was smirking, as if he could see right past to her impure thoughts. “I was thinking of ways you could make it up to me.”

“Getting it dry cleaned isn’t enough?” She asked nervously, worried he might insist she buy a replacement, certain she couldn’t afford one.

“No, I don’t need you to pay for my dry cleaning. But there is an upcoming gala that I need someone pretty on my arm for. I was hoping you could be my plus one.” As she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “Before you say you don’t have the time—I’ll pay for it. I’ll compensate you for the wages you’ll have missed, I’ll pay for your dress and transport, everything. All you have to do is come, Feyre.”

Her mouth fell open in disbelief. She had a hard enough time believing that Rhys would have trouble finding a date, but the fact that he was willing to pay her for it?

“Are you propositioning me?” She asked, only half joking.

He clucked his tongue in a disapproval that seemed to shoot all the way down her spine. “It’s a one time, mutually beneficial arrangement. You have my sincere word that I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

She pressed her lips together, reluctant to admit that it would be a nice change of pace. And that she’d secretly been regretting turning down his dinner invitation. “When is it?”

“The 21st,” he answered. “It’s a winter solstice theme.”

Her birthday.

At her silence, Rhys raised a brow. “Is something wrong?”

Her birthday that she’d been planning on working through. She supposed at least she could pretend she was celebrating it at a fancy party.

“Nothing,” she said. “I’ll request that day off.”

He pursed his lips. “Request the week leading up to it off, too.”

“What?”

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone, and I can hardly have my date showing up with dark circles under her eyes. I’ll compensate you for that time, too. Just take the time to rest and actually have some proper meals.”

She bit her lips, half certain this was a dream. “Okay.”

He grinned. “Good girl.”

And with those parting words burning something dark and unholy deep in her stomach, he slid off the chair and saw himself out with a short, “see you tomorrow, darling.”

⟡⟡⟡

The paid time off was admittedly exactly what Feyre had been needing. She was able to breathe while focusing on finishing up the semester. And for what felt like the first time in forever, she was well rested and eating regular meals.

The morning of Feyre’s birthday, Mor greeted her with a cupcake adorned with a single candle.

“22 looks good on you, Fey!”

She smiled, accepting the cupcake and the subsequent hug from her friend, before she turned her attention to the beautifully wrapped box on the table.

“Oh, Rhys dropped this off this morning. I’m surprised you told him it’s your birthday.”

“I didn’t,” Feyre said, setting the cupcake down so she could carefully open up the box.

What lay inside was perhaps the most beautiful gown Feyre had ever seen. Mor gasped as she pulled it out, its tiny blue gems glinting under the fluorescents, like a dress sewn from fractals of starlight. Feyre thought it was probably the most expensive piece of clothing she’d ever wear. It was accompanied by a note that instructed her to be ready by 8pm.

Mor grinned as she read it. “Don’t tell me—you’re going to the solstice gala with my cousin.”

Feyre sighed, hating the conspiratorial glint she saw in Mor’s brown eyes. “I owed him a favour.”

“Well you have to let me help you get ready,” Mor insisted.

Feyre looked over the gown that could have easily been worn on a red carpet. If this was the standard for people who were attending, then she’d need all the help she could get.

Fortunately that sort of thing came effortlessly to Mor, and by the time 8 o’clock rolled around, Feyre could hardly recognise herself in the mirror.

The dress somehow hugged her perfectly, diamond-cuffed sleeves tight and neckline modest. Mor had swept her hair off her face with two glittering silver combs. With the added makeup, Feyre felt straight out of a fairytale—Cinderella transformed into someone who could woo a prince.

Rhys certainly looked impressed when she opened the door to him.

He smiled, eyes roaming over her figure appreciatively. “You look exactly as I hoped you would,” he said, offering his arm. When she accepted it, he leaned in close and added, “every head is going to be turned towards you the second we enter that room.”

It seemed like an outrageous exaggeration, but she would believe it from the darkness in Rhysand’s eyes as they swept over her a second time, then a third, before he opened the limo for her.

She didn’t know why she expected anything else. “Isn’t this a bit much?”

“If this is the only chance I have to take you out, then I’m going to play every card I have.”

She raised her brows as he settled in the seat across from her. “I thought you said this was strictly professional.”

“I said I’d keep my hands to myself,” he hedged. “I never said I wouldn’t try to impress you.”

Feyre couldn’t fathom why he’d want to impress her, since she’d never even been in a limo before. She looked around in awe, thinking if this was just the first card up his sleeve then she’d be in for a long evening.

The gala was more intimidating than Feyre imagined. She was uncertain if Rhys was someone particularly renowned, or if it was just because he was exceedingly attractive, but there were eyes on them the entire time they were there. As someone who was not used to so much attention, even though she was not the subject of it directly, Feyre found herself feeling very shy.

“There’s no need to be bashful, Feyre darling,” he whispered in her ear at one point. “Every person in this room is wondering what they’d give up to have you on their arm.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, ducking her face into a flute of champagne to hide just how much his compliment affected her. “They’re obviously all looking at you.”

“They’re looking at me because I’m here with the most beautiful woman in the room.”

She rolled her eyes, which caused his full lips to quirk in amusement. “I didn’t realise you were so dramatic.”

“And I didn’t realise you were so modest.”

Feyre would have protested that she wasn’t, but… she did feel self-conscious, and no amount of lying would change that. But the way he surveyed her might, like he was appraising a work of art. Feyre felt scorched by that look. For just a moment, she forgot about everyone else in the room as those piercing violet eyes met hers, eyes that had consumed her thoughts for far longer than she’d had a name they belonged to. For half a moment, she wondered if maybe her eyes had enchanted him the same way—if maybe he came to the cafe everyday for more than just the coffee. She’d always felt a strange magnetism to him, but up until a week ago she’d assumed it had been one sided.

“A thought for a thought, darling?” he murmured, reminding Feyre that they’d been stood staring at each other, not saying very much else.

“A what?”

He smiled the way a feline might once it cornered its prey. “I tell you something I’m thinking, and in exchange you tell me something. For example, I was thinking how ravishing you look tonight.”

The gesture he made to the shimmering dress seemed casual, but somehow felt crude when accompanied by his dark gaze. She almost shivered from it.

“I was thinking that you make a horrid flirt.”

He grinned, stepped closer. She marvelled at the length of his eyelashes as he flitted his eyes down to her, how they nearly skimmed his sharp cheekbones.

“Well I’m thinking that you don’t mind it as much as you pretend to.”

This close she could smell his cologne. It reminded Feyre of her childhood trips to the East coast, the salt spray of the cold sea where it splashed against the pier. She thought it suited him, that dark churning sea, cool and refined. She swallowed, wishing those dark, starkissed eyes would look anywhere else. She felt completely succumbed by their intensity, and they were making it impossible to think straight.

“I think you’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what on purpose?” He practically purred the words.

Maybe it was the champagne that had been readily flowing since they’d gotten here, but she found herself blurting, “trying to make me regret your promise to keep your hands to yourself.”

He arched a single, perfectly groomed brow in intrigue. “And do you regret my promise?”

It was a step too far for Feyre to actually admit it, but her silence was admission enough. The smile that broke across his face was near blinding, showing off perfect rows of white teeth. She couldn’t help wondering how those teeth would feel against her neck, especially as he leaned so close she could feel his breath, mouth hovering just beside her ear.

“I take my promises very seriously, Feyre Darling.” His voice dropped low, with a scrape so sensual it almost made Feyre whimper. “So I’ll be keeping my hands to myself until the moment I drop you off—but that doesn’t mean you have to.”

She—what?

He pulled away with a wink, leaving her dumbfounded as she contemplated his offer.

Would it be inappropriate to pursue something with him? It made her joke about propositioning feel too real. But to deny that she’d been lusting after him the moment he’d walked into the cafe, back when it felt like a fantasy far out of reach, would be a blatant lie. It was obvious he had money. Stupid money. It was also obvious he liked her. Was it so bad to accept his stupidly lavish gestures, if she liked him too? On a list of immoral things she didn’t feel like it was the worst. She wouldn’t be compromising her core values.

Feyre worried her teeth at her lower lip, wondering how messy things could get. No money had been exchanged, if she decided she was too uncomfortable being paid for coming to the gala with him she could always refuse it. It didn’t have to feel like propositioning… not if it was consensual. Not if they both liked each other.

“You’re driving me crazy, doing that,” he murmured, drawing her from her thoughts to see that his eyes were locked on the way she’d been biting her lip. “I don’t have any expectations from you, darling. I just wanted to enjoy the evening with a beautiful woman I’d been long admiring, so I might get to know her a little better.”

“How long?” she found herself asking.

“Since the moment I walked into the cafe and looked into those exquisite blue eyes.”

No one had ever described her eyes that way. For so long, Feyre had resented them for reminding her too much of her mother and sister. No one had ever told her they’re beautiful for belonging to her. The fact that it came from Rhysand, who had the most beautiful eyes she’d ever seen, somehow made it even more meaningful.

“Tell me one thing about how you feel about me,” he asked, almost pleaded. “Just one thing, and then I’ll back off.”

She took a heavy breath to prepare herself for the truth she’d never spoken aloud before. “I wait for you to come in everyday. I know it’s silly because we hardly even talk, but… every time the bell rings I look up hoping it’s you, and I’m disappointed when it’s not.”

“It’s not just me then,” he breathed. “I’m not the only one who feels this magnetism between ua.”

“No,” she whispered, hardly believing it. “You’re not.”

⟡⟡⟡

Though she’d longed to, Feyre couldn’t bring herself to do anything more than the timid flirting they’d kept up most of the evening. But once they were back in the limo, and the pressure of so many eyes finally faded, what settled between them instead was something thick and heavy—the result of so many empty promises made with words and eye contact alike.

It felt almost stifling, the tension between them. Their eyes met and Feyre read the challenge that glittered in his. The look that seemed to read are you bold enough, darling?

Really, how often had she taken the safest choice because it was convenient? Less frightening? She could probably count on her hand how many risks she’d taken in life and none of them stood as much to gain as the risk that sat before her, smirking like he read her decision before she’d even made it.

Because all it took was one single, crooked finger from him around the glass of scotch he held to his lips, and Feyre was in his lap. He lowered the glass, but didn’t set it down. “And here I should have been the one worried about you putting your hands all over me.”

She playfully fingered at the top button of his collar. “Are you saying you want me to put my hands away?”

“Far from it, darling. I want those hands and that pretty mouth anywhere you’re willing to put them.”

At this point, she hardly needed more encouragement than that. The button came undone, revealing the dark skin of his collarbone that she immediately traced with her mouth, leaving lipstick stains that she was certain he’d wear like badges of honour. Rhys grunted his approval, tilting his head to offer her better access to his neck, so that’s where her lips found next. Then her teeth. Then her tongue.

She could taste the salt of his skin, nearly as addictive as his cologne, which was stronger where her face pressed against his pulsepoint. Her hands searched the broad expanse of his chest, feeling the hard muscle beneath his well cut suit. And feeling how toned he was… well, she wanted to run her tongue over every ridge of muscle and taste that, too.

Feyre pulled back from his neck, smiling at the lovebite she left behind before she met Rhys’s heady gaze. The grip on his scotch had tightened, but at her attention he pulled a long sip from it.

“I may be keeping my hands to myself, darling,” he mused when he lowered the glass once more. “But I’ll be sure to remember every little bruise you leave for me. Just in case I find myself with the opportunity to repay you for them.”

Feyre wondered, suddenly, if he held onto the glass as a means of self restraint. Thinking that made things too easy for him, she reached out and tentatively took the scotch from him, meeting his eyes as she took a long sip for herself, lipstick staining the rim. He watched her, so carefully, as she pulled the glass away, but when she went to set it down he clucked his tongue in that same way that had sent her nerves skittering in the cafe.

A warning, a sound that begged not to be disapproved. Part of her was tempted to put it away, just to see what he’d do, but the other… the other wanted to hear him call her a good girl again. So she batted her eyes apologetically and handed the glass back.

“Good decision, Feyre, being a good girl for me. I’ll remember that, too.”

She couldn’t help but love the implication that there would be more, that Rhys was already planning what he would do to her when it happened. Feyre had a sneaking suspicion she wouldn’t have nearly as much control then, so she made a mental note to savour it while it lasted.

Feyre leaned forward, fingers at the buttons of his shirt once more while she pressed open mouth kisses to his neck, leading up to his ear.

She nipped at his lobe. “What do I get for being a good girl?”

His lips twitched into a taunting smile. “A bold question for someone who’s supposedly a good girl, but you’re still learning what I like.”

She hummed something sweet and placative. “And what do you like, daddy?”

Rhys went stiff beneath her, and for a moment Feyre panicked. It just felt so natural to say, the word completely slipped out. But then Rhys practically growled as he spread his knees under her, forcing Feyre to shift until she straddled a single leg.

“Good girls get to ride daddy’s thigh.”

He pushed his leg up until it was pressed flush between her legs, applying a pressure to her clit that nearly had her keening already.

Rhys stared at her as he took another long, casual sip of his scotch, brows raised as if to ask what she was waiting for. The scotch wasn’t just a means of keeping his hands to himself, Feyre thought. She was his own personal show.

Then damn it, she was going to be a good one. Smiling sweetly, Feyre gathered the gown that was already bunched at her hips and drew it over her head, grateful she’d decided to wear her sexier pieces of lace.

She marked the approval in Rhysand’s eyes, and Feyre made a good show of cupping her breasts before she started grinding against his thigh in earnest.

He managed to keep his face remarkably neutral, continuing to sip from his glass as though he were still at the gala. Fortunately his dress pants were tight enough to tell a different story, and Feyre bit her lip as she noted the considerable length of him. She never had a partner that big before, and she wondered briefly if she’d be able to manage fitting him in her mouth. She was certainly tempted to try.

“Drooling over daddy’s cock already, darling?” he cooed, noticing her stare. “My, you’re a greedy little thing. Hardly even finished riding my thigh.”

She was close, though. Especially if he kept talking to her like that. The noises that escaped her as she writhed against his thigh, staring at the shape of his cock and imagining what it might feel like… They were mortifying, to say the least, but the swirling desire in Rhysand’s gaze told her he enjoyed them.

Feyre’s breath started hitching as her pleasure rose closer and closer to that sweet pinnacle, his muscular thigh providing the perfect amount of pressure. She tipped her head back and moaned, long and loud, as she snaked a hand up to pinch her nipple through her bra.

Rhys snapped his fingers as she felt herself reach the edge, and it drew her attention back to him as her legs shook. His violet eyes were burning. “Look at daddy when you come for him. Say my name, darling.”

“Rhys,” she moaned, the word barely formed as she rutted desperately against his leg. She cried out as the pleasure crested, and white hot starlight flooded her veins.

“Daddy,” she panted, as Rhys took up the work for her, moving his thigh to work her through her orgasm until she half collapsed against him, tucking her face into his shoulder even as he kept moving his leg. “Daddy, please.”

“Please, what, darling?”

“It’s too much,” she complained, twitching now as Rhys started to overstimulate her so soon after orgasm.

“You can do it, darling,” he encouraged. “Don’t you want to be a good girl for daddy?”

“I do,” she whimpered.

He hummed thoughtfully. “I know you do, Feyre. Maybe you can do something else for daddy, then. To make up for the mess you made on his thigh.”

The pressure from his thigh now retreating, Feyre could have sobbed in relief. She sat up, watching with renewed interest as he swept his fingers against the wet spot on his trousers and promptly brought it to his lips.

He sucked them off with a flourish that could have belonged to a content customer in a high end restaurant, grinning at her. “You’re absolutely delectable, Feyre. Just as I expected.”

She might have blushed if she didn’t feel like she was far past the point of embarrassment.

“Now,” Rhys said, leaning away from Feyre to refill his glass. “How would you feel about tasting daddy in return?”

She’d been thinking about it since the moment she’d seen the outline of him through his trousers. Perhaps she dropped to her knees a bit too eagerly, but she practically beamed at the way he smiled and told her she was a good girl for doing so. Feyre watched as he spread his knees and leaned back, giving her wide open access to his lap.

In a different context, she would have thought he looked like a massive, self-obsessed prick. Maybe that’s why she loved it, but she didn’t want to think about that too closely just then.

With the care of someone opening a beautifully wrapped present, Feyre slowly unbuttoned his trousers and freed Rhysand’s hardened length from his boxers. Already her mouth was watering at the sight of the precum that beaded on the tip of his rosy head, like a droplet of water on a flower petal.

Settling herself comfortably between his thighs, that was the first thing she decided to taste, holding it on her tongue like it was her own personal ambrosia. Rhys grunted, hooded eyes watching her behind the crystal rim he held to his lips. She decided to hold out her tongue to show it to him proudly, humming contentedly as she swallowed and returned her lips to his head.

He was even bigger than she’d imagined. Building up the courage to put him down her throat, she started first by swirling her tongue along every inch she could find, covering him in what was left of her red lipstick. The guttural noise that Rhys made in his throat was well worth it, and when she deemed him adequately covered, she started the process of taking him into her mouth.

Though he’d yet to voice his approval, she could already tell he loved it by the involuntary twitch of his hips. With the softest smile she brought her fists around his base, trying to move her mouth and hand in tandem as she slowly worked him down her throat.

She paused when she was halfway through, already fighting her gag reflex. Her eyes flickered up to his, feeling proud when she noticed that the glass of scotch was now completely forgotten.

“You look so pretty with your lips around my cock, darling,” he murmured, nothing but reverence in his voice. “Do you think you can take more?”

She nodded, the motion causing him to moan as she bobbed slightly further down his length. “That’s it, darling,” he said, moving his hips ever so slightly to encourage her to take more. “Just relax for me, Feyre, you’re almost there.”

He jutted his hips, a bit more forcefully this time, and it caused her to gag as he scraped against the back of her throat. Rhys swore headily. “Fuck, Feyre. I love watching you choke around my cock.”

Tears sprung to her eyes as she fought to relax against her gag reflex, opening her mouth as wide as she could to take the rest of him. When her nose brushed against his gentle wisps of hair, and he was fully seated, Rhys supplied a filthy litany of praise that had her humming in pride.

“So good for me, darling,” he grunted, beginning to thrust into her mouth. “Your sweet little mouth feels amazing around daddy’s cock.”

Feyre hummed her agreement, because everytime she did it seemed to draw a string of curse words from Rhys. He was fucking into her mouth with abandon, now, and she did her best to keep her jaw open and her tongue relaxed. Though every time she did gag, he seemed to love it. And she started dribbling down her chin, making a mess of the leather seat below, he seemed to love that, too.

“I’m going to come, Feyre,” he warned, voice rough. “Swallow for daddy like a good girl.”

She readily obeyed, holding his dark gaze as he spilled his release down her throat. She took extra care to make sure not a drop spilled, and when he removed himself she held out her clean tongue, causing him to laugh with something like affection.

“That was amazing, Feyre,” Rhys whispered, voice softened. He leaned forward as if he might kiss her, then hesitated. Instead he offered her a smile. “You did so well.”

He looked around for something to help her clean up with, cringing when all he could find was a napkin from the minibar. Still, it helped clean up the drool.

It was only after she started pulling her dress back on that she realised the limo had stopped—she didn’t want to think about how long it had been that way. Rhysand opened the door for her and helped Feyre out of the limo, holding her delicately by the arm.

She was nearly so distracted by the sweet gesture, she didn’t notice that they weren’t at all in front of Mor’s apartment like she’d thought.

“Where are we?” she asked, in near disbelief that Rhys would bring her back to his house without even telling her…

“Were you ever going to mention it’s your birthday?” he asked, glancing at her curiously.

Feyre frowned, hardly seeing what that had to do with her question. Of course Mor decided to tell him. “I had a good time without needing to celebrate it.”

Shuffling into his pocket, Rhys pulled out a set of keys and handed them to her, nodding toward the apartment complex. “Number 55.”

“What?” she asked, staring at the key, not quite putting it together.

“It’s your birthday gift,” he said, grinning. “I don’t suspect my cousin’s couch is very comfortable.”

“Rhys,” she scolded, shocked. “I’m not letting you get me an apartment for my birthday.”

“I’m not,” he said with a shrug, shoving his hands into his pockets as the only sign of his uncertainty. “I mean, I would, but I knew you wouldn’t accept it. So instead I’m giving you a key, to one of my apartments that I don’t use. Really you’re just exchanging one couch for another, except now you’ll be able to have a bed and a place to yourself.” At her look he hastily added, “I promise I won’t bother you. Really, Feyre, it would just be sitting here otherwise. Please, take it.”

She sighed, staring at the key in her hand. “You can be a little bit insufferable, you know that?”

The smile he gave her said that he knew exactly how insufferable he was. Feyre supposed it wouldn’t hurt to… see how things go. This wasn’t binding. With a shy smile she looked over to Rhys and opened her arms for a hug, which he accepted with no hesitation.

“Thank you, Rhys.”

“Happy birthday, darling,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

When he pulled away, she could tell he was still uncertain. Hovering between getting back in the limo or staying with her. Biting her lip, she looked to him and asked, “would you like to… stay at my place?”

His returning grin sent electric heat through her every nerve. “I thought you’d never ask, darling. I have a pretty little birthday girl I want to spoil.”

“I thought you needed to keep your hands to yourself,” she teased.

His expression shifted to one of pure, wicked delight. “I promised to keep my hands to myself until I dropped you off at your place. I believe that condition has been fulfilled, and now I won’t be breaking any promises by putting my hands all over you.”

⟡⟡⟡

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