Zen…

That moment when he’s brooding—jaw clenched, shoulders tight—because he caught you smiling at another man. His silence is loud. He storms into the bedroom, yanking off his shirt, his toned torso flexing with restrained jealousy.

The fabric drops to the floor. Forgotten.

You hear his sharp inhale, the way his fists clench at his sides. He doesn’t look at you. Not yet.

Then he returns. The door slams. His presence consumes the space. His brows are furrowed, lips pressed into a hard line. His gaze locks onto you like a question he already knows the answer to but wants to hear you suffer giving.

“Who is he?” His voice is low. Hoarse.

You say nothing. Instead, you tilt your head, lips parting just enough for breath to pass. A taunt. An invitation.

“Kiss me.”

Something snaps. His hands are on you before you can think—gripping your hips, pulling you in, crashing his mouth onto yours. Hot, demanding, tasting of frustration, of possession. He swallows your breath, drinks you in like he needs to prove something.

But you stop him. Fingers sliding up to his jaw, holding him still. Your eyes meet his, and in the silence between heartbeats, you whisper:

“Not there.”

Your fingertips ghost over your neck.

“Here.”

His breath catches. His chest rises against yours, bracing. Then, slow—too slow—he lowers his head. Lips hover, heat radiating, teasing before pressing down. A single kiss. A lick laced with hunger. Then another. His mouth lingers, tasting, breathing you in. His nose skims your throat, cold against flushed skin.

You feel his exhale, shaky. His parted lips, the restraint fraying.

But still, it’s not enough.

“Here.”

Your fingers slide lower, above your navel. He kneels. No hesitation now. His tongue traces circles on your stomach before his teeth graze the soft flesh. You shudder. His hands grip your waistband, unbuttoning your denim with one deliberate motion. His lips follow, dragging lower. Heat and breath and need, right where you crave him most.

Your knees tremble. Your fingers tangle in his hair, tugging.

He looks up. Lips apart. Breath heavy. Eyes dark—searching yours for what’s next. Slowly, your thumb traces his lower lip, dragging down to his jaw, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin.

And then, as if reading your mind, he stands.

One movement—fluid, seamless—and his hands grip your thighs, lifting you. Instinctively, your legs wrap around his waist. Your back meets the wall, the cold biting against the heat of your skin.

Then—his lips are on you again. Urgent. Desperate. His tongue parts your lips, drinking in your soft moan as his hands adjust their hold. You feel him hard against you, thick and pulsing, pressing exactly where you need him most. Your hips roll forward, chasing friction, and he exhales sharply.

“Fuck—”

The word is half groan, half surrender.

Your hands slip between you, undoing his jeans. He lets you. Watching. Breathing hard as your fingers work the button, the zipper, pushing them down just enough. You feel the heat of him, the weight of him, heavy in your palm.

“Look at me,” he rasps.

You do.

His jeans drop. Yours follow, peeling down your thighs with his help, underwear dragged away in the same motion.

There’s no space between you now. No barriers. Just skin against skin. Heat against heat.

He aligns himself against you, the head of his cock pressing where you’re slick and aching. He doesn’t push in yet. He waits. Teases. Lets the anticipation build. Lets you feel how close you are to unraveling before he even takes you.

Then, slowly, he thrusts forward.

A gasp catches in your throat. Nails dig into his shoulders. He buries his face in your neck, cursing as he sinks deeper, stretching you, inch by inch, until he’s fully inside you. Until there’s nothing left between you but raw, pulsing pleasure.

“Yes baby, yes, oh, yeessss” you rub his nape.

His hips pull back. Roll forward. Slow. Deep. A moan spills from your lips, and he swallows it with his mouth, kissing you like he needs to feel you everywhere at once. His rhythm is measured, controlled, dragging out the pleasure, making you tremble from the slow, torturous pace.

Then, you whisper his name.

That’s all it takes for the restraint to snap.

He grips your thighs tighter, slamming into you harder, faster, until the only sounds in the room are ragged breaths, desperate moans, skin meeting skin. You feel every inch of him—the way he fills you, the way he moves, hitting that spot over and over until your body tightens around him.

“I can feel you,” he groans against your lips, his voice strained, wrecked. “God, you’re killing me—”

Your head falls back. Pleasure crashes over you, white-hot, blinding. Your thighs tighten around his waist, pulling him in deeper, body shaking as you come undone around him.

He follows seconds later.

“Ohhgrgh—f-fuck—ahh—mmh—nghh—yes—ohh—shit—” against your skin as he buries himself to the hilt, whole body trembling against yours. You feel the way he pulses inside you, the way he lets go completely, lost in the heat of you.

For a moment, neither of you move. Breaths tangled. His forehead presses against yours. His hands slide up your back, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go just yet.

Then—finally—he exhales. A slow, satisfied breath. A lazy smirk tugs at his lips.

“Next time,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion and amusement, “don’t smile at other men.”

A breathless laugh escapes you. “And if I do?”

His grip on your hips tightens. His teeth graze your jaw, teasing.

“Then I’ll have to remind you who you belong to.”

Except he knows—you don’t belong to anyone. Not even now, tangled up in him like this.

And yet, something tells you—he’ll be reminding you all night.