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You met Rafayel at an art gala you weren’t even supposed to attend.

You were covering for your boss—an emergency trip, a last-minute cancellation, whatever excuse got you shoved into a too-tight dress and sent to charm donors and scout new talent for your gallery. You’d barely stepped into the room before you heard his name.

Rafayel Qi. Sculptor. Painter. Prodigy. Nightmare. 

You’d heard the rumors—about the temper, the ego, the way he tore down critics with a smile on his lips and a knife hidden in the sweetness of his words. But you hadn’t expected that . That smug little smirk, that lilac shirt half-unbuttoned like he owned the room. And those eyes , violet and glittering like they knew every terrible thing about you already.

He caught you staring.

You looked away first.

"You're from Callahan Gallery, aren’t you?" he said later, swirling wine in a glass like he cared more about the liquid than you. "The one with the overpriced taste and underwhelming catalog." 

You smiled. "And you’re the one who thinks a splash of blue and a tortured past makes him a genius."

He laughed. Actually laughed. Like he’d been waiting for someone to bite back.

The rest of the night spiraled from there.

You ran into him again two weeks later, at a museum event where you were actually on the guest list. He was leaned against a marble pillar like it was a throne, hair tied back, wearing a jacket that probably cost more than your monthly rent.

"You follow me now?" he asked as you approached the same installation.

"Please," you scoffed. "I have taste."

"Do you? " he murmured, eyes sliding over you with maddening calm. "Still wasting it on this museum’s third-rate curation?"

Another stare. Another dare. 

It became a pattern . You’d see him at events, gallery openings, even on the steps outside a café one afternoon—like the universe was playing a joke. Every time, the same routine. A cutting remark. A sharper comeback. A look that lingered too long.

Once, he brushed past you in a crowded hallway, and your shoulders touched. He stopped walking. So did you.

Neither of you said a word. Neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static. 

And then he smirked, low and lazy. "Careful, cutie. I might start thinking you like me."

"You’d have to be delusional," you replied.

He leaned in, voice barely a whisper. “That makes two of us.”

It kept happening.

You’d walk into a room and feel him before you saw him—like the hum of a storm building in the distance. Always too polished, too smug, leaning against something he didn’t belong to like it belonged to him . Eyes scanning the crowd like he was bored by the world but waiting for you.

“Tell me,” he murmured once at an artist showcase, lips brushing the rim of his wine glass, “do you always look this miserable at events, or am I just lucky?”

You didn’t bother looking up from the sculpture. “I save my real expressions for people who matter.”

He clicked his tongue, amused. “Then why are your eyes always on me?”

That earned him a full-body stare. Up. Down. Cold.

“I’m usually trying to figure out if you're part of the exhibit,” you said sweetly. “Or if someone just dragged in another pretentious installation.”

He grinned like it thrilled him. “And yet, you always come back for more.”

Another time, he caught you in a bookstore downtown, reaching for the same worn art theory volume. Your fingers brushed. You snatched your hand away like he’d burned you.

He didn’t flinch.

“You read this ?” he asked, lifting the book between two fingers like it was a rotting peach. “I didn’t peg you for a masochist.”

You turned your head slightly. “Says the man who paints in the dark and sculpts until his hands bleed.”

He tilted his head. “You’ve been reading about me.”

“I was researching red flags.”

He stepped closer, way too close. Your breath hitched.

“Then you must’ve found all the right ones.”

You refused to back down, even when his voice dropped, even when the silence between you felt like an inhale before something dangerous.

That time, you were the one to walk away. But the gallery was different. It was yours .

You’d spent weeks curating the proposal. A modern, immersive exhibit that would bring in sponsors, press, and the kind of attention your name deserved. You were already picturing your name on the placard outside the entrance when the director invited you to the meeting.

You didn’t expect him to be there. But of course—there he was, lounging in a chair at the end of the long table, legs crossed, fingers tapping lazily on the armrest. He didn’t even glance up until the director said your name.

Then those violet eyes locked onto you, and stayed.

You took the seat directly across from him, spine straight, jaw tight.

“Didn’t know we were accepting proposals from narcissists this year,” you said under your breath. 

He smirked. “Didn’t know gallery girls could bite.” 

The director cleared his throat. “We’ve received two strong pitches for the same space.”

You didn’t need to look to feel Rafayel’s gaze press into the side of your face.

“Oh?” he drawled. “I assumed mine was the only one worth reading.” 

You let out a soft laugh—no humor. “You mean the one with six paragraphs of metaphor and no actual structure?”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Structure is for people who don’t know how to feel.”

“And feeling,” you snapped, “doesn’t pay rent.”

The director looked deeply uncomfortable, flipping through notes like they could save him. But it didn’t matter. The meeting went on around you. Neither of you blinked.

And when it ended, when the director mumbled something about “needing time to decide,” you rose from your chair.

“Do you really think you can win this?” Rafayel asked, voice low behind you.

You turned, your face inches from his. The air between you taut and brittle. “I don’t think,” you said. “I know. ”

He tilted his head, lips barely parted, eyes gleaming like you’d just given him a gift. “I love it when you lie to yourself.”

The stare lingered. Hot. Breathless.

And then you both turned away at once. As if it had never happened at all.

Two days later, the email hits your inbox like a slap in the face.

“We were so impressed by both your proposals, we’ve come to an exciting decision…”

You don’t even finish reading before you're dialing the gallery.

By the time you storm into the office, the director is already holding up both hands like he's trying to ward off a very specific hurricane.

“Before you yell—”

“You want me to collaborate with him?”

“He’s one of the most well-known artists in the region.”

“He’s a menace in designer clothing.”

The door opens behind you, smooth as a sigh. You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

“Cutie,” Rafayel drawls. “You’re going to give the poor man a heart attack.”

You do turn then. Slowly. Like your spine is made of steel and every inch of you is ready to strangle him with the gallery lanyard around your neck.

He smiles like he enjoys it.

“You knew,” you accuse, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs, stepping inside like he owns the place. “Let’s just say I have a gift for seeing the inevitable.”

“Or you bribed him.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. You think I’d waste a bribe on you?” 

“Enough,” the director cuts in, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Listen. You two are firecrackers. Separately, you’re explosive. Together… you might actually change the damn game.”

You stare at him, then at Rafayel. Then back again. 

“This was supposed to be my exhibit,” you say tightly.

“And mine,” Rafayel adds, not missing a beat.

The director throws up his hands. “Then make it yours. Together.”

You know when you’ve lost a battle. Doesn’t mean you’ll lose the war.

So you turn to him, meeting that smug, infuriating gaze with every ounce of disdain you can muster. “Stay out of my way, and we’ll survive this.”

He steps closer, too close, voice a soft, venomous purr. “Why would I ever do that, when watching you squirm is the highlight of my week?”

You exhale through your nose. “And when this all crashes and burns?”

Rafayel flashes a slow, lazy grin. “Then at least it’ll be beautiful.”

The director sighs again, rubbing his temples.

You don’t look away from Rafayel. Neither does he. Because this is how it always starts—with fire on your tongue and a stare that says just try me.

The shared studio space is large—vaulted ceilings, warm natural light, blank walls begging for something loud . But it still feels too small the moment he walks in.

“Already marking your territory, cutie?” Rafayel’s voice echoes as he eyes the table you’ve half-covered in sketches and mock-ups. “How bold of you. I thought we were playing nice.”

You don’t look up from your pencil. “Nice? That word doesn’t exist in your vocabulary.”

He steps closer, slow and deliberate, like a lion circling prey he has no intention of killing just yet. “Oh, I can be nice. But where’s the fun in that?”

You finally lift your head and meet his gaze. “Fun isn’t what this is supposed to be.”

He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, head tilted just enough to make it infuriating. “Speak for yourself. I find your little temper tantrums incredibly entertaining.”

You stand, spine straight. “I’m here to build something real. Not… whatever tortured ego project you’re planning to smear on the walls.”

“Tortured,” he muses, tapping a finger to his chin. “You have been reading my reviews. I’m flattered.”

You walk past him toward the paints, brushing too close just to make a point. “You’re not a mystery, Rafayel. You’re a cliché wrapped in silk shirts and paint stains.”

He watches you, lips curled. “Careful, cutie. You’re starting to sound obsessed with me. Just a little, tiny bit.”

You whirl on him. “You wish.”

He steps in, now just a breath away. “Oh, I don’t have to wish. You think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me when you think I’m not watching?”

Your heart skips—but your expression doesn’t change. “I look at fires too. Doesn’t mean I want to get burned.”

“But you still look,” he murmurs, voice low and dangerous.

The silence that follows crackles. And then you snap out of it, brushing past again. “I’m not here to play games.”

“No,” he says behind you, “you’re here to win them.”

The next few hours are war. You argue over layout. Color palettes. Where to place the central piece.

He insists on raw chaos. You demand clean execution. You clash like fire and oil, feeding off the friction, daring each other to snap.

At one point, you reach for the same brush and your fingers brush. He doesn’t pull away, but you do. Barely.

“Don’t get in my space,” you mutter.

“Then stop making it so tempting.”

The day ends with nothing finished and everything burning. But you leave with your chest full of adrenaline and something else you won’t name.

And when you turn around at the door, his gaze is still on you—leaning against the window frame like he’s been there his whole life, watching you unravel.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, cutie,” he says with a slow grin.

“Not if I see you first.”

You arrive late.

Not that he comments on it—but his smirk when you walk in says plenty. He’s already there, sleeves rolled up, fingers stained with deep crimson paint. A fresh canvas looms behind him like a threat, unfinished and chaotic—just like him.

“You’re late, cutie.”

You drop your bag onto the nearest stool. “You’re still insufferable. Some things never change.”

He steps back from the canvas, wipes his hands with a rag that does nothing, and saunters toward your side of the room.

“You’ve been dodging my ideas,” he says, eyes flicking down to your neat layout sketches. “This—this is all control. Precision. It’s not art. It’s an instruction manual.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And yours is just therapy with a brush. We’re not building chaos. We’re building a show. ”

His eyes gleam. “Ah, but chaos sells.”

You cross your arms. “Maybe to people too distracted by your eyes to notice the lack of substance.”

He grins, slow and lazy, stepping even closer. “You like my eyes?”

“I said other people.”

“But you noticed.”

You roll your eyes and turn back to your layout, hoping that’ll end it. It doesn’t. He circles around you like a cat with too much time on its hands. And then—

A flick. Warm, wet, cold.

You freeze.

You look down. A smear of crimson paint stains the side of your white blouse. Centered. Bold. Obvious. You inhale sharply, your jaw clenched. “What. The hell .”

“Oops,” he says, not sorry at all, holding up his brush like it slipped from divine grace. “You moved.”

You spin to face him. “You did that on purpose. ”

His voice drops, soft and mocking. “Prove it.”

Your hands balled into fists at your sides. “This isn’t funny. I’ve dealt with a lot of arrogant artists, but you—”

“You what ?” he cuts in, stepping forward again. “Can’t handle me?”

“You’re unprofessional. You’re childish. You treat this like a game—”

“And you’re so tightly wound,” he growls, close enough now that your anger folds into something else, something hotter. “It’s a miracle you haven’t snapped.”

“I’m this close. ” You raise a hand, index and thumb inches apart.

He glances at them, then back at your face. “Then do it.”

Your breath catches.

He’s right in front of you now—too close, heat radiating from him like a fire you can’t outrun. Paint-stained fingers twitch at his side, lips parted slightly, gaze locked on yours like he’s waiting for a detonation.

And god, you want to.

Not just to scream. Not just to hit. To grab him by that stupid open collar and pull.

But you don’t. And neither does he.

The tension coils like wire between you, humming with unsaid things and things you can’t afford to feel.

“You’re a menace,” you whisper.

His voice is like velvet over blades. “And you love every second of it.”

Neither of you move. The air is thick enough to drown in.

And then the director’s voice echoes from down the hall, distant but just close enough to break the spell.

You step back first. But not before his eyes drop to the paint still staining your shirt, his smirk returning like a promise.

“You should wear red more often,” he murmurs.

--------

It’s late.

The gallery is quiet, lights dimmed to a low golden glow. Outside, rain streaks the windows like the sky itself is exasperated. You’re standing in front of the main display wall, arms crossed, frustration boiling just under your skin.

He strolls in ten minutes late, of course.

Paint still smeared on his wrist, a cocky half-smile pulling at his lips. “You’re early,” he says, dropping his bag with a dramatic sigh. “Or maybe I’m just fashionably—”

“Don’t start.”

You don’t turn. You don’t need to. The weight in your voice cuts clean.

Rafayel pauses, blinking once before that infuriating smirk returns. “Someone’s in a mood.”

You finally spin to face him, jaw tight. “I don’t have time for your shit tonight, Rafayel.”

His brow arches. “Oof. Full names now. That’s how I know you’re mad.”

“I’m beyond mad,” you snap. “We’re two weeks out and we haven’t locked in a single final layout. You keep redoing your pieces, scrapping mine, and refusing to collaborate. This whole thing is going to fall apart because you can’t stand not being the center of attention for five seconds.”

He chuckles darkly. “No, cutie. It’s going to fall apart because you’re so obsessed with control you can’t see anything beyond your own vision.”

You step forward. “At least I have one.”

“And yet you keep circling mine like a moth to a flame.”

You shove past him toward the sketches pinned to the corkboard, snatching one off. “These are useless. We’ve reworked the same five pieces and none of them fit.”

“Because you won’t take risks,” he fires back, following you. “You want clean, safe and digestible. But art —real art—isn’t meant to be easy.”

You whirl on him, voice rising. “Not everything has to be chaos and bleeding hearts, Rafayel! You act like pain is the only valid form of expression. Like you're the only one who's ever felt anything!”

He stops. Just for a second. Then steps closer, gaze sharpening like a knife drawn slowly.

“I am the only one who’s honest about it,” he says, low and deadly.

You clench the paper in your hand, your whole body shaking. “No. You’re just loud about it. There’s a difference.”

His laugh is sharp. “Still pretending you’re above it, huh?”

“I’m not pretending anything!”

“You are,” he says, stepping so close you feel the heat of him. “You’re pretending this doesn’t get to you. I don’t get to you.”

“Because you don’t! ”

You don’t realize how loud it comes out until it echoes off the gallery walls.

Silence crashes down like a wave.

You’re breathing hard, your chest heaving. His expression flickers—just a second—before the grin returns, slow and infuriating.

“Then why do you look like you’re about to lose your mind every time I get this close?”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because he is close—so close your elbows almost brush, the smell of paint and cologne and whatever that scent is that clings to him like sin filling your lungs.

“You’re not special,” you say, softer, sharper.

He tilts his head. “No?”

“Just a spoiled artist with a god complex and a pretty face.”

His breath hitches, almost a laugh. Then: “Careful, cutie. You’re making it sound like you’ve thought about this face more than you should.”

You exhale—shaky, unsteady. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re addicted to fighting me.”

Your back hits the wall behind you without even realizing you were stepping away. He cages you there without touching you, arms braced on either side of the wall, violet eyes burning.

“You hate me so much,” he whispers, “but you never walk away.”

Neither do you speak.

And neither of you back down.

“Back off, Rafayel.”

You shove his chest hard enough to make him take a step back. He barely moves, but he laughs—low and delighted like you’ve just played into his favorite game.

“There she is,” he murmurs. “There’s the real you.”

Your chest rises and falls like you’ve been sprinting. “Don’t you dare pretend like you know anything about me.”

“I know you’re full of it,” he snaps. “You act like you’re above all this—above me. But every time I push, you push back harder. Every time I get close, you break.”

You take another step forward, your voice sharp as a blade. “Because you never stop pushing! You walk in with your paint-stained hands and your perfect little smirk like the whole world owes you something.”

“I never asked for the world.”

“No. You asked for me. You push because you want me to break. You want me to come undone so you can feel like you’ve won.”

His mouth parts slightly, expression flickering—just for a second. You press in before he can regain the smug mask.

“Well guess what?” you breathe. “You’re not the only one who knows how to fight dirty.”

He grins again—but it’s different this time. Twisted. Almost desperate.

“Then hit me where it hurts, cutie,” he dares. “Let’s see what you’ve really got.”

Your hands are trembling at your sides—not with fear. With fury. With fire. With everything that’s been boiling since the very first time he called you cutie with that goddamn smile on his lips.

You take another step forward, so close now your words crash directly into his breath.

“You want to be the storm, Rafayel? Fine. But don’t be surprised when I burn your whole gallery down.”

“Oh, burn me, baby,” he growls, voice rough and low. “Set the whole damn thing on fire.”

You slap a sketch from the table beside you—it flies across the floor, pages scattering like ash. Neither of you looks away. “You think this is fun for me?” you shout. “That I like wasting my time arguing with you every goddamn day?”

“You never walk away.”

“Because I thought maybe— maybe —somewhere beneath all that arrogance there was someone worth working with!”

He steps in again, chest brushing yours. “And you haven’t walked out yet. So what does that say about you? ”

“Maybe I’m just stupid.”

“Or maybe,” he says, voice like crushed velvet, “you’re just as fucked up as me.”

The silence that follows is violent. Loud. Too much. His eyes drop to your mouth. Yours flicker to his. Neither of you move. Neither of you breathe.

You’ve spent months tearing into each other like this. Fighting like it’s foreplay. Speaking in weapons. Daring the other to be the first to crack.

And now? Now, you’re both staring down the edge.

Still breathless. Still burning. Still not backing down.

You don’t even notice how close you’ve gotten.

His breath is warm against your cheek, and your voice is shaking—not with weakness, but with rage. With adrenaline. With everything he’s pulled out of you and everything you’ve refused to give.

“God, you’re impossible,” you snap, pacing a few steps and then turning on him again, throwing your hand toward him. “You think the world revolves around your paint-smeared tantrums and tortured artist ego—”

“And you think you're better than everyone because you hide behind structure and control,” he snarls back. “You pretend you’re composed, but you’re one bad day away from burning it all to the ground.”

You scoff, sharp and bitter. “At least I don’t walk around acting like every pair of eyes is here to worship me!”

He laughs—a sharp, furious sound. “Oh, cutie. You do. You just hate that mine don’t.”

You throw your hands up. “You’re so full of shit, Rafayel!”

“And you’re obsessed with hating me!” he roars, stepping forward.

“Because you make everything harder!”

“And you love it! ”

The words crash into silence. The space between you sparks. Neither of you blink.

Your hand flies up again in some wild, angry gesture—but it doesn’t make it far.

Because suddenly his fingers are gripping your wrist—not harsh, not soft either— just enough to make you stop moving. Just enough to hold you there, suspended in the heat between you.

Your chest is heaving. His eyes are locked to yours like he’s afraid to look away, like if he does, the entire world might fall apart.

“Let go,” you whisper, though there’s no bite behind it now.

But he doesn’t. And neither of you move. And then—

Then the dam breaks.

Your lips crash into his like fire meeting gasoline, reckless and wild and furious. It’s not gentle. It’s not sweet. It’s months of biting and resisting and pushing. His hands are in your hair. Yours grip his shirt, pulling him in like you hate him and want to crawl inside him all at once.

He growls against your mouth, and you bite his bottom lip just to spite him. He pulls back half a second, panting, eyes wild. “I knew you’d taste like trouble,” he breathes.

“Shut up,” you hiss—and kiss him again.

Harder.

This time, neither of you pull away. And maybe this doesn’t fix anything. Maybe tomorrow, you’ll scream at each other all over again. But right now—

Right now, the gallery is quiet except for the sound of colliding mouths and gasping breath, and the sound of two people finally giving into everything they’ve tried so hard to fight.

Neither of you backing down.

Not even a little.

Your hands slam against his chest, pushing him hard enough that his back hits the edge of the gallery table with a dull thud.

But you don’t step away.

Not even close.

His grin flashes, breathless and wild, hair tousled from your fingers, paint smudged on both of you like war paint. “Didn’t think you had that in you, cutie.”

You don’t answer.

You crash your mouth against his again, teeth scraping, fingers gripping the collar of his shirt like you’re trying to rip it open—or rip it off . Every part of you is flushed, trembling with heat that has nothing to do with anger anymore and everything to do with the way his body fits against yours like it always belonged there.

He groans into the kiss, hands sliding to your waist like he’s trying to anchor you—but you don't want to be held still. You want to burn.

"You’ve been driving me insane," you gasp against his mouth.

“Good,” he mutters, voice rough, pupils blown wide as his hand curls around your hip and pulls you in harder. “I was hoping I’d get under that pretty skin of yours.”

“You’re infuriating,” you hiss, tugging at his shirt. “Condescending. Cocky. Arrogant—”

“Keep going,” he growls, tilting his head to mouth at your jaw, down your throat. “It’s turning me on.”

You shove him again—he stumbles a step back, catching himself on the edge of the table, but you follow.

“You think this means you’ve won?” you breathe, chest heaving, eyes ablaze as your hands pin his hips to the wood.

He lets out a breathless laugh, mouth brushing yours. “Oh, cutie… I think we both just lost. ”

And then his lips are on yours again—hungry, unrelenting.

The argument becomes touch. Becomes teeth and tongue and nails. The gallery space fades into dim walls and drying canvases and the heavy sound of breath between kisses.

Your back hits the wall this time—but not by accident.

He cages you there, panting, forehead against yours. His voice drops, low and wrecked. “Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop.”

You look at him. Really look at him. Paint in his hair. Lust in his eyes. Your rage still burning somewhere between your ribs, tangled with desire.

You don’t say a word. Instead, you pull him in again.

And this time, neither of you stop.

You don’t stop him. You pull him closer like you’re daring him to ruin you.

His mouth crushes yours again, and your fingers claw at his shirt, yanking it from where it’s tucked—fingertips slipping under warm fabric, nails dragging against skin like you want to hurt him, mark him, make him feel everything.

He growls into your mouth, low and primal, and then his hands are on your thighs—gripping, lifting, pinning you back against the gallery wall like it’s the only thing keeping either of you upright. You hook your legs around him without hesitation, dragging him closer until there's nothing left between you.

“This what you wanted?” he mutters against your lips, biting the words into your skin. “All those fights, all that heat—was this what you were begging for?”

You drag your mouth to his jaw, then his neck, teeth scraping as your hands fist in the fabric at his back. “Shut up and feel it.”

He slams his mouth back onto yours—no tenderness, just fire. Months of tension unraveling with every desperate press of your bodies, the taste of paint and breath and rage clinging to your tongue.

You grind against him like you hate him, like you want to break him apart and leave your fingerprints on every inch of him.

And he lets you.

No—he loves it.

His hands slide beneath your thighs, holding you in place as he rocks against you, groaning low and dark when your hips meet his with brutal intent. Every movement is a fight. Every touch is a dare.

You break the kiss to breathe, gasping, lips swollen, eyes locked.

“You’re still infuriating,” you whisper.

He licks his lips, eyes glittering. “And you’re still pretending you don’t love this.”

You dig your nails into his shoulder. “I never said I didn’t.”

“Good,” he breathes, mouth brushing yours again. “Then don’t hold back now.”

And you don’t.

You kiss him again, bruising and breathless, with every ounce of fury and heat that’s been building since the day you met. His body crushes yours against the wall, his hands tangled in your clothes, your hair, you , as the fight turns to something else entirely.

Something unstoppable. Something inevitable.

And in that moment, there is no gallery. No exhibit. No winning.

Just two people—burning. Together.

You feel him.

Hard. Hot. Pressed flush between your legs, every roll of his hips making your breath stutter, making your fingers dig into the muscles of his back. His shirt is half-torn, hanging off one shoulder, and yours is bunched around your ribs, twisted in the frantic chaos of limbs and mouths and months of repressed need.

There’s no good place for this—not in a gallery full of delicate pieces and paint-slicked surfaces.

And neither of you gives a damn.

Rafayel growls low against your mouth, then pulls back just long enough to adjust your weight in his arms, turning sharply with you still wrapped around him.

“Where the hell are you going?” you pant against his jaw.

“Finding a spot that won’t collapse under us,” he mutters.

“Oh?” You grin, breathless and cocky. “Getting worried about breaking something, artist? ”

He throws you a look over his shoulder, wild and flushed. “Only worried about breaking you, cutie.”

“Keep dreaming.”

He spins you into the small hallway by the storage room, the low track lighting catching on the curve of his jaw, the sweat at his temple, the paint smudged where your fingers dragged down his neck.

And then your hands are in his hair. Tangled. Tight.

You grip it like you’re trying to pull the arrogance straight out of him—fists tight in the soft strands as you tilt his head back and bite at the skin just below his ear.

He groans, deep and raw, grinding against you like he’s punishing you for it. “Fuck—”

“Sensitive?” you taunt, lips brushing the red mark you’ve left.

He shudders under you, hands gripping your thighs harder.

“You don’t shut up even when you’re wrapped around me,” he breathes, forehead pressing against yours.

“And you don’t stop running that smug mouth even with my teeth in your neck,” you shoot back, dragging your nails up his spine.

His smile breaks into something darker—his hips slam forward in a slow, punishing roll that knocks the breath right out of you.

“You gonna bite again, cutie?” he murmurs, voice a rough whisper against your cheek. “Or just hold on and take it?”

Your response is a moan, swallowed against his mouth as you kiss him again—rough, aching, furious. Your bodies slam against the wall behind you, picture frames clattering off their hooks, and still— still —you’re clawing at each other like you’re trying to win something.

Like this is still a game.

Like neither of you can admit how badly you want this. How badly you want him .

How badly he wants you.

Your nails dig into his chest, dragging down the exposed skin just beneath the half-open shirt hanging uselessly off his shoulder. You feel every tense muscle shift under your touch, the way he shudders when your fingers rake down over his abs—mean, rough, like you're daring him to lose control completely.

He growls against your mouth, not from pain, but from the way your touch fuels him—makes him hungrier.

“You always this dramatic?” you pant against his lips. “Or is this just your usual way of losing arguments?”

He doesn’t even hesitate.

He grabs you by the waist and pulls —harsh and fast—your back slamming into his chest as he drags you with him through the narrow hall.

"You're not winning this, cutie," he bites into your neck. "Not tonight."

You laugh breathlessly, eyes flashing with heat and challenge. “Please, I’ve had better competition from wet paint.”

He turns sharply, pushing you against the nearest wall hard enough that your breath catches. “Keep talking.”

Your shirt is half off, riding high up your stomach, and his hands are already underneath—roaming, greedy, sliding up your ribs, mapping every inch like he’s sculpting you from memory. He palms your waist, your stomach, your chest, like he’s been waiting a lifetime for this moment.

You rake your nails down his abdomen again, and he hisses against your throat.

“I bet you paint with less intensity than you’re touching me,” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark and wild, lips swollen from kissing you like it was war. “You want intensity?”

His hand slides down to your thigh, gripping tight, lifting you just enough for your legs to hook around his hips again. He grinds against you—slow, brutal, and unrelenting. You moan, low and involuntary, and his grin returns, vicious and smug.

“There it is,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Sounded a lot like surrender.”

Your hand grips his hair hard enough to sting. “If you think that was surrender,” you growl, “you haven’t even started the fight.”

“Then fucking prove it.”

And gods—you do.

You yank his hair hard—hard enough to make him hiss through his teeth, his head tilting back just the way you want it. The way he wants it. That perfect line of his throat exposed to you like a dare.

You take it.

Your mouth crashes against his neck—tongue licking a hot stripe up his skin before your teeth sink in, biting down hard enough to bruise. He groans, loud and raw, fingers tightening under your thighs like he’s seconds from slamming you through the wall just to get deeper.

“Fuck—” he chokes out, voice ragged, hips bucking up into yours in a sharp, filthy rhythm.

You suck at the skin beneath his jaw, leaving wet, angry kisses in your wake, biting again when he presses against just the right spot.

“Still think you’re in control?” you pant against his pulse.

He snarls, one hand sliding up your back to twist in your hair, dragging your head back until your mouths crash again—sloppy, biting, too much teeth. “You think this is control?”

His hips roll against yours, punishing and perfect, grinding into that spot that makes your breath stutter. His other hand slips beneath the mess of your shirt, gripping your bare waist hard enough to leave marks.

You moan against his mouth—low and furious. He swallows it with a grin.

“You manhandle me like you’re winning,” he breathes against your jaw, “but you’re the one moaning in my mouth, cutie.”

You dig your nails into his back. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You do.

Your teeth scrape along the edge of his ear, biting down. His whole body shudders against yours, and he pins you tighter to the wall, his hips driving against you like he’s trying to undo every breath you have left.

The gallery fades. Time doesn’t exist. There’s only skin and teeth and breathless groans tangled between gasps and growls.

Neither of you back down.

Not an inch.

You don’t want to win.

You want to ruin each other.

Your legs tighten around his waist, heels digging into the curve of his lower back as he groans against your neck, struggling to keep you pinned and upright at the same time. His muscles twitch under your hands, jaw clenched, breath coming fast.

You lean in, voice like silk over embers.

“Getting tired already?” you murmur, biting the shell of his ear. “Didn’t think I’d wreck you this fast.”

He lets out a low, disbelieving laugh—but it’s strained. And you know it.

“I can feel your arms shaking,” you add, tilting your head with a mock-pitying smirk. “Want to sit down, pretty boy? Or maybe admit I’ve got the upper hand?”

He growls—a real, guttural sound—and suddenly his grip shifts, tightens , and he drops you.

Not carelessly. Deliberately.

One swift movement and your feet hit the floor, the cold rush of air barely registering before he grabs your hips and spins you hard—until your front hits the gallery wall, palms braced on the cool plaster.

Your breath catches. His body presses against your back, chest to spine, heat to heat, his mouth brushing your ear now, voice molten and wrecked.

“You want to wreck me?” he hisses. “Then take it. But don’t you ever think I can’t hold you.”

His hands are everywhere—sliding up your bare waist, teeth dragging along your shoulder as your shirt slips further. You arch back against him instinctively, but he doesn’t give you an inch. He cages you there, hips pressed into yours, teasing, grinding, overwhelming.

You throw a look over your shoulder, eyes lidded and dangerous. “Still sounds like an excuse from someone who couldn’t handle my legs around him.”

He smiles, all teeth.

Then he leans in and bites your shoulder—hard enough to make your knees tremble.

“You talk too much, cutie.”

“And you—” your voice breaks when he rolls his hips again, slow and bruising “—don’t talk enough.”

“Then let me show you.”

And he does.

He rolls his hips against you, slow and unrelenting, grinding into the curve of your ass with a precision that makes your eyes flutter shut. You meet his rhythm instinctively, arching back, matching him thrust for thrust like you were built for this.

His breath stutters behind you.

You smirk, just barely over your shoulder. “That what you wanted?” you breathe. “Me bent over and breathless after all that barking?”

But you don’t fight him this time.

You stay right where he’s put you—hands braced on the gallery wall, back arched, hips tilted. You let him have it. Let him guide the pace. Let him feel exactly how much this has undone you.

And oh, he feels it.

His hands slide down your sides, rough and reverent, slow like he’s savoring every inch. When his fingers find the hem of your skirt, he curses low under his breath—gripping the fabric, pushing it higher until it bunches around your hips.

Then his hand finds its way beneath.

You hear the hitch in his breath when his fingers slide between your thighs and meet heat.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice nearly ruined. “You’re soaked.”

You tilt your head with a wicked little grin. “Still think I talk too much?”

His hand tightens on your hip, the other still buried between your legs, fingers testing just how wrecked you are.

“All that yelling,” he murmurs against your ear, “all that attitude… and this is what you’ve been holding back?”

His fingers move again and you gasp, your forehead hitting the wall. He chuckles darkly. “You love fighting me. Admit it.”

You bite your lip, barely able to breathe. “Only because I know how it ends.”

“Like this?”

He thrusts his hips again—harder now. Deeper. Your moan breaks sharp against the gallery walls.

“Exactly like this,” you pant.

And this time, you don’t mock him.

Because there’s nothing left to say—just the rhythm of hips and hands and hot breath against skin, every movement crashing louder than words ever could.

His fingers trail slowly, deliberately, over the thin fabric between your thighs—barely touching, just enough to make your breath hitch. He could ruin you right now, and he knows it. But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Instead, he leans in, voice a rough whisper against your ear, smug and dripping with heat.

“Lace?” he breathes, fingers brushing again, slow and taunting. “You wore lace to the gallery, cutie? That for me?”

You let out a breathless laugh, curling your fingers against the wall, hips arching back into him just enough to tease.

“Please,” you pant, turning your head enough to glance at him over your shoulder, eyes burning. “Don’t flatter yourself. I forgot you’d be here.”

He presses harder, the heel of his hand grinding against you through the soaked lace, fingers trailing slow circles that make your legs threaten to give.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, mouth at your throat. “So this wet little mess I’ve got my fingers on—that’s just from the art, then?”

You moan before you can stop it.

His grin is devastating.

You growl, voice wrecked and cocky. “You’re such a smug bastard.”

“And you’re dripping all over my hand.”

You snap your hips back into his, hard enough that it knocks the air from both of you.

“You talk too much,” you pant, breath shaking. “Why don’t you do something about it?”

His fingers slip beneath the lace.

“I am .”

Your breath catches hard—your hand slams against the wall, nails scraping the paint. You hear him chuckle low behind you, wicked and satisfied and so, so arrogant.

And you love it. You fucking love it. Because this is how it’s always been with you and him. Fighting. Biting. Pushing.

Only now, your battleground is skin and heat and breath.

And the war is still on.

He knows it now. Exactly how you like it. Not careful. Not sweet.

Combative.

His fingers move with purpose now—no more teasing. No more slow circles or gentle brushes. He works you the way you argue: hard, relentless, like he’s proving something with every movement. And you meet him step for step.

Your hips grind into his hand, your moans low and ragged, your head tipped back so your breath hits the wall and bounces back to meet your gasps.

“You like this, don’t you?” he growls, fingers curling just right. “Me taking control. You don’t want slow—you want a fight.”

You claw at the wall, body arching into every stroke, voice sharp and breathless. “Then fight me. ”

His free hand grabs your hair, not too hard but hard enough, dragging your head back until your mouth opens in a gasp. His lips are at your neck again, biting this time, really biting, as his fingers work faster, rougher, perfectly ruthless.

“You’ve been begging for this since the first time you mouthed off to me,” he grits out, breath hot against your ear. “You just didn’t know it.”

You laugh, wrecked and shaking. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me, ” he snarls, pressing his hips against you, letting you feel all of him, hard and ready, his fingers never stopping.

You shudder, legs trembling. “Cocky asshole.”

He thrusts two fingers deeper. You moan .

“Say it again,” he pants.

“You’re a cocky, arrogant, smug— fuck— ” your sentence collapses into a moan as your body tightens under his touch, nails scraping the wall, teeth sinking into your bottom lip.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Just like that. Come for me like you fight— loud. ”

And you do.

It rips through you like lightning, sharp and blinding, your body shaking with it—your moan long, breathless, broken. And he holds you through it, fingers steady, the other hand tangled in your hair, holding you in place like he’s claiming victory.

When it finally settles, when your legs threaten to give out, he leans in close—smug, panting, lips brushing your ear.

“Still think I can’t handle you, cutie?”

You laugh through the high still humming in your bones.

You’re not done. Not even close.

You twist in his arms, eyes glittering, mouth swollen, and shove him back against the opposite wall with a wicked grin.

“Your turn,” you whisper.

And just like that—the fight begins again. You turn on him, your body still pulsing with aftershocks, and you grab a fistful of his shirt.

The buttons don’t stand a chance.

They snap open one by one under the force of your hands, the fabric yanked apart so violently it leaves threads hanging. His chest is exposed now—paint-smeared, sweat-slick, flushed from head to toe—and your breath catches.

He laughs— chuckles, like he lives for this.

“Of course you’d tear it off,” he mutters, half-wrecked, hair wild, grin feral. “You just can’t help yourself.”

“I warned you,” you pant, pushing him back against the nearest surface again, your palms splayed across his now bare chest. “You like control. So do I.”

He groans as your nails drag down his chest—no softness in your touch, only fire. You suck a mark into the skin beneath his collarbone, biting until he hisses, grabbing at your hips in retaliation.

“You fight dirty,” he growls.

You grin against his skin. “So fight back.”

Your hand dips lower, unceremonious, hungry, clawing at his belt like you’re trying to rip it open with sheer frustration and lust. You fumble once—he notices—and of course he fucking smirks.

“You need help, cutie?”

You shoot him a glare, then finally yank the belt free with a satisfying snap, gripping the leather like a weapon.

“I don’t need anything from you,” you growl, leaning into his ear.

He exhales a shaky laugh, hands gripping your waist tighter. “Then why do you look like you’re starving for it?”

Your only answer is your hand sliding lower, possessive and unapologetic, fingers curling around the heat beneath his clothes.

His head drops back with a curse, his laugh dissolving into a groan. “Fuck—”

“Still cocky?” you murmur, biting his shoulder again, fingers tightening. “Still think I’m the one who’s losing?”

He grabs your wrist, not to stop you—but to ground himself. “God, you’re gonna be the death of me.”

“Good,” you breathe. “Then die begging. ”

And that’s it.

He’s had enough.

He pulls you in— hard —kissing you like he’s trying to shut you up, but your moan only fuels him. It’s war all over again—teeth, hands, hips, heat.

And this time, there are no rules left.

You don’t warn him.

You slide your hand inside with a sharp, purposeful movement—no hesitation, no mercy—and wrap your fingers around him.

He gasps , hips jerking forward instinctively, his hand flying to your wrist like he might stop you—but he doesn’t. He can’t. His grip only tightens, not to resist, but to endure.

Your lips curl into a smirk against his throat.

“Still feeling in control?” you whisper, fingers tightening just enough to make his breath catch in his chest.

“Fuck—” he growls, jaw clenched, body shivering against yours.

“You always have something to say,” you murmur, licking the corner of his jaw. “So say it. Tell me what you want.”

He bites his lip, refusing. Pride warring with the pulsing heat in your hand.

So you start to move—slow, deliberate strokes, your palm working him with maddening confidence. His hips twitch again, knees bending slightly under the weight of it.

“You want it?” you breathe, voice all fire and sin. “Then beg.”

His laugh is wrecked. “You’re a menace.”

“And you’re hard in my hand.”

You tighten your grip slightly—just enough to make him groan , head falling to your shoulder.

“I can stop,” you whisper against his ear. “You want that?”

His breath stutters.

“I didn’t think so.”

Another stroke.

He curses again—louder this time—his hand sliding up to your waist, gripping hard like he needs something to hold onto.

“I want—” he grits out, voice raw, teeth bared.

You slow your hand. “Say it,” you hiss. “I want to hear you say it. ”

His head snaps back up—violet eyes dark, wild, burning. And he finally snaps.

“I want you, ” he growls. “I want your mouth. Your hands. Your goddamn fire. I want you to ruin me.”

You smile—sharp, victorious, wicked. “Now that,” you whisper, pumping your hand again, “wasn’t so hard.”

He shudders—completely at your mercy now, undone by your grip and your grin and the heat still crackling between your bodies like lightning before the storm breaks.

And you're just getting started.

You feel the shift in his breath before you even move.

He thinks he’s won something—thinks your body pressed against his, your hand still stroking him slow and merciless, means he has the upper hand again.

So you smile— that smile. Devastating. Dangerous.

Then you drop to your knees.

Right in front of him.

His breath catches, and you look up through your lashes, fingers already dragging his waistband down, exposing all of him inch by inch like unwrapping something you earned.

“Shit,” he breathes, chest rising and falling like he’s already halfway undone.

You grin wider. “Still think I don’t know how to handle you?”

He groans, head tipping back for half a second before he catches himself—before the cocky bastard returns.

“You know,” he pants, his hand sliding into your hair, not guiding, just there , “this is going to fuel my ego for months .”

You kiss along his hipbone, lips ghosting just above where he needs you, slow and maddening. “Let me guess,” you murmur, breath hot against his skin. “You’ll make a sculpture of me on my knees?”

He lets out a wrecked laugh. “I might. Haven’t decided if I’d need to exaggerate the attitude or not.”

You nip at his skin, just enough to make him twitch. “Careful, Rafayel. I am the one holding your entire dignity in my hands.”

“Cutie,” he groans, voice ragged. “You’ve been holding it since the moment you opened your mouth.”

You lick a slow line up his length just to shut him up—and it works. His breath stutters, his hand tightening slightly in your hair, hips rolling forward before he catches himself.

You don’t look away as your mouth closes around him.

And that —that’s when he forgets how to speak.

His hand fists in your hair now, no longer teasing, and he moans your name, low and desperate and completely wrecked . And still, he tries to fight for control, hips jerking, voice sharp.

“You don’t get to—fuck—you don’t get to win this.”

You pull back just enough to smirk, hand stroking him again, slick and steady.

“Watch me.”

And then you take him deeper.

He chokes on a curse, thighs shaking now, every muscle coiled like he’s trying not to fall apart right there. Like he’s trying not to give you everything.

But it’s already too late. Because you have him. Right where you want him.

And no matter how much he tries to pretend otherwise—he loves it.

You love this. The way he gasped when you dropped to your knees. The way he twitched when you wrapped your mouth around him.

But what you love most—the part that drives heat between your thighs—is the way Rafayel, arrogant, cocky, insufferable Rafayel, is finally too wrecked to speak.

You take him deeper, your fingers curling against his hips to hold him still, your mouth hot and unrelenting. His groan rips through the air, low and broken, head tipping back as his hand tightens in your hair like he’s barely hanging on.

He tries to stay in control—of course he does.

But you feel it. The way his thighs tense. The way his breathing shatters.

You pull back just enough, mouth flushed and slick as you glance up at him, still stroking him slow and merciless.

“You gonna break for me?” you whisper. “Or are you still pretending you’re in charge?”

His chest heaves, jaw clenched so tight it trembles. “Cutie…”

You smirk, wicked and electric. “Lose it, Rafayel. I want to see you fall apart.”

And then you take him again— all the way this time, deeper than before, your throat tightening, tongue pressing just right.

That’s it.

That’s the moment.

His hand fists in your hair, hard now, dragging your mouth against him as his hips buck forward, needy , wrecked, real . His other hand finds your shoulder, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck— fuck, ” he gasps, head bowed, hair falling into his eyes as he watches you ruin him. “You’re gonna make me— shit— ”

You moan around him—on purpose—and his whole body jerks , his control unraveling in your hands like silk threads being pulled loose.

He’s not cocky now. Not smug. Not teasing.

He’s yours —breathless, broken, bucking his hips into your mouth like he can’t help it anymore. Like he needs this. Needs you.

And god, you love it.

You hold him steady, guiding every movement, letting him use your mouth as he loses himself entirely—grunting, moaning your name, curses falling off his lips like prayers.

Until finally, finally, he breaks.

And you don’t let up until he’s trembling, panting, and ruined—body pressed to the wall, hand still in your hair, breathless and completely gone.

When you finally pull back, slow and deliberate, your lips are swollen, your eyes dark with satisfaction, and that smirk—

That smirk could kill a god.

Rafayel looks down at you, chest heaving, hair wild, eyes blown wide. You lick your lips, tilt your head.

“Well,” you murmur, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “That shut you up.”

He laughs—wrecked and ruined and loving every second of it.

He’s still gasping, still flushed and ruined from your mouth, but you don’t get a moment to gloat.

Not really.

Because his hand is already under your chin, yanking you upward with a growl, dragging you to your feet so fast you barely register the motion.

And then your back slams against the gallery wall again, hard enough to make you gasp—but not from pain.

From heat. From need.

“You smug little brat,” he breathes against your mouth, teeth flashing in the low light. “You think that was enough to shut me down?”

You grin, breathless. “Didn’t hear you complaining—”

He cuts you off with a brutal kiss— biting , deep, all tongue and teeth and possession. His hands claw at your hips, dragging your skirt higher with impatient fingers. Your own hands are already tangled in his open shirt, then sliding up his bare back—scratching, digging deep as he grinds against you.

He hisses into your mouth.

“Fucking hell, cutie—”

You tug his hair, hard, dragging his head back so you can bite at his throat again.

“I told you not to call me that when I’m on top.”

“I told you I’d take it back,” he growls, and then he does.

His hips press hard into yours, hands gripping your thighs as he lifts you again. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, your head falling back against the wall as his teeth catch the sensitive spot just beneath your jaw.

“Don’t go soft on me now,” you pant, voice shredded with heat. “You’re not done fighting.”

His hand slips between your bodies, rough and hot against your thigh.

“Oh, I’m not done,” he rasps. “Not even fucking close.”

And then you’re clawing at him again—hands on his shoulders, his back, tangled in his hair. You pull him into you like you’re trying to rip the smugness out of his body, gasping when his hips roll up with dizzying precision.

His grip bruises.

Yours leaves marks.

And neither of you would have it any other way.

“You gonna break again?” you whisper, lips brushing his ear, dragging your nails down his spine.

He growls, thrusting hard. “Only if I take you with me.”

“Good.”

Because this —this mess of sweat and fire and biting mouths—isn’t about losing or winning.

It’s about how far they’ll go to destroy each other.

And how badly they want to come undone together.

Your head is spinning, hair tangled in his hands, your thighs bracketing his hips as your back hits the wall again—hard, hot, perfect . His mouth is all over you, kissing, biting, breathing curses against your skin, and your hands are pulling at him like you want to climb inside him and tear his soul out.

You want this.

You both do.

You can feel it in the way his body trembles against yours, the way he growls when your nails dig too deep, the way he gasps when you roll your hips up to meet him.

And still—you fight.

“You’re holding back,” you bite out, clawing at his shoulder. “Scared?”

He grins against your collarbone, breathless. “Scared you’ll start begging.”

You growl, dragging him down into another kiss—furious and messy, teeth clashing, his hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise. You rut against each other like you’re already there—like it’s already happening —and it almost is.

Your fingers slide between your bodies, tugging at the last barrier between want and need , and you don’t care anymore how wrecked you sound when you whisper against his mouth, “Do it.”

He still hesitates.

So you spit fire.

“You’re all bark, Rafayel. All talk. You don’t have the nerve—”

He growls. And that’s the end of it.

He grabs your hips, manhandles you into place—like you weigh nothing, like you’re his to lift and hold and take—and lines himself up, eyes burning into yours as he finally, finally thrusts in.

Not brutal. But controlled.

Intentional.

Like he wants you to feel it.

You cry out, fingers digging into his back as he fills you inch by slow, deliberate inch, the stretch dizzying, the heat unbearable. Your head falls forward, your forehead hitting his shoulder as he presses in deeper—steady, devastating.

He groans, low and wrecked. “Fuck, cutie...”

You grip his hair again, tugging hard, gasping. “More.”

“Always so greedy,” he pants.

“Then give it to me.”

And he does.

With every slow, grinding thrust, he claims more of you. And you take it—arching, trembling, whispering curses into his ear as he moves just right, just enough to keep you teetering, but not falling. Not yet.

His hand slips beneath your thigh, pulling your leg higher, angling deeper. You both moan —raw, unfiltered, desperate.

“You feel—” he can’t even finish.

You chuckle darkly. “Speechless again?”

He bites your shoulder. “Not for long.”

And just like that—you’re fighting again. But now it’s skin on skin. Now it’s hips and moans and hands clawing for more.

And the war between you?

It’s never felt this good.

You don't ask. You demand.

Your nails dig into his back, your thighs tighten around his waist, and your voice—hoarse, wild, wrecked —snaps into his ear like a whip.

“Harder.”

He growls, the sound primal and guttural, and answers the only way he knows how—with a sharp, brutal thrust that makes your head hit the wall, your gasp punching out of your lungs like he’s knocked the breath out of you.

“Like that?” he pants, voice low, rough, feral.

You don’t answer.

You ravage.

Your mouth finds his neck and you devour him—licking, sucking, biting , leaving red, blooming marks down his throat like you want the world to know exactly what you’ve done. He groans, hips snapping into you harder, faster, his control fraying with every grind of your body against his.

“Fuck—” he hisses, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your ass, keeping you anchored as he drives into you like he can’t stop even if he wanted to.

And he doesn’t.

Neither of you do.

You move with him, against him, for him—grinding down, gasping, your body slick with sweat, nails leaving trails across his bare skin. You tear at him like you’re starving. Like this is the last time you’ll ever breathe.

“You wanted control,” he groans, lips at your ear. “You wanted more—”

“I want everything,” you spit back, clenching around him as you pull his hair, dragging him closer, deeper, harder.

“You fucking have it, ” he growls, and then he thrusts again—so deep, so perfect, your vision goes white.

Every snap of his hips drags you closer to the edge. Every panting breath, every curse through clenched teeth, every bite —pulls you into oblivion.

And it’s coming fast.

You feel it.

He feels it.

“You close?” he rasps, biting your jaw, the line of your throat. “You gonna come for me, cutie?”

You grip his face, force him to look at you—your eyes wild, your lips swollen, your whole body trembling as you grind against him like you own him.

You throw the words at him like a blade, voice shredded with lust and defiance.

“I’ll come when I’m—”

But you never finish the sentence.

Because Rafayel’s eyes flash, and in a split second, his grip tightens—hands sinking into your hips, fingers bruising, holding you in place—and then his thrusts change.

Faster. Deeper. Harder.

He slams into you like he’s trying to fuck the fight out of you—and god , he’s succeeding. Your head tips back with a gasp, your nails clawing at his shoulders, scraping down his back as his pace grows brutal, relentless.

“You were saying?” he grits out, voice rough, breath wrecked as his hips piston into you over and over again.

You choke on a moan, your mouth open, eyes fluttering shut as the pressure inside you coils too tight, too fast, too much.

You try to hold it.

You try.

But he knows. He feels it. The way your legs shake. The way your walls clench around him like you’re already falling.

His lips find your throat, biting hard as he growls, “Come for me.”

And then—

You break.

It hits like a wave crashing straight through your core, tearing the air from your lungs. Your back arches, your cry sharp and loud as your body shudders violently against his. You clench around him so tight he groans, his rhythm faltering for the first time.

You’re breathless, wrecked, trembling.

And still, he keeps going—dragging you through it, refusing to let you fall alone.

“That’s it,” he breathes, panting against your ear. “God, you feel— fuck— ”

You try to speak, but all that comes out is his name—rasped, broken, desperate.

And he loves it.

Because he won this round. But you’ll make him pay for it.

Later.

You’re still shaking—legs locked tight around his waist, body flushed and burning, mouth open as you suck desperate gasps of air. But your hands don’t stop moving. They claw into his shoulders, fingers digging into sweat-slick skin, dragging him closer.

Your lips find his neck again—biting, growling against his pulse.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you rasp, voice raw, breathless, trembling. “ Finish what you started. ”

And god, he does.

Your walls pulse around him, still tight, still clenching like you’re daring him to lose it. His thrusts grow messier now—less control, more need , more of that beautiful chaos that lives between you.

“Fuck— fuck, cutie, ” he gasps, eyes squeezed shut, head buried in your shoulder.

You squeeze around him again—tight, hard—your body urging him on with every flutter, every trembling aftershock still rolling through your core. Your nails rake down his back. Your voice drips into his ear, half growl, half command.

“Come for me.”

That’s it.

He chokes out a moan—deep, hoarse, wrecked —his rhythm falters, then crashes completely. His whole body jerks as he drives into you one final time, hips pressed flush to yours as he comes undone.

You feel it in the way he shudders, the way his fingers dig into your hips like he needs you to keep him grounded. He groans your name like a curse, like a confession, like he’s been holding it back since the first fight you ever had.

His body collapses against yours, panting, gasping, trembling.

And you just hold him there—your hands still in his hair, your lips brushing his neck, both of you slick and ruined and still burning.

Neither of you says a word.

Not yet.

Because there’s no need to.

Not when your bodies have said everything.

Your breathing is still uneven, your body buzzing in the wake of everything he just did to you—and what you did right back.

You feel him slowly, carefully pull out, and you wince, just a little—still sensitive, still shivering. His hands stay on your hips, steadying you. And then, unexpectedly, gently , he lowers you back down, settling you against the wall as your feet find the ground again.

For a moment, there’s only the sound of ragged breaths and the drip of paintwater in the distance. His forehead leans against yours, and his eyes—still a little dazed, still blown wide—search yours for something he doesn’t dare ask for.

You smirk.

“Wow,” you murmur, lips brushing his cheek. “Didn’t think the great Rafayel Qi had a soft touch in him.”

He huffs a laugh, that same ruined chuckle from earlier, but quieter now—less cocky, more real.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “So the bruises on my hips were just for decoration?”

“Oh, no,” he grins, “those were entirely intentional.”

You laugh, breathless and raw.

His fingers graze your waist, light now—absent of heat or hunger. Just there. A quiet tether in the silence.

And then, without thinking, one of you says it: “Well... I think we finally found the gallery aesthetic.”

The other snorts. “Chaotic passion?”

“Unresolved sexual tension in acrylic and sweat.”

“‘Artistically combative,’” he offers, mock-serious. “‘With expressive use of biting.’”

You both laugh—real laughter now, the kind that shakes your chest and steals the weight from your bones.

You’re still tangled. Still flushed. Still bare.

But something has shifted.

And neither of you wants to say it out loud yet.

So instead, you stay there—back against the wall, his hand resting at your waist, your finger idly tracing a line down the buttons you ruined.

And for the first time, there’s no need to win.

Not yet.

-------------

It had been a month since that night.

A month of arguments that flared too quickly and lingered too long. Of mocking jabs, of rolled eyes and sarcastic claps, of fingers brushing too close to each other’s on shared canvases. Of silence so sharp it felt like a scream.

It never happened again.

But it was always there.

Under every spat. Beneath every cocky remark. The echo of skin on skin, breathless gasps, that moment you’d had him begging. And now—

Now the gallery was ready.

And so were you.

You stood near the centerpiece of the collection—one of his larger, more chaotic pieces bleeding into the calmer, structured section you’d curated. The contrast was intentional. So was the tension.

Much like the two of you.

Your heels clicked softly as you turned, a champagne glass balanced effortlessly between your fingers. The dress you wore was sleek, black, cut high at the thigh and low at the back—impeccable, striking, intentional.

You were talking to two patrons—art critics, maybe, or donors. You weren’t really listening. You were nodding, smiling, sipping, your mind only half there. Because the other half—

Was across the room.

You could feel him.

Rafayel.

Leaning against one of the gallery’s tall window frames, a glass of something dark in his hand, hair tied back with loose strands falling around his face. Dressed in all black, of course—open collar, tailored to perfection, the sleeves of his blazer pushed halfway up his forearms like even tonight he refused to follow rules.

And he was watching you.

Of course he was.

He hadn’t looked away once since you walked in.

You tried not to smile. Tried not to let the heat crawl up your spine the way it always did when his gaze settled on you like a weight.

He raised his glass in a slow, lazy toast when your eyes finally met his.

Smug bastard.

You turned back to your patrons, catching only the tail end of a compliment about the “raw energy and unexpected cohesion” of the exhibit.

Unexpected.

Yeah.

You smiled. “It was a collaborative effort,” you said smoothly, not bothering to mention how many times you nearly strangled said collaborator with your bare hands—or the things you'd nearly done instead.

Across the room, Rafayel pushed off the wall, still watching you. And beneath all the silk and polish and wine glasses and polite applause—

The fire was still there.

Waiting.

You're mid-sentence, smiling that perfectly poised, half-fake smile you’ve perfected for evenings like this. One of the patrons leans in with interest, asking something about the emotional intention behind one of the transitional pieces.

You open your mouth to answer—

“Ah, I see you’re telling stories again.”

That voice.

Silky. Arrogant. Dripping with smug amusement.

You don't even have to look to know who it is. But you do —slowly, deliberately, lips pressed into a thin line as you turn your head.

Rafayel stands behind you, a glass of red wine in one hand, the other casually tucked in his pocket, that infuriating half-smile curved on his lips like he’s already won something.

“Pardon me,” he says to the patrons, not meaning it in the slightest. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the mythology hour.”

You inhale slowly through your nose. “Oh, don’t worry. He does this.”

“I’m like an impromptu performance piece,” Rafayel adds, stepping closer— too close—his shoulder nearly brushing yours. “Unexpected. Unwelcome. But deeply memorable.”

The older of the two patrons chuckles awkwardly, clearly unsure if this is a planned act or actual tension. The woman beside him sips her champagne and murmurs something about the “raw energy” in your curation.

You don’t take your eyes off him. “Some of us like to let the work speak for itself.”

Rafayel grins wider. “And some of us know when to narrate.”

His voice is low, meant just for you now—those last words sliding against your skin like a touch you’re trying not to feel.

You shoot him a sharp glance, and he meets it head-on, violet eyes gleaming. And god help you—

You love it.

You love this.

That he’s always like this. Always pushing. Always throwing gasoline on the tiniest spark just to see if you’ll light.

And you always do.

“Excuse me,” you say smoothly to the patrons, voice sweet but cool. “My… partner and I need to confer.”

“Oh, are we calling it that now?” Rafayel murmurs as you grab him by the wrist and drag him away from the crowd.

He lets you. Of course he does. Because this is his favorite part.

The moment before the explosion.

You don’t stop walking.

Not when he mutters behind you, not when his laughter brushes the back of your neck, not even when you hear the click of your heels echo louder in the quiet hallway leading toward the back storage.

You find the first private corner—dark, tucked between a half-curtained display and a supply door—and you pull him in hard by the lapel of that ridiculous, perfectly tailored blazer.

He laughs, low and amused. “Getting handsy already, cutie?”

You don’t answer.

You bite.

Your teeth sink into the exposed line of his neck just below his jaw, and he lets out a rough, surprised groan , one hand shooting out to brace himself against the wall behind you, the other grabbing your waist, fingers twitching through the fabric of your dress.

“Fuck—” he gasps, but he’s smiling through it, grinning , his breath hot against your hair. “You’re insatiable.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, your lips barely brushing his skin, your voice breathless and sharp.

“You shouldn’t have interrupted.”

His gaze drops—slowly, shamelessly—to the deep line of your dress, the curve of your chest rising with each breath, and he smirks.

“Oh, I absolutely should’ve. ”

His hand moves to the small of your back, dragging you closer, and he dips his head—this time he bites, low on your shoulder where the strap has slipped, his teeth pressing through the delicate fabric.

You gasp softly, hand fisting in his shirt. “We’re at our own damn gallery event.”

“And yet here we are,” he murmurs, voice dripping with heat and mockery. “Alone. Again. With your lips on my throat and your thighs pressed to mine like you’re starving. ”

You scoff, tugging him closer, your voice a dangerous whisper. “Please. You’ve been eye-fucking me since I walked in.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“I was appreciating the art,” he says smugly. “You looked… devastating. ”

You smile, slow and wicked, tilting your head.

“You’re still not getting any.”

His grin widens, his mouth grazing your jaw. “Who said I needed to?”

But god—he wants to.

And you know it.

You don’t kiss him again.

Not yet.

Instead, you let your hand wander—slow, deliberate—dragging down the open line of his shirt, tracing the curve of his chest, the faint trail below his navel. He’s watching you now, dead still, pupils dark, jaw tight.

Waiting.

And then your fingers slide lower. Just a little. Just enough to make his breath hitch.

You stop just before you touch him, the heat of your hand so close it’s cruel.

He shifts, just slightly—his body twitching toward yours, like gravity can’t help itself.

And that’s when you pull away.

You take a step back, smoothing your dress with a flick of your fingers, your eyes locked on his as your lips curl into a devastating smirk.

His chest rises and falls once. Hard. You lean in close, brushing past his cheek, your voice a whisper of silk and sin. “Try not to embarrass yourself out there.”

He turns his head to catch your eyes, the ghost of a very dangerous smile on his lips. “You’re evil.”

You’re already walking away.

“ Irresistible, ” you correct over your shoulder, not even looking back.

And you don’t look back—not even as you hear his low, wrecked laugh echoing behind you.

You step out from behind the curtain like nothing happened. Champagne in hand. Composure immaculate. Smile sharpened like a blade.

You glide back into the crowd like nothing happened. Like you didn’t just have Rafayel’s pulse in the palm of your hand.

You feel him before you see him. A shadow at your back. A spark crawling up your spine.

“Didn’t take you long to rejoin the masses,” his voice murmurs behind you, soft enough that the nearby guests don’t hear it—but low enough to brush against your ear.

You take a slow sip of champagne and glance over your shoulder.

“Didn’t take you long to recover. I’m impressed.”

He steps to your side, his glass in hand, lips curved in that ever-present, too-smug smile. “You left me in the dark. Cruel, really.”

You don’t look at him. You smile at someone walking by.

“And yet here you are, still breathing. I must be slipping.”

He chuckles, sipping his wine.

“I heard Miss Elaris raving about the piece you arranged on the east wall,” he says aloud, his tone smooth and admiring. Then, lower— only for you —“I didn’t have the heart to tell her how much you whined about that placement.”

You tilt your head, still not looking at him, your voice equally polite. “And I didn’t have the heart to tell the critic that your favorite sculpture was off-balance and structurally flawed. I figured you’d do that yourself.”

“Ouch.”

“Truth hurts, pretty boy.”

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Keep talking like that and I’ll drag you right back behind the curtain.”

You flash him a look then—quick, dangerous, amused. “You had your chance.”

“You are my chance.”

You take another sip, just to mask the twitch of heat that runs through you.

The patrons see a power couple—flawless, brilliant, perfectly in sync.

They don’t hear the war raging just beneath every sentence. They don’t see the way his eyes track the curve of your waist or how your fingers twitch when he leans in too close.

They don’t know that every smile between you is barbed.

You lean in slightly, close enough to smell the faintest trace of his cologne, your lips barely moving.

“Control looks good on me. Doesn’t it drive you crazy?”

His eyes flick to yours—burning.

“You have no idea. ”

You barely have time to set your glass down before someone calls your name from across the room.

“Excuse me—could I get a photo of the two of you together? The visionaries behind the exhibit?”

You blink, caught mid-step, lips already parting for a polite excuse. But then Rafayel’s hand brushes your lower back.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “We’d be delighted.”

You shoot him a glare that could strip paint from the walls. He grins wider, and leans in just slightly. “Smile for the people, cutie.”

You square your shoulders as the photographer gestures, adjusting the lens, motioning you to stand closer together.

Too close.

Rafayel doesn’t hesitate.

He steps into you like he owns the space around you, one hand resting low at your waist, his body warm and maddeningly close.

You freeze for half a second before plastering on the same smile you’ve been using all night.

Click.

The camera flashes. His voice murmurs against your ear. “Relax. I don’t bite.”

You smile without turning your head. “Liar.”

Another flash.

The photographer thanks you both, clearly pleased with whatever he caught. Rafayel’s hand lingers half a second longer than it should, and then slips away as he steps back, as if nothing had happened.

But your skin still tingles where he touched you. You’re almost safe when a voice from the stage calls out—

“Let’s have a few words from the minds behind tonight’s exhibit!”

You turn just in time to see Rafayel already making his way to the platform. Smug. Calm. Deadly.

“Bastard,” you mutter.

He glances back—just once. And winks.

The room hushes as he takes the mic. His shirt’s still slightly rumpled. His sleeves pushed up just enough to show his inked forearms. His hair, loose now, curls around his jaw.

He looks like a storm pretending to be art.

“Thank you all for being here tonight,” he begins, voice smooth and deceptively composed. “When we started working on this exhibit, we had no idea how… collaborative it would become.”

A few polite laughs ripple through the crowd. His eyes flick to you. “Working with someone so brilliant, so relentless, so maddeningly precise—it forced me to challenge the chaos I usually live in.”

You fold your arms.

“And while I disagreed with her on almost everything—placement, palette, volume, lighting, oxygen—I can say this without doubt: none of this would have happened without her.”

Your throat tightens, just a little.

He’s still smiling. “And though we fought like hell—because of course we did—it only made the art better. More alive. Just like she makes everything.”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And in that moment—just for a heartbeat—it’s not cocky. It’s reverent.

“I’ll let her speak now,” he says, stepping back from the mic. “Before she sets me on fire with her eyes.”

The room chuckles again. And suddenly, all eyes are on you.

Waiting.

Your heels echo softly as you make your way up to the small stage, the spotlight catching the shimmer of your dress, the controlled grace in your every movement. You take the mic without looking at him, though you feel his gaze still locked on you, burning through the satin of your spine.

You let the room settle before you speak—head high, smile sharp.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” you begin, voice smooth, clear. “This exhibit is the result of far too many late nights, conflicting visions, and at least three near-murders.”

The crowd laughs. Lightly.

Your eyes flick sideways—just a glance—and you see Rafayel smiling, arms crossed, eyes gleaming like he knows exactly what you’re doing.

You don’t smile back.

“At the beginning, I had a plan,” you continue. “I had a vision for how this space would feel. How it would breathe. I was sure of it.”

You pause.

“And then I met him.”

Another murmur of laughter ripples through the crowd.

You let it settle before adding, “And suddenly, everything I was sure of... became negotiable.”

Your eyes flick back to him now, full force, a challenge wrapped in velvet.

“He’s chaotic. Unfiltered. Difficult. Dramatic. He doesn’t listen. He makes a habit of interrupting people who are doing just fine without him.”

More laughter. He chuckles under his breath, gaze fixed on you like you’re the only person in the room.

You breathe in once. Slow.

“But he’s also one of the most maddeningly talented people I’ve ever had the misfortune of working with. He doesn’t just make art—he bleeds it. And somewhere between the noise and the fire and the very long list of things we still don’t agree on... we built this.”

You gesture to the gallery.

“To everyone else, it might look like contradiction and tension. But to us? It’s a conversation.”

You pause—just long enough for him to feel it. “A messy, passionate, loud, beautiful conversation.”

The room is silent now. Watching you. Listening. You smile then—not the sharp one. Not the fake one.

The real one.

And it’s aimed directly at him.

“Thank you for letting us show you what that looks like.”

Applause.

You step down, composed, chin high—but the fire’s still in your chest, your pulse racing not from nerves, but from the way he is watching you now.

Not smug. Not cocky. But something slower. Deeper.

Hunger laced with reverence.

After the speeches, the room fills with polite applause and renewed conversation.

And just like that—he’s gone again.

You’re swept into a new circle of art patrons, curators, donors. Their smiles are rehearsed, their compliments effusive, and their questions just rehearsed enough to make you tired. You answer with grace, your glass of champagne always half-full, your laughter perfectly timed.

Across the room, you catch a glimpse of him—Rafayel—trapped in his own cluster of attention. A woman with too much perfume touches his arm when she laughs, and a collector is gesturing animatedly toward one of his pieces. He’s nodding, smiling, charming them like it costs him nothing.

But you know him better than they do.

You see the slight twitch in his jaw. The way his fingers tighten around his wine glass when someone leans in too close.

He doesn’t look at you. Not once.

And still, you feel it. The heat. That quiet pressure that sits heavy behind your ribs, humming like a secret only you two know.

The hours pass. More smiles. More champagne.More perfectly lit photos with patrons who will forget your name in a week.

You spot him only in flashes—his shoulder rounding a corner, the sound of his laugh echoing briefly, the back of his head disappearing into a conversation.

Neither of you approaches. Neither of you has the time.

Or maybe you’re both avoiding what comes next. But now—

The lights have dimmed to a softer glow.

The music has shifted, slower now, meant for winding down. Less clinking glasses. More coats being gathered, doors opening and closing, murmured goodbyes.

You stand near one of the final displays, the one where your work and his bleed together most visibly—a chaotic burst of color against structured lines, conflict fused into beauty. The piece that took the longest. That started a fight that lasted four days.

And now it’s the centerpiece.

You sip your champagne slowly, letting the last chill melt on your tongue. Behind you, you feel it again. That presence.

That heat.

You don’t look back. Not when the music softens to a whisper. Not when the final guests begin offering farewells, their perfume lingering in the air like a second skin.

And especially not when you feel him—close behind you again, standing somewhere just beyond your left shoulder. Not speaking. Not reaching.

But watching.

You finish the last sip of your champagne, set the empty glass down on the table beside the final display, and smooth your hands down your dress. Slow. Deliberate.

Then you turn and walk away.

Not toward the coat check. Not toward the glowing exit where guests are laughing in tired clusters.

But toward the private corridor behind the gallery floor—the same one you dragged him into a month ago.

You don’t look back. But you know.

You know .

His footsteps start only a beat after yours, quiet but certain. Measured. Controlled. Like he wants to pretend this isn’t what it is.

But it is.

This is no accident.

You disappear past the curtain without a word, heels silent now against the smooth floor of the back corridor, your body humming with the weight of the whole night.

You stop near the same wall he once pinned you to—facing it now. Breathing in. Breathing out. And when the footsteps pause behind you… you wait.

One second.

Two.

Three.

And then: His voice, low. Rough. Familiar. “I knew you wanted me to follow.”

You smile, slow and devastating, your back still turned to him. “Did you think I didn’t know you’d try ?”

He steps closer. You hear it. You feel it.

The last lingering noise of the gallery fades behind you. And in this quiet space—just the two of you—there’s no more crowd. No more speeches. No more pretending.

Only fire. And what it’s always been leading to.

You stand still, back to him, eyes on the blank wall, your body glowing from the inside out with the heat you’ve been holding back all night.

“So predictable,” you say softly.

Your tone is light, almost bored, laced with cruel amusement—the kind only he ever earns. “I barely made it halfway down the hall before your self-control crumbled.”

A slow breath from behind you. Then: “You’re not that hard to follow, cutie.”

You smile—just a little, just enough. “I didn’t think I had to be. You always come when I call.”

“Who said you were calling?” he counters, and you can hear the grin in his voice.

You tilt your head, your tone mock-thoughtful. “You’re right. Maybe I was just tired of hearing you talk all night without being able to do anything about it.”

His laugh is low, dark, fraying at the edges. “Then say the word. Do something about it.”

You hum softly. “Tempting. But you’ve been far too smug lately. I think you need to work a little harder for it.”

A step. Then another.

You still don’t turn.

“Work for it?” he echoes, voice closer now, warmer. “You mean like I did last time, when you dropped to your knees and begged me without a word?”

You let out a sharp little laugh. “Begged? Oh, pretty boy. I had you so breathless you could barely remember your own name.”

“I remember yours,” he murmurs behind you, and the heat in his voice sends a shiver through your spine.

You press your lips together, keep your eyes forward, unbothered. “Cute.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it.”

Another step. You feel him now— right behind you. Not touching, but close enough to steal your breath if you let him.

And you won’t. Not yet.

“You look too good tonight to be this cruel,” he says softly.

You smile slowly, wickedly. “And you look too cocky for someone I’m still deciding whether or not to touch.”

That earns a rough, low chuckle. Then—

“I’m right here,” he says, voice dipped in fire and challenge. “Say the word.”

You still don’t turn. Because you love the sound of him fighting to hold himself together. And because you haven’t decided how badly to ruin him yet.

He’s so close you can feel the warmth of him at your back, the hum of restrained want vibrating through the space between your spine and his chest.

But you don’t move. You tilt your chin, ever so slightly, keeping your gaze forward, your tone light—mocking.

“You’re breathing too loud.”

His chuckle fans across your neck. “You always talk this much when you’re nervous?”

You smirk. “Who says I’m nervous?”

“You haven’t turned around.”

“And you haven’t shut up.”

He exhales a rough breath through his nose, and you hear the tension in it—the coiled restraint, the way his fingers are probably twitching at his sides. You know him well enough to imagine it without looking.

“You’re waiting for something,” he says.

“I’m bored,” you reply.

“Liar.”

You finally move—not turning, not yet—but one step forward, away from the heat of him. Not to escape, but to remind him: you control the space between you. He doesn’t get to claim it.

His breath catches like he feels the pull, the ache of that inch of distance, and his voice tightens.

“You do that on purpose.”

You glance to the side, your profile half-lit by the gallery’s muted hallway lights. “Do what?”

His laugh is breathless. “Keep me right on the edge.”

You hum in approval. “It’s where you look best.”

That earns a groan from deep in his throat, and you know his patience is fraying—because that’s the kind of line he would usually throw at you .

And still, you don’t turn. You walk slowly, fingers brushing the cold frame of the wall as you step further down the corridor. Every inch you move, you know he follows.

Like he always does.

And you?

You let him. Because this isn’t surrender. This is the hunt.

Your heels echo softly against the polished floor as you continue down the hallway, slow and languid, like a predator who knows the kill is already hers.

You still don’t look at him. But you speak.

“Maybe I should leave you like this,” you murmur, voice syrupy and dangerous. “Worked up. Frustrated. Alone.”

You hear his steps behind you—controlled, deliberate—but there’s a tension in them now. A pressure. Like he’s gritting his teeth with every one.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, his tone matching yours, laced with heat and mockery. “I’m getting used to you walking away with your pride intact and my shirt half-ruined.”

You smile to yourself. “You’re welcome for the aesthetic upgrade.”

“You know what your problem is?” he calls, just a breath louder, still following.

“Only one?”

“You think every time you leave me wanting, you win.”

“I don’t think,” you reply calmly. “I know .”

That one lands. You hear it in his breath—ragged now, pulled through clenched teeth.

You keep walking. Fingers brushing the edge of the wall. Dress swaying with every step. Still not looking back. Still feeding the flame.

“And the best part?” you add, letting your voice drop just enough. “You like it.”

Silence. Then: “You’re cruel,” he growls.

“And you’re obsessed with it.”

He laughs, but it’s broken now—shaken. “One of these days, cutie, you’re going to push me too far.”

You stop.

Right there, in the center of the private corridor, still facing away from him, chin tilted, arms relaxed at your sides like you haven’t just disarmed him entirely with your words alone.

You speak soft and smug. “I already did.”

The air snaps. In one sharp movement, he’s on you.

His hand grabs your wrist, spins you around with force—but not violence. Intensity . His other hand cups the back of your neck, dragging you into him as his lips crash onto yours in a kiss that is nothing like restraint.

It’s a claim.

Your body slams into his with a gasp, and you don’t hesitate—not for a second. You kiss him back with teeth, with growls, with the kind of fury that’s built up from weeks of pretending this didn’t matter.

He breaks the kiss just enough to whisper, breath hot and wild, “You knew I’d snap.”

You drag your fingers through his hair, fist it tight, and yank his mouth back to yours.

“And you wanted me to.”

You break the kiss first— barely —just far enough to breathe against his lips.

He’s panting, pupils blown wide, hands firm on your waist like he doesn’t trust you not to slip through his fingers again.

And you smile. God, that smile.

Sharp. Devastating. Infuriating.

“Careful,” you whisper, your lips brushing his with every word. “We’re still inside the gallery.”

He doesn’t move. “I know.”

“There might be people still around.”

“I don’t care.”

You drag your nails up the nape of his neck, into his hair, tugging just enough to make his breath stutter. “Someone might see you,” you murmur. “ Desperate. ”

His breath catches hard. And you feel it. The shift.

The heat behind his eyes goes feral .

And then he laughs—low and dangerous—and you don’t get to feel triumphant for long before he bites your jaw, then your neck, his hands grabbing your hips hard enough to make you gasp.

“Is that what you think this is?” he snarls against your skin. “ Desperation? ”

You moan, breath caught somewhere between a taunt and a challenge. “I don’t see you walking away.”

“I told you,” he growls, thrusting you back against the wall with his body, one hand pinning your wrists above your head now, the other already dragging up your thigh, under the slit of your dress. “You pushed me too far.”

“And you love it.”

His mouth crashes into yours again— bruising , open-mouthed, breathless. He kisses like he wants to own every sound you’ve ever made, like he’s trying to erase the smug out of your smile with nothing but tongue and teeth.

You kiss him back harder. Because this isn’t surrender.

This is war.

And both of you are done pretending otherwise.

His hand is tight around your wrists above your head, holding them against the cool wall, his breath hot and erratic against your neck. The other hand has already found its way beneath your dress, dragging slowly— dangerously —up your thigh, teasing, possessive.

You’re panting.

So is he.

But your voice? Still cocky. Still cruel. Still perfectly composed.

“So this is your thing now?” you murmur, lips brushing his ear, breathless and biting. “Cornering me in gallery hallways? With people maybe still around the corner?”

His jaw clenches. His fingers twitch on your thigh.

You don’t stop.

“Do you like it, Rafayel?” you whisper, sweet and poison-laced. “Knowing anyone could walk out and see you desperate— needy —just to get your hands on me again?”

He growls— physically growls —pressing his body harder into yours, but still holding that control, that tension between barely and completely losing it.

“And here I thought,” you go on, tone lighter, crueler, “someone as creative as you would’ve come up with a better setting by now. A bed , maybe. Or your pretty little studio. Somewhere other than this same wall.”

You look at him now— finally —your eyes gleaming with wicked delight.

“But maybe this is the only place you can get me, hmm?”

You hear his breath stutter—feel his hand tighten around your wrists, the one on your thigh digging in just enough to warn.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he growls, mouth hovering over yours. “And you want me to lose it.”

You smile like a sin, like you planned this since the moment you walked away earlier tonight. “I live for it.”

And that’s it.

That’s the moment he snaps again.

His mouth crashes into yours, brutal and claiming, hips pressing you harder to the wall as his hand slides higher under your dress with no more patience— no more teasing . Your wrists are still pinned, body helpless against his, but your laugh—low and breathless—slips into the kiss anyway.

Because you’ve won. Again.

And he fucking loves it.

You can’t stop. You won’t. Even as his hand slips higher beneath your dress, even as your wrists stay pinned hard above your head, your mouth keeps going.

Your voice is ragged now, breathless between the kisses that feel more like bites, but your tone? Still that same dangerous, wicked lilt.

“You’ve been dying for this all night,” you whisper, mouth brushing his, panting against the heat of him. “Watching me walk around that gallery, pretending you didn’t want to drag me right back here.”

He groans, teeth grazing your lower lip before he bites it. “You were parading around that place. Like you knew .”

“I did know,” you breathe, your thighs parting instinctively as his hand grips harder, higher. “I always know.”

His mouth crashes back onto yours, and his hand— finally , finally —finds its place between your legs.

And god, he feels it.

How ready you are. How soaked. How undone you are beneath that controlled, cruel smirk.

He groans against your mouth, voice cracking just enough to make you smile.

“You talk too much,” he growls.

“Then shut me up,” you whisper, rolling your hips against his fingers, grinding into his palm with maddening precision.

He curses, rough and low, and pushes your dress up higher, dragging his fingers through the slick heat of you, two of them pressing against your entrance, teasing just enough to make you squirm.

Your back arches. Your breath stutters. But your mouth?

Still sharp.

“Thought you wanted to work for it, Rafayel,” you pant. “This feels more like begging.”

He pulls his mouth from yours just enough to look you in the eye. Smug. Starving. Ruined.

“I’ve been working for it,” he breathes, thrusting his fingers into you—deep, slow, deliberate.

You gasp—loud, guttural. His grin returns. “You just didn’t notice how hard.”

You bite his shoulder, hard enough to leave a mark, your head falling forward as his fingers curl just right , pushing in again, and again, until your knees tremble and you’re grinding down onto his hand like you need him to ruin you.

“I noticed,” you gasp. “I just wanted to see how long you’d last.”

He growls again, pushing deeper, faster now, his mouth back on yours, every stroke of his fingers matched with a kiss, a bite, a groan.

And finally— finally —he’s right where he’s wanted to be since the moment this whole thing began.

Between your legs. Inside your fire.

And god, you let him.

Because this? This is the real war. And neither of you plans to lose.

You’re trembling.

Shaking under the weight of his body, of his hand still pinning your wrists above your head, of his fingers sliding in and out of you with maddening rhythm— just right. Just deep enough. Slow enough to make your thighs quiver, fast enough to make your breath catch.

But you still have your mouth.

And you use it like a blade.

You press it to his neck, lips brushing the pulse hammering beneath his skin, and you bite . Hard.

He groans, and your voice follows, hot and wrecked.

“This really your thing now?” you breathe, your hips rolling into his hand. “Every time you want me, you shove me against this same goddamn wall?”

His breath catches, and his fingers curl just right . You gasp, shuddering against him.

“You running out of ideas?” you pant, biting just below his jaw now, your voice slurring with heat and spite. “Or is this the only place you can actually get me?”

He growls—deep, low, wrecked.

His hand tightens around your wrists.

The thrust of his fingers gets harder, rougher, more deliberate—his control unraveling beneath the sound of your voice still dripping with mockery even as your body melts under him.

“You can’t even get me to a bed, Rafayel,” you gasp, laughing against his skin. “And you call yourself creative.”

His mouth crashes into yours— biting , devouring, swallowing the sound of your next laugh as he presses harder, deeper.

“You think I need a bed to fuck you the way you need?” he snarls against your lips. “ You’re the one who can’t stop shaking.”

You moan—high, broken—as your body clenches around his fingers, every nerve wound tight and trembling.

But still—still—you fight.

“You’re just pissed,” you whisper, “because this is the only place I let you have me.”

He breathes your name like a curse, a plea, a warning.

And his pace quickens.

Your legs threaten to give out, your hips pinned between the wall and his hand, your wrists still restrained above your head, helpless to do anything except take it— take him —and speak fire through your teeth.

And you do. Because this?

This is where you both burn.

His grip never loosens.

Your wrists are still pinned above your head, fingers twitching helplessly in the trap of his hand. His body cages you in, his chest pressed to yours, his breath hot against your neck. And between your legs— his fingers move with maddening intent.

Not rushed. Not careless. But measured.

He knows your body now—knows every flicker of tension in your thighs, every sharp breath that signals just how close you are. And he plays it like he plays his medium—skilled, confident, completely consumed by it.

“You always talk,” he growls, voice ragged, lips brushing your jaw as your hips jerk with every thrust of his hand. “Even now. Even like this.”

You moan—a sound you can’t swallow this time.

His pace quickens, pressure intensifying.

“Let’s see what you say when you come on my fingers.”

You gasp—high, sharp, trembling. He keeps pushing, keeps curling, keeps driving you into the edge with ruthless precision.

“You wanted it like this,” he pants. “Up against the wall, trembling for me— you asked for it.”

And god, you did.

Because even as your mouth opens to throw something else—some last breath of mockery—your voice breaks . Your head falls back against the wall, eyes fluttering, lips parted in something between a gasp and a cry.

Your whole body tightens —

And then it snaps.

Your climax hits like fire through your veins—fast, blinding, overwhelming. You shatter in his hand, your thighs trembling around his wrist, your breath ragged, your body writhing as he holds you there, working you through every wave of it.

He doesn’t stop.

Not until your head falls forward, lips brushing his collarbone, your voice a whisper of defeat and satisfaction .

“Fuck…”

And then you laugh. Soft, wrecked, smug.

He releases your wrists—slowly, gently—and your arms fall around his shoulders, your body still pressed to his, spent and heavy and buzzing with the kind of heat only he can draw out of you.

He kisses your jaw. Then your temple. Then—finally—your lips.

And it’s softer this time. Slower. But still dangerous.

“You gonna run your mouth now?” he murmurs against your lips.

You grin, breathless. “Give me five minutes.”

He laughs—low and ruined and wildly in love with this.

Your breath still comes fast. Your dress is rumpled. Your wrists are tingling. Your legs feel like glass about to shatter.

And he’s still so close.

His hand lingers at your waist, fingers brushing your skin like he’s not ready to let you go. His other hand— the one that just ruined you —rises slowly to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone like he might kiss you again.

But you stop him.

Not with force. Just a look.

A smirk curling back onto your lips, slow and deliberate.

And your voice—soft, wrecked, but still dripping with that maddening arrogance—slips into the space between you like silk over a blade.

“I don’t want you here anymore.”

His brows twitch, his grip falters for a heartbeat—but you don’t give him time to react before you lean in, mouth near his ear, your words a whisper of heat and cruelty.

“Not in this hallway.”

You pull back just enough to see the flicker in his eyes.

The moment the meaning catches up. The moment he realizes you’re not rejecting him.

You’re challenging him. You’re asking.

You’re saying what neither of you would say out loud— not like this .

You want more.

Not just this wall.

His lips part slightly, and god, the way he looks at you now—it’s not smug. It’s not cocky. It’s hungry.

And something else. Something quieter. Like hope.

You let your hand fall to his belt, adjust it lazily, casually, smoothing down his shirt with maddening nonchalance.

“Take me somewhere else, Rafayel,” you murmur, gaze flicking up under your lashes. “Or do you only know how to fuck me in corners?”

And there it is.

The fire relit.

He doesn’t speak. Not right away.

He just looks at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time, even though he’s always looked. Like he’s cataloging every inch of you all over again—your flushed skin, your swollen lips, the wild mess of you that he caused.

Then his hand finds yours.

No more teasing. No more bruising. Just fingers lacing through fingers.

And without a word, he pulls you down the corridor.

Through the side door. Past the crowd that never saw what burned behind that wall. Out into the night air that hits your skin like a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

His car is waiting.

Of course it is.

Black. Sleek. The kind of thing that glides down dark city streets like a secret.

You slide into the passenger seat, heart still thrumming, body aching, the scent of him still on your neck.

He doesn’t say a word.

But his hand never lets go of yours.

The ride is quiet. Tense. Not uncomfortable— charged .

Your dress rides high on your thigh. His jaw is tight.

He doesn’t look at you. But his thumb keeps brushing yours.

And you feel it—that same rhythm from earlier. The one that started the moment you walked into the gallery.

The one that hasn’t let up since.

When the car finally slows, you realize where he’s taken you. Not a hotel. Not his studio. But his home.

Of course he lives in a loft.

Dark wood, black metal, tall windows with half-open curtains, city lights spilling across canvases and statues and forgotten wine glasses.

It smells like paint and cedar and him. He lets you in first. Still silent. Not because he doesn’t have anything to say.

Because he’s choosing this moment.

Letting you walk ahead. Letting you look. Letting you feel.

When you finally turn to face him—standing in the low golden glow of a lamp that barely reaches the ceiling—he closes the distance.

You don’t look around, don’t ask for a tour, don’t pause to marvel at the aesthetic of Rafayel’s loft—though you feel the space in your bones. The open layout, the tall shadows, the way the city glows against the windows like it’s watching. It’s beautiful. Dangerous.

Just like him.

Just like you .

He steps toward you, slow, purposeful—but you move first.

You push him.

Hard.

Right into the nearest wall, the mirror of what he did to you back in that gallery hallway, and he lets you—lets his body hit the plaster with a breathy grunt, his hands falling to your hips more out of instinct than control.

You press into him, palms flat against his chest, your dress still hiked up, your mouth brushing his jaw.

“Your place now,” you murmur. “So tell me—how do you want it this time?”

You drag your hands down his chest, over the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like you might tear it off again.

“On your couch?” you taunt, tilting your head. “On your floor? You gonna finally get me into that bed you’ve been dreaming about since the gallery?”

He laughs—wrecked, breathless, obsessed . “You can’t help yourself.”

You lean in, kiss his throat, bite it. “No,” you breathe, “but neither can you.”

Your hands trail lower, already undoing his belt with sharp, precise movements, your knee pressing between his thighs, forcing them apart just enough to own the space between them.

“You want control?” you whisper. “Then take it.”

You shove his shirt open, nails raking down his abdomen, and his breath stutters—just like you wanted.

“But if you don’t—” your hand slides lower, just enough to make him twitch “—I will. ”

He groans, catching your wrist, but not stopping you. Not really . He looks at you now—eyes dark, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

“You’re fucking insane,” he breathes.

You smirk, fingers still hovering just above the place he wants you most.

“And you love it. ”

Your fingers make quick work of his zipper—smooth, practiced, unbothered. He’s breathing harder already, chest rising and falling like he’s trying not to lose it.

And you?

You look up at him with a smirk like sin, your fingers hovering, barely brushing against him.

“So what’s it gonna be?” you ask, voice like smoke and velvet. “My hand?”

You wrap your fingers around him—slow, deliberate, just enough pressure to make his eyes slam shut.

“My mouth?”

You lean in, lips brushing his jaw, breath hot and cruel against his skin.

He growls— actually growls—and grips the edge of the wall behind him like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“Fuck—”

You stroke him, long and slow, watching his body shudder beneath your touch, his muscles twitching under your hand.

“You like options, right?” you purr. “Visual. Sensory. Full experience.”

His head drops back, and you kiss down his throat— biting once, hard, as your hand moves faster.

“You gonna ask nice?” you murmur, eyes glinting. “Gonna tell me what you want?”

He doesn’t answer. So you stop.

Completely.

He gasps— wrecked , eyes snapping open in disbelief. You smile. “No? Still too proud?”

“You’re evil,” he rasps.

“And you’re hard and dripping in my hand , ” you say sweetly. “Try again.”

His mouth opens. Closes. His jaw twitches. And finally— finally —he meets your eyes, that wild, violet fire blazing.

“I want your mouth,” he growls. “I want you on your knees, wrecking me, owning me—just like you fucking planned. ”

You grin—slow, wicked, triumphant.

And you sink to your knees.

Your hands never leave him, stroking him steady, teasing just enough to keep him on the edge. You look up once more, lips just above the heat of him.

“Good boy.”

And then—

You take him into your mouth.

Slow. Deep. Controlled.

His hands fly to your hair, and he chokes on a moan, head falling forward as you work him with devastating purpose. No mercy. No hesitation. Just the fire he gave you—and you giving it back.

Your tongue traces every inch, your pace building, and his thighs tremble beneath your grip. He gasps your name—hoarse, desperate, undone.  You look up at him again, mouth full, eyes blazing.

And he breaks.

Right there.

Because you didn’t just take control. You claimed him.

And he never stood a chance.

His hips jerk forward instinctively, breath hitching in his throat as your mouth closes around him again. But you stop. Just for a second.

You pull back enough to speak, your voice low, breathless, commanding. “Don’t move.”

He groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, but you grab his wrist—firm, sharp, eyes blazing as you look up at him.

“I said,” you repeat, voice like fire, “ don’t get rough. Just take it.”

His mouth opens like he wants to argue—wants to say something cocky, something smug—but nothing comes out except a broken sound in his throat.

“Keep your hands right there,” you murmur, lips brushing his skin. “Don’t move. Don’t even think about taking control.”

And then you take him back in— fully this time.

No pause. No mercy.

Your mouth moves with ruthless, devastating rhythm—steady, deep, precise. Every flick of your tongue is calculated. Every bob of your head is designed to make his knees buckle, to keep him panting, gasping, clinging to his own restraint.

And he’s failing.

His breath is ragged. His body is trembling.

“ Fuck— ” he chokes out, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re—cutie, I’m—”

You hum around him, not slowing, and that sound —that vibration—rips a curse from his chest.

His hand claws at the edge of the wall, white-knuckled now, like he's holding on for dear life. You feel him twitch in your mouth, feel the stagger in his rhythm, the crack in his breath.

And still—you don’t let up.

Because you decide when he breaks. You move faster. Sloppier now. Wetter. More desperate. But it’s not your desperation—it’s his .

You moan around him—purposefully, cruelly—and that’s the final blow. His whole body jerks —

And then he shatters.

He spills into your mouth with a loud, helpless gasp, hips twitching, head thrown back, voice breaking on your name. You swallow— every drop —and you don’t look away, even as he crumbles.

Even as he leans back against the wall, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded, sweat-slick and ruined.

You finally let go of his wrist. Wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. And smile.

“Now you can move.”

He’s still leaning against the wall, chest rising in short, sharp breaths, violet eyes darkened to the color of need . But before he can even reach for you—

You stand.

Slow. Fluid. Effortless.

And you walk backward into the apartment, not taking your eyes off him for a second.

Your fingers hook into the edge of your dress, tugging it higher again—not enough to reveal, just enough to hint. Your eyes glint with that wicked, unbearable smugness he’s come to crave.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

His jaw tenses. “You’re walking like sin.”

You trail your fingers along the back of his couch, nails tracing the leather.

“Here?” you ask, tilting your head, feigning innocence. “Do you want me bent over this?”

You take another step back, running your hand along the top of a side table. Knock over a book just to watch him twitch.

“Or here?” you ask, tapping the glass surface. “Maybe this is where you want me next.”

Another step. You brush your hand along the marble edge of his kitchen counter.

“Here’s a thought,” you continue, voice low and silken, “you could take me right here, legs spread wide , with all your paintings watching.”

He makes a sound—low, broken, somewhere between a groan and a curse—and finally pushes off the wall.

But you keep moving. Still just out of reach.

You reach the bedroom doorway—his actual bedroom—and rest one hand on the frame, the other brushing over the soft fabric clinging to your hip.

You tug the zipper down just an inch.

Then another.

“Or...” you whisper, stepping back into the shadows of the room, “are you finally going to fuck me in a bed like I deserve?”

And then you disappear. And he follows—

Like a storm ready to break.

The room is dim, lit only by the low golden spill of city lights through tall windows and the faint ambient glow from the hallway behind him.

You stand near the bed. He doesn’t speak. He just watches.

Still in the doorway, chest rising and falling, lips parted, eyes locked on you like he’s already forgotten how to breathe.

You drag your fingers over the curve of your shoulder.

Just lightly.

Then down to the zipper. You look at him—not a word spoken—and begin to slide it lower.

Inches. Soft. Intentional.

He doesn’t move.

But you feel the tension in him. The way he’s gripping the doorframe now. The way his throat works around a swallow he can’t quite force down.

The dress loosens around you. Slipping from one shoulder. Then the other.

You don’t rush.

You let it fall with the gravity of a whisper. It puddles around your heels like a silk surrender.

But you haven’t surrendered.

Not even close.

You stand in the middle of his room now—bare, bare-hearted, bare-skinned—completely unbothered. Like this is your space. Like this bed already belongs to you.

Your voice is low, dangerous.

“Still staring?”

He steps forward, slow. Controlled. You tilt your head, your arms still at your sides.

“Do you want to touch me?”

Another step. He’s close now—but not close enough. You smirk.

“Then ask.”

And god—he wants to.

You see it. The war on his face. But you’ve won this battle. He breathes your name. And reaches for you. He crosses the space between you in a single, breathless step—hands on your waist, then your hips, then sliding around to your back as if he needs contact or he’ll lose his mind.

“Fucking hell,” he growls, voice low and wrecked, lips brushing your jaw. “You just had to take your time, didn’t you?”

You giggle, breathless and wicked, fingers already sliding into his hair.

“Where’s all that self-control, Rafayel?” you whisper, brushing your lips against his ear. “Did I break it?”

He groans. And pushes you. Not harshly—but purposefully .

You tumble backward onto the bed, laughing, your hair fanning across the dark sheets like a crown. You prop yourself up on your elbows, legs bent, completely unbothered by the hunger in his eyes as he watches you from the foot of the bed.

“Careful,” you say with a grin. “You shove me too hard, I might think you’re trying to dominate me.”

He huffs out a laugh—but it’s short. Rough. Tense. Because he’s already undoing his shirt. Fast. Impatient. You can see the shake in his fingers. The way his breath hitches when he glances at you sprawled out across his bed like you own it.

You raise an eyebrow as he struggles with one of the buttons.

“Aw,” you coo, voice warm and taunting, “are you flustered?”

He glares at you. “Shut up.”

You bite your lip, trying not to laugh, eyes dancing. “So confident in the gallery. You seemed so composed.”

He yanks the shirt over his head, tossing it aside.

“I swear to god—”

You laugh , fully now—head tilted back, chest rising with breathless joy and triumph.

“Swear harder,” you purr. “You look like you’re about to beg.”

He kicks off his pants next, half-fumbling, and your smile turns into something hungrier.

But it’s still taunting. Always taunting. You drag your finger slowly up the inside of your thigh, watching him watch you, your voice a purr.

“You gonna climb on this bed, Rafayel?” you whisper. “Or are you just gonna keep undressing like you’re in a rush to impress me?”

He’s on you before you can blink.

Hands on your thighs, dragging you down the bed in one sharp pull, his mouth hovering just above yours. And for once—

He doesn’t say anything. He just growls.

And kisses you like he’s starving.

You gasp against the sheets, breath stolen by the way his hands grip your thighs, pulling you beneath him again, his mouth trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across your chest.

But even through the pleasure, your voice slips out—taunting, breathless.

“God,” you pant, laughing between shallow moans, “ finally. A bed.”

He lifts his head for a moment—just long enough to smirk at you through his lashes, breath warm against the swell of your chest.

“Getting soft on me?”

You grin, fingers threading through his hair, tugging it back until he groans. “No,” you breathe. “Just appreciating that I’m not being shoved into another wall tonight.”

He laughs, wrecked and low, and his mouth returns—kissing, biting, sucking down the line of your breast. His hands are everywhere now—roaming your waist, your hips, your thighs. Possessive. Desperate. But still worshiping.

“Don’t get used to it,” he mumbles against your skin . “You look too good pinned to something.”

“You sound obsessed.”

“Have you looked at yourself?”

Your laugh turns into a gasp when his fingers slide back between your legs—confident now, knowing exactly what you need. You jolt beneath him, your back arching off the bed as he circles just right.

“I just recovered,” you manage to gasp.

“Not my problem.”

You glare, half-laughing, half-moan. “Rafayel—”

His fingers curl inside you, and your words die on your tongue with a cry.

“ Say my name again, ” he growls, voice shaking against your chest.

You do. Louder.

And god, you don’t care anymore how wrecked you sound—because he is just as ruined. Mouthing at your chest like he wants to memorize it. Fingers moving like he’s addicted to the way you come apart under him.

And all the while—you’re laughing, breathless, high on power and pleasure, tangled in his sheets, not a wall in sight.

“Finally,” you whisper between gasps. “A comfortable position.”

His head drops to your chest again, groaning.

“You’re never letting me live that down, are you?”

You kiss the top of his head.

“Never.”

You writhe beneath him, your back arching against his touch, your breath torn from your lungs in gasps and half-formed words. His fingers work inside you again— confident , unrelenting, dangerous —but this time, there’s something else beneath it.

Not just heat. Not just power.

Devotion.

He’s watching you now, eyes dark and focused, lips parted, breath ragged. And you can’t help yourself. Even now, even like this—you bite.

“God,” you moan, fingers clenching in the sheets. “You really like seeing me like this, huh?”

He leans in, mouth grazing your jaw, voice hoarse.

“You have no idea. ”

You grin, head tilting back into the pillow, your hips rocking into his hand shamelessly. “You’re obsessed.”

“Completely.”

His voice is reverent now, hushed and raw—like he means it in a way he doesn’t even understand yet.

You gasp again when he finds that spot , his fingers curling just right , the heel of his palm grinding against your clit with perfect rhythm.

Your body starts to shake. Your smirk falters. And still—he doesn’t let up.

“Rafayel—” your voice breaks on his name, this time not as a taunt but as a plea .

He presses his forehead to yours, never stopping his hand. “I know, cutie,” he murmurs. “I know. ”

And then—

You fall.

Hard.

Your body clenches around his fingers, your thighs trembling, your voice caught in your throat as you come undone beneath him for the second time today— more real this time. More open . Your hands grasp for him without thought, pulling him down to you as if you need him to hold you together while everything else breaks.

And he does .

He kisses your shoulder. Your neck. Your temple. His hand doesn’t move until your breathing slows, until your body stops shaking.

Only then does he draw his fingers from you—slow, careful, reverent.

He looks at you. And this time, it’s not smug.

It’s quiet.

And you see it in his eyes. He knows . So do you.

But neither of you says it.

Not yet.

Instead, you just grin through your haze of breathless wreckage, pushing his chest lightly with one hand.

“You’re still not getting the last word.”

He laughs—low and wrecked—and leans down to kiss you again.

You’re still catching your breath, your skin flushed, your thighs trembling—but your grin?

Still cocky. Still wicked. Still you .

You shift under him, legs parting slow and deliberate, your fingers trailing over your stomach as you arch back into the pillows.

“Now that I’m warmed up ...” your voice purrs, lazy and breathless, “how do you want me this time?”

You reach up to brush your fingers through his tousled hair, tugging lightly—just enough to make his eyes darken again.

“On my stomach?” you tease. “On top? Knees? Hands? What’ll it be, little artist ?”

His gaze burns down your body, jaw clenched, breath heavy. He leans closer, his palm sliding up your thigh again—slow, possessive.

Then his lips brush your ear, and his voice drops into a low, dangerous whisper.

“Why pick just one…”

He kisses your neck, biting gently.

“…when I can have you in every way I want tonight?”

You shiver.

Not from fear. From promise. Because you believe him. Because you want it just as much. His hand grips your hip, pulling you closer.

“And cutie?” he murmurs, eyes locking on yours, fire meeting fire. “I’m not done with you.”

And god—you don’t want him to be. Not even close.

You don’t say it. You don’t tell him what that line did to you—how it melted straight through your spine and settled between your legs like a pulse.

You just move. Slow and deliberate.

You wrap your legs around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back, hips rising with silent command.

Come closer.

And he does.

He groans low in his throat, his forehead dropping to yours as he shifts between your thighs, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of your head.

You slide your fingers into his—without thinking. Without planning. And he holds on .

Like he means it. And then—

He pushes in.

Slow. Deep. Devastating. And you arch. A gasp tears from your throat before you can stop it—half-moan, half-shock at the way he fills you so perfectly, like this was meant . Like you were made to be opened this way. By him.

He groans above you, eyes clenched shut, breath ragged as he stills, fully seated inside you.

“Fuck, cutie—” he whispers, voice cracked open.

You squeeze his hands tighter. And though you won’t say it, he knows . Knows by the way you tremble beneath him.

By the way your body wraps around him like it never wants to let go. By the way your voice is almost too soft when you whisper:

“…Then don’t stop.”

And god help you both—

He won’t.

His hips move slowly at first, rolling into you with a kind of reverence that borders on sweet. And you let it. For a second. You’re breathless, shaking, fingers tangled with his, the sheets twisted beneath your back. But then—

Your eyes flick open, and your voice—low, wrecked, but still biting—slips out beneath a gasp.

“Don’t go soft on me now, Rafayel.”

His body jerks slightly, eyes snapping to yours.

You smirk, just enough.

“You know I don’t like it slow.”

His jaw clenches. And then—

He gives it to you. Hard. Deep.

The bed creaks beneath the force of him as he drives into you, his hips slamming into yours, his hand still locked with yours above your head, the other sliding to your chest—palming, squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers until you cry out .

“That better?” he grits through his teeth, panting against your mouth.

You moan—high and breathless—but your grin still cuts through.

“Almost.”

He growls, snapping his hips harder. You arch into him, back lifting off the mattress, your thighs trembling around his waist. And even through the haze, you can’t help it.

You bite again.

“Still not impressed, little artist,” you gasp.

He laughs , rough and wrecked, before catching your lips in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue, his thrusts pounding into you now with the kind of desperation that makes your whole body sing .

“Liar,” he groans. “You’re fucking soaked.”

“And whose fault is that?”

He drops his forehead to yours, voice nothing but breath and sin. “Mine.”

And then—

He hits just right .

You cry out, loud and unfiltered, clenching around him like your body’s finally breaking. And his smile—wild, desperate, full of pride—presses to your cheek as he growls, “There she is.”

You’re so close. So damn close.

Your legs are shaking, your breath ragged, the heat building in your core like a wave just waiting to break—and his thrusts, his hands , his mouth —they’ve all pulled you to that very edge.

You gasp his name, almost a cry, body tensing as the high crests. And then— he stops.

You freeze, trembling, mind spinning from the sudden, jarring stillness.

“What—Rafayel—?”

But before you can even finish, he growls against your shoulder, voice wrecked and hoarse but still laced with that smirk.

“Not yet.”

And then you’re moving —

He grabs your hips and flips you over effortlessly, pressing your chest down into the mattress, your ass lifted high as he kneels behind you.

You hiss at the shift in pressure, nails digging into the sheets, breath catching with frustration and something that feels dangerously close to need.

“You cocky son of a—”

He slides back into you in one smooth, brutal thrust.

You cry out—louder than before—body arching instinctively, your fists curling in the sheets as your back bows perfectly for him.

He groans behind you, gripping your hips tighter, his fingers digging into your flesh as he sets a new rhythm—harder, deeper, more possessive now.

“Say that again,” he pants, slamming into you, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing off the walls. “Come on, cutie. Tell me more lies. ”

You try to speak—really, you do—but every thrust knocks the words straight out of your lungs, leaves you moaning, gasping, writhing .

He leans forward, one hand bracing next to your head, the other trailing up your spine, fingers curling around the back of your neck as he breathes against your ear.

“You were gonna fall apart too easy,” he growls. “I want you to feel it.”

And you do . Every inch. Every second. Every denied gasp and delayed pleasure.

And god, it’s driving you mad. But you love it. Because this?

This is exactly how you both burn.

Your face presses into the mattress, your moans muffled, your hands twisted in the sheets like they’re the only thing anchoring you to this plane of reality.

You’re shaking—hips trembling under the weight of him, sweat slick on your spine, your breath hitching with every ruthless thrust. And finally—

Finally, you whisper it.

Not soft. Not sweet. But real.

“ Fuck—Rafayel—just—give it to me. ”

You hear his breath break behind you, his rhythm stuttering for a second like that one line shattered whatever control he had left.

His grip tightens on your hips. Fingers digging deep enough to bruise. And then he gives it to you.

All of it.

His thrusts slam into you, faster now, harder, every inch of him claiming you, wrecking you, worshiping you.

Your back arches deeper.

You cry out, louder now, not even bothering to hold it back. You can feel it—rising again, building, crashing toward you like a tidal wave with no escape.

“ That’s it, ” he pants, voice ragged, desperate. “Come on, cutie— come for me. ”

And you do.

Hard.

Your body collapses forward, your thighs shaking violently as your climax tears through you, long and sharp and overwhelming. You scream his name into the sheets, clenching around him so tight it pulls a broken curse from his chest.

He follows.

With a strangled groan and a final, brutal thrust, he buries himself deep— deeper —and lets go. You feel it—his whole body trembling above yours, his grip clinging to you like you’re the only solid thing in his world.

And for a long moment—

There’s only breath.

Only the sound of skin against skin. Only the echo of your names still hanging in the air.

He stays there, still buried inside you, chest pressed to your back, breath tickling your shoulder as he exhales something like worship .

And you?

You smile. Exhausted. Ruined. But proud.

Because he made a mess out of you. But you made a mess out of him too.

The room is quiet now. Just the low hum of the city outside the windows, and the sound of your breathing—both of you, still a little uneven, still catching up.

You’re sprawled on his bed, one leg draped over his, your cheek pressed to his chest, skin sticky, hair a mess, and your mouth curved into the smallest, most smug little grin.

His fingers trace lazy circles on your lower back, like he can’t not touch you.

And you’re fine with that.

You earned it.

“You’re quiet,” you murmur, voice low and rough.

His chest rumbles beneath you. “Recovering.”

You smirk. “Need me to call you an ambulance?”

“Only if you plan to ride along.”

You snort, rolling your eyes, fingers playing along the line of his jaw. He catches your hand, laces your fingers together, then kisses your knuckles.

It’s casual. Too casual. So casual it’s suspicious.

Your gaze flicks to him, suspicious. “What was that?”

“What?”

“The hand kiss.”

He shrugs, not meeting your eyes. “I was being polite.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Polite? You had me face down screaming into your mattress twenty minutes ago.”

He grins. But doesn’t deny it.

You shift slightly, your chin propped on his chest now, looking down at him.

He watches you back—eyes still heavy-lidded, violet and soft in a way you don’t know what to do with.

“So,” you murmur, tracing your finger along his collarbone. “What now? Do we just keep dragging each other into dark corners and pretending it’s not a thing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Then—

In a low, cocky murmur that doesn’t quite hide the truth beneath it, he says: “I want more.”

You freeze.

Your breath catches.

But he’s looking at you now—really looking —and the smirk is still there, but it’s softened.

“I want all of it,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Not just the fights and the sex and the gallery wars. I want... you. ”

Your heart skips once.

Twice.

Then you smile. Slow. Wicked. Vulnerable in the only way you know how.

“Well,” you murmur, brushing your mouth over his, “you’re gonna have to work for it.”

He laughs against your lips, breath warm.

“Cutie,” he says, voice low, fingers curling tighter around yours.

“I already am.”

Morning light pours in through the loft windows.

Warm. Soft. Too bright.

You groan as you turn your face into the pillow, one leg still tangled with his, your hair a complete disaster, and his comforter pulled halfway off the bed from whatever last act of desperation you two had managed in the dark.

You hear movement. The rustle of sheets. Bare feet on the floor.

Then— crash.

You jolt upright, blinking against the light.

“What the hell was that?”

Rafayel is halfway into a pair of sweats, shirtless, hair a complete mess, holding a pan in one hand and looking far too pleased with himself for someone who just clearly dropped something.

“Breakfast,” he announces, like he didn’t almost burn his own kitchen down. “You’re welcome.”

You blink at him.

“You cooked ?”

He grins. “Attempted.”

You sniff. “…Is something burning ?”

He freezes.

“…Yes.”

You throw the covers off and stumble into the kitchen, still in his oversized button-down from the night before. He trails after you, smirking.

“Relax, I was making eggs.”

You peer into the pan. The eggs are... not eggs anymore. “You charred them.”

“They’re rustic.”

“They’re suffering. ”

He leans in behind you, arms around your waist, breath warm against your ear.

“You weren’t complaining about suffering last night.”

You smack him with the dish towel hanging from the counter.

He laughs , really laughs, and backs off, arms raised in mock surrender. “Alright, cutie, you want to cook?”

You eye him. Then the pan. Then him again.

“…We’re ordering in.”

“Smart choice.”

He leans against the counter, watching you move around his kitchen like you belong there. The sun catches your face, lighting your still-sleepy expression, the tiny glint in your eyes when you steal a piece of fruit from his counter like it’s a dare.

And something settles in him.

It’s chaotic, it’s messy, it’s way too early—but it’s you .

And that?

He could get used to.

Maybe even wants to.

You glance over, catch him staring, and lift an eyebrow. “What?”

He shrugs. Nothing cocky this time. Just a quiet smile.

“Just thinking how fucking lucky I am.”

You freeze for a beat. Blink. Then toss a grape at his head. He dodges , laughing again. And just like that—

It begins.

Something more.

Something real.

Something very on-brand chaotic.

But entirely, unmistakably... you two .