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i.
“We’ll go,” he says, eyes fixed on every single fleeting expression on your face.
The brief sign of a frown, almost disbelief at his easy agreement. The deepening of it, as you worry about him, and then, accepting his easy tone and sincere look, the full boom of your smile. It’s bigger than when he gifted you diamonds, lighter than when he shows up unannounced to get you from work, more expectant than when you wake up with his eyes on you.
It utterly disarms him.
As such, he is not ready for the tender press of your mouth against his, your sweet show of gratitude. It’s an innocent peck, in line with the loveable joy of a child anticipating summer holidays, and Sylus hums against your lips, hand settling on the back of your thigh, shifting just slightly so he can better kiss you from where he’s sitting on his chair, you stood up before him.
Your hair cascades around him, and he’s a lost man, fingers slipping, just about, under the hem of your skirt, just barely against the roundness of your ass.
You gasp between the two of you, breaking off the kiss for a mere second before you do it again, this time harder, quicker, feverish with the spark of desire a mere feathery touch ignites inside you. His hand shifts higher, and higher still, index finger settling, finely, between the elastic band of your panties and the soft plumpness of your skin. He can feel the slight press of your body against his touch, palm holding the roundness of one of your cheeks.
Your own hand presses to his chest, to better balance against him, as he opens his mouth against your kiss, tongues meeting. It doesn’t stay there for long, snaking in-between his shirt’s buttons, undoing it from the bottom, enough to allow the full slide of your palm over his lower stomach.
Your pinkie, a fraction of a movement away from where his cock is straining around the belt of his trousers, feathery touch that promises so much more. Sylus, unashamed, trembles in front of you, a moan that you taste and feel straight down to your soaking, fluttering cunt.
You move, closer to him, your entire hand settled on top of his hard member, just as his finger, finally, presses at the small opening between your pussy lips.
The ringtone has you startling away, taking several steps away from him. Sylus curses, a growl at the back of his throat, now empty arm grabbing blindly at his desk before barking a ‘The fuck you want?! at his caller without even checking the ID beforehand.
You shift, underwear falling back into place, as he sprawls wider, cock obviously hard between his legs. Your mouth has gone dry, but Sylus is not faring better, because as you turn on your feet, he catches the edge of your skirt, tucked in your underwear band, and the already growing imprint of his hand against your buttocks, your skin kind enough to remember his harsher touches for as long as he does.
He’s not really paying attention to his call, instead absolutely drinking up the sight of you as you wipe at your lips with the back of your hand, removing all last traces of gloss off them. As you fold the blanket, neatly placing it back on the back of the couch. As you finally discover the mishap in your outfit, and horribly rectify it, the lack of which has him sighing down his phone.
The person on the other end finally gets the hint, and Sylus presses at the button to end the call with the frustrated carelessness of a teenager caught masturbating. You can tell, that he needs to go and take care of this, a to-do list dwindling to a pause with your request, but made all the more urgent for it. But he, the leader of Onychinus, does not hurry, instead coming to press a quick kiss against your shoulder.
“I need to get home and pack anyway,” you say, the feel of his lips against your still a ghost upon your words.
Sylus shoves his phone in the trousers of his slacks, pushes a frustrated hand through his hair.
“I’ll just buy you everything you need from the airport,” he replies, gruffly, a quick squeeze of his other hand at your hip before he steps back, lest he decides the biggest deal of the season is not worth you going for the night.
You laugh, passing him by in a flurry of familiar smell that has his knees almost buckle, as if he’s being ridiculous and not entirely honest about how badly he needs you right now. He’s never hated Linkon City more than he does now, half your wardrobe left in a place he doesn’t share with you, that part of the world not under his thumb for ruling and commanding.
It’s with those ridiculous world-dominating thoughts that he goes to his meeting, the subtext of it all being that it’s all, obviously, for you.
ii.
You want to make sure there’s no dry drool at the corner of your mouth or a too harsh imprint of Sylus’s neckline against your cheek for where you slept against it, but you do not get to close the small toilet’s door before his shoe, dipped through, stops the careless slam.
He doesn’t grimace, just barely, as he shoves himself inside without sparing a glance around him, at who could possibly notice him trying to fit himself in a tiny airplane toilet with his girlfriend.
He was not reading, earlier, not really - the book held in-between his fingers both as an excuse if you were to open your eyes, and to hide his lap from any curious passerby. He was watching you, sleeping and imagining how easy everything would be if only you were at home, instead of this joke ride. Morning or late evening, he would have revered at your body, so beautifully given to his gaze, so unequivocally his, so utterly trusting him at your most vulnerable. He’d reward you, so fully and devoutly, for it too: his tongue lapping at your cunt, dipping in-between your folds, nose settling over your clit, as he’d eat at you as a man starved for decades, ignoring the little whimpers, the slight shuffling, chasing only the tightening squeeze of your pussy, fingers tangled together and pressing, tenderly, over your stomach to keep you still. You’d fret, of course, body grown hot and mind not yet awake, shaking and trembling, arching as your moans and sighs would grow: in intensity and frequency.
He’d wreck one orgasm out of you, sweet juice staining his chin, erupting on his tongue, and by then he’d be hard, humping against the mattress. By then, you’d be a reddening mess, tangled in disheveled sheets, and still not awake just yet, as he’d sink his fingers inside you. You’d ride him, pure instinct guiding the rolling of your hips, and he’d fist his cock, squeeze until it’s painful, putting it off until you offer him one more orgasm, so tight against his fingers that he’s sure you must make out the indentations of the rings on his fingers. And you’d be just touched with the first moment of awareness, in that delicious in-between state of dream and real, when he’d finally sink inside you, home at last, your cunt so warm and wet and welcoming for him. And you’d moan his name, voice hoarse with sleep, arms around him, and he’d murmur at your ear, all the sweet words he wouldn’t tell you if fully aware, sweetness dipping behind every syllable, the mere start of I love you having you come, with sobs and tears on your sleepy eyelashes.
And he’d lick your tears, continuing to fuck you awake and pretty - and that’s what he thought about as you were sleeping on the seat next to him, your head on his shoulder.
So of course he is here.
This bathroom, when compared to even the width of his bed, is, truly, horrendously small, as your ass settles, resolutely atop of the sink, a leg hooking around his middle as you try to find some purchase to hold on. He’s a wall himself, hard and sturdy, as you settle against his body, though not without the smallest, cutest frown in-between your eyebrows, confused all over at the gesture.
He sighs your name on a breathless sigh, taking one miniscule step closer, settling familiarly between your legs. His palm is tender as it comes up to pat down some wild hair following your nap, even as you feel his grown hard cock against your inner hipbone, body nestled over yours. Desire slams onto you with a furious force, and you move before thinking: sliding just a bit further down the small sink, adding pressure to your pussy pressing against his bulge, your hand coming up behind the back of his skull, pulling him into a bruising kiss, fingers tangling around his hair and pulling.
Sylus groans, sound swallowed fully, and you grin against his mouth as your hips move, one small slide down and then, torturously, back up. The summery, thin material of both your clothes are nothing, your underwear growing damp in a matter of seconds of frantic rutting against him. Sylus holds on, hand smudging the mirror at your back, other palm settling at your hip so he can guide your motion, help you further when you still and buckle, your clit settled against his tip.
Your mouth, open, breathing hot air against his neck, and Sylus wishes, for a moment that leaves him heady and almost slipping you down from the precarious seat you found, for you to bite down into his muscle, hard.
“More,” you whisper against his mouth, taking in his bottom lip in-between your teeth in childish demand.
He chuckles, catching your replying pout with another kiss as he pushes, more resolutely, his cock at your entrance. It barely does anything, albeit thin, still too many layers between you for the movement to leave you any differently than panting and mewling. It’s a torturous tease for him too, as he prod with his tip at where your pussy gaps and awaits, empty and dissatisfied, material catching the pool of arousal that he wishes he’d be able to taste instead.
For a short moment, he even considers it, going down on his knees, though he fears the space is insufficient to accommodate it in a way that leaves enough brain thought in him capable of satisfying you. So, instead he just does it: rubbing himself against your entrance, over and over again, harder and harder, as your underwear, and then the summery trousers you’re wearing, start giving in to how hard you’re leaking. The material grows heavier, then molds itself around his cock as he fixes himself there, the stretch of your cunt so large he has to gulp his arousal back, as it tries to swallow it all: his clothed member, the layers in-between you, anything to satisfy you, anyhow.
“Sylus-” you breathe, grunting, hip snapping harsher against him, his eyes rolling in the back of his head with the intensity of his pleasure.
The knock is followed by an accented greeting, then resumes, firmer and more urgent, over and over again, the door rattling faintly against its lock.
You swear, pussy trembling in despair as Sylus shifts away, apart. He tugs at your trousers, apart from where they’re stuck on you, and your only saving grace is that they’re black. It wouldn’t have mattered if you’ve gotten further, he would have smeared his cum all over you, just to signal via his lizard, primal brain to everyone exactly who you belong to. Your hands tremble as you push at his hair, rearrange the hem of his shirt.
And then, trying to look like you were not disturbed in the middle of having clothed sex, and so glued to each other’s bodies that it’s impossible not to reminisce about it, you open the door to see Leonard huffing and puffing and waiting.
“What are you doing here?” Sylus sighs, like a man facing his executioner, the sight of the young boy annoying him further, his mood souring significantly as he feels the strain on his slacks, your hand snaking, torturously, around his hips to slowly guide him out the too small bathroom.
“It is a bathroom,” the kid replies defensively, arms crossed over his chest as he suspiciously scans both of you.
He must decide you’ve been decent enough, for he takes a step back to let you go back to your seats, so he can next use the bathroom. Sylus, however, pauses in front of him with a lazy mimicry of his pose.
“Business class has their own bathroom,” he says, easily.
You gasp, fingers turning to pinch at the warm skin beneath his shirt at the audacity to pick up a fight with a child, the knowledge that your boyfriend must have paid for his seat upgrade just for the honour of sitting by your side for fifteen hours, despite cramped seats and neck pains.
Something in your chest clamps, comes undone, and suddenly you’re just as frustrated at the interruption, at the setting, nowhere for you to show him exactly how grateful you are, nowhere for him to show you, further, exactly how much he loves you, how desperately he needs you.
You groan, as your hand falls, turning down the narrow stepway, not before brushing, wickedly, the back of your palm against the grown bulge at Sylus’s front.
He takes in a sharp breath of air, but no other reaction. You meet his eyes, molten fire of need and nothing else in his, and you sigh.
iii.
Clearly, being the lover of the richest man in the N109 zone has spoiled you. You look around the hotel room, feeling utterly appalled at its amenities, when compared to its promises, and you feel utterly wretched at having brought him on this trip. It’s just the beginning and you have no idea how to salvage it: the airplane, and now the absolutely ghastly design of hyper-touristy towels.
“I need a shower,” Sylus murmurs, moving around the room like it doesn’t really bother him, in one smooth move pulling off his shirt.
He does not know how to make you feel better; wherever you go, he’ll follow and it’s such a strangely simple concept that he’s surprised it hasn’t yet fully settled in that pretty head of yours.
You stare at him, the lean muscles, the hard angles, and you feel your forgotten need burning anew when he does not stop at his top. He smiles, softly, when he catches you.
He says your name, and you startle, wide eyed.
“Hm?” you say, trying to think about something else but how good it’d feel to ride his beautiful face.
“I asked if you’d like to join me,” his voice taking a softer tone, the promise of more mirroring his every word, and you blush, prettily, because he must have read your want plainly on your face.
Maybe, you fear, trembling in anticipation, he has read it all along.
Your body too, the reckless shifting, legs pressing together, fingers pushing through your hair, the littlest flush across your chest. Sylus has learnt all your tells, no reason for hiding between you two, not now, not ever. You’re cute and silly for thinking he’s been able to think of anything else but how badly he wants to fill you up with his cum, time and time again, behind a safely locked door, ideally on an island where no one knows you, needs you, just time and love stretching around you, and fat swollen pussy lips around his hardened cock, and maybe open, sloppy kisses to turn you really brainless, mush beneath him, all just instinct chasing his fucking.
Your clothes join his on the bedroom floor, albeit way less gracefully, a flurry of exhausted tugs and frustrated sighs. He’s already in the shower by the time you join him, and he easily shifts so he can allow you some space next to him. It’s a tight fit, but this is a habit you particularly love, and he gladly offers whenever he has the chance. You’re halfway to reaching for the soap, body brushing against his, before you feel the velvety glide of his cock against your back. He’s already hard, at just the casual sight of your naked body, and all the frustration from the past twenty four hours slams into him with a ferocity that turns him tender, adoring, as he gathers the wet locks of your hair in his fist, guiding it away from your neck, where he’s shifting to press open kisses. His hips move, slowly, barely, feathery press against your body, as it arches at his ministrations.
You say his name, trembling where you’re stood, as he touches you reverently, but just barely: the glide of a finger at your collarbone, the gentle path of his palm as he guides, just barely, your legs to open a bit more.
It’s not a bit more that he actually needs, but Sylus, despite the tiredness settling in his bones, would like to take his time with you, his princess deserving a bit more than a quick backshot of his cum to go down the drain. His kisses move, reach the back of your neck, then as his knee settles against the back of your leg to continue pushing it open, trailing down your spine. You shiver, even as the water manages to be lukewarm.
Your ass, perfect roundness, slides against his front. Sylus hisses, turns to press a careless kiss at your earlobe, and your back arches. The faint trace of his smile hits you at the same time he settles his cock between your legs.
You can feel its delicious glide between your folds, and you keen, the sound of a wounded animal, as your knees tremble. Sylus’s arm, around your middle, keeps you up, your leg tangled around his. You whimper as he lets the shape of him settle against your pelvis bone, each tremble of his dick like immediate fire down your belly.
Then, sweet kisses return over your naked shoulder and back. Sylus closes his eyes, a palm shoved further up to catch your nipple between his fingers to tug at, hard. And, lost between the taste of your skin on his mouth and the familiar heavy weight of your breast in his hand, his hips stutter, fucking, once, in-between the space between your thighs.
You sigh, catching one of your moans, the smooth feel of him close enough to what you want, as his tip just about touches your clit. One of your leg kicks at the sensation, pure overwhelm as you’re coating his cock in your arousal, Sylus’s strong body holding yours in place, as he repeats the movement.
“You feel so good,” he whispers, somewhere at the back of your head, and he’s fully lost, fully uncaring, chasing what he’s been denied for too long already.
It comes with no warning, one moment the horrible pressured water is survivably lukewarm, and the next it is as cold as ice, barring down your backs. Sylus moans, in absolute despair now, as his arms tighten around your middle, anticipating your startle, keeping you safely on both legs.
You’re shivering when three seconds later you’re wrapped up in a horrifically ugly towel, so utterly resembling a drowned cat. Sylus chuckles, wraps a matching towel around his middle, utterly unaroused now, as you’re plomping yourself in the middle of the bed, absolutely demanding cuddles as reparations.
iv.
The tour guide is relentlessly energetic, even if by now, half the bus is asleep or in such a mellow torpor that it’s the same. You try to smile at him as the itinerary of your trip goes on and on, though Sylus can see the tiniest edge of exhaustion, even at the corner of your mouth.
You were worried for him, but Sylus’s only concern is for his sanity. Okay, and his balls.
You settle in the seat next to him, right at the back of the bus. Between his fingers, Sylus is playing with the coin you did not manage to throw fully in the water. He has refused to let something as precious as your relationship be balanced by something as flimsy, as silly as a coin flung behind a waterfall.
You two are stronger than fate itself. So, it’ll be by his own design that he’ll keep you by his side, now and forevermore. Sylus does not need luck. But he keeps the coin, knowing it’s baptised in your want, knowing you’ve breathed into it, that he is your man.
You watch, transfixed, the trained dance of the coinage across his knuckles, the smooth and self-assured twists and folds of his long fingers. It’s always a bit dizzying, to know that a hand so used to either killing or holding you, can at times be so involved in doing something as mundane, as easy as playing around, too.
Then, the more you stare, the more your mind spins, to how the same hand also loves to explore inside you, curl and learn each of your inches, press just so perfectly, deliciously so against a spot that always has you moan, brokenly, around his name.Your body remembers, exactly, how the same hand feels, four fingers in even, thumb angry over your clit.
Sylus raises an eyebrow in your direction, and nothing more, for now. The flipping turns, stutters, spins in a whole new pattern, his fingers continuing their dance as it catches it midair, slides it over his palm.
You swallow, your knees pressing closer together. Sylus’s expression shifts, changes to that of a languishing predator. His hand stills, the coin settling, resolutely in his palm. In the blink of an eye, it is gone, just the wide expanse of his hand splayed across his knee, his knee against yours.
“Since when are you a magician?” you tease, softly, body arching closer to his, the familiar feel of him against you settling the desire in your stomach from incendiary, to mere smouldering.
“I can make the world disappear, too, if you wish,” he offers, at ease, leaning his body above yours.
The jacket resting on the back of your seat comes to rest, lazily, across your lap, the last precaution; Sylus doubts that right now, so perfectly hidden as you are in the last window seat of a loud, moving bus, anyone cares about you.
Anyone but him, that is.
His hand shifts to rest, heavy, against your inner thigh, under your dress. It’s done so smoothly that you barely had time to blink; one second looking up in his captivating eyes, the faintest of smirks marking at the corners, and then the next, looking down at your lap, so perfectly hidden. There’s the slightest brush of his pinkie against your underwear, but nothing more; he leaves his hand there, allowing you to get used to the invasion of the gesture first as he smiles at you, all benevolently.
“Please,” you sigh, though the conversation has slipped away from you, you’re not sure exactly what you’re asking of him.
But you trust him enough to know that kind of uncertainty does not affect Sylus. He places one tender kiss at your temple.
“Close your eyes,” he murmurs against your hair, returning fully to his seat.
You do, at the same time as he slides your underwear aside, a stringy little thing that immediately digs into your swollen lips, your pussy needy and wanting for days now. His fingers, blessedly gorgeous fingers, prod at your entrance; the most fleeting of smiles adorns Sylus’s face, and he’s glad you cannot see him, for it would have told you exactly all about how it undoes him to find you so wet, so ready already for him.
Just from seeing his hands. This is a new low, even for you. This is a new high, even for him.
Tentatively, exploring, just as he started his boredom play with the coin earlier, he pushes a finger inside you. You sigh, shifting slightly, just pushing your legs wide, yourself a bit lower down the chair, a bit more access given to his hand. His finger goes in, down to the knuckle, in one blessedly wet slide. Then, not allowing you even a second to get used to the intrusion at all, he adds another.
Your eyes startle open, your knees coming together, his hand squeezed between your legs, your walls fluttering around his digits as his body leans a bit closer to you, to adjust your merciless moods.
“You can’t possibly think-” you start, but have to press your mouth in a tight line when his fingers curl, straight through your core, leaving you trembling, silent.
Think what? Sylus wonders. That you’ll come in a filled bus? You will, if he decides to let you. That people won’t notice? If they do, he will simply have to pluck out their eyes for seeing such a divine sight as your face when you come. That his fingers are enough? Sure, this the most believable of possibilities for your next words, you’re his greedy kitten after all, but if you’re even half as needy as he’s been, then the mere brush of his knuckle against your clit shall leave you immediately shattered.
He pushes his tongue against his cheek, as your legs relax again, and he tests out his theory.
Your hips buckle; you’re barely managing to keep your entire body from startling, making an entire scene out of his finger pad just brushing against your clit. He returns it to your entrance, allows your juices to coat his whole hand, before he touches again against that bundle of nerves.
You’re quiet, blessedly perfect thing that you are, as he fucks you with his hand, thumb pressed against your clit. You do not chase it, even as Sylus notices how the effort of that makes you break out in sweat. It takes you longer than it would have, accounting for the situation, though for the most part he manages to keep his promise: anything else but the growing pleasure in your bones disappears, the world reduced to just the feel of his fingers inside you. When you at last squeeze around him, your body stilling as if made of statue as you let your orgasm wash over you, Sylus can almost feel a soreness growing in his wrist.
You do not allow yourself more than two harsh breaths before your hand meets the buckle of his trousers.
“Arrival in five, people!” there’s the loud, mechanic shout from the front, and everyone stirs as if out of a dream, at once, things gathered and held closer, sleep chased away from eyes.
Sylus takes his fingers out of your pussy, coughing into his shoulder to hide the wet squelching of your cunt as it tries to grasp at his tips, and then at nothing. You sigh, head resting to the back of your seat, chest heaving as if you’ve just ran a marathon, a blush gracing not only your face, but your neck and chest too.
You cannot believe he’s done - you’ve done something like this.
Sylus pops open two of his shirt’s buttons with his pinky. Then, meticulously, while maintaining your tired gaze, he wipes his fingers on the inside material of his shirt, elegantly doing his shirt back up afterwards, with much cleaner hands.
The stains of your arousal rest, the rest of the day, right over where his heart beats.
v.
Fingers curled against the naked expanse of your back, to keep himself away from sliding them deeper inside the material, trailing paths he’d like to explore with his lips instead. You’re beautiful - you always are, but like this: careless and happy, you’re something Sylus hasn’t seen on you for too long. He’s suddenly, irrevocably, glad to have joined you on this trip, if only for the sight of you under the fairylights, dancing in his arms, cheeks flushed, a light smile that does not go away.
You’re dressed divinely tonight, for this evening of festival celebration, the silk dress pooling around your body, tight in just the right places, leaving your entire back naked, all the way to almost the shy dip of your ass. He has groaned when he saw you, and he has groaned several times throughout the night as others saw you and admired you too.
Sylus is man enough to be proud it’s him you’ve chosen to show up with. Sylus is man enough to know he can just kill every motherfucker who so much thinks of how you’d look without your little dress on.
Of course, himself excluded.
He’s done nothing else but that for the last few hours, ever since he noticed the soft, proud smile on your lips, as he sang his chosen song from the front of the stage. He could barely see you in the audience, but then as his voice grew louder, you stepped closer, and he almost stuttered into the next verse, finding his feet at the last moment.
Gods almighty, you are the most beautiful sight on this earth.
This is the reason why Sylus has felt no need to encourage this escapade, or any other travel. He already has you, there’s nothing else he cares to see, unless it’s at your request, unless he can translate the world through your fascinated gaze, your delighted smile.
He meets you back in front of the fountain, just as you’re imparting your goodbyes to that little fucker Leonard. He is even a bit miffed at that, that is until you present him with your ice cream, offering him a bite.
“Raspberry,” you provide usefully, as he steps closer, his head covering the distance between your heights.
You’re the biter. Sylus likes to lick.
He catches your eyes first, making sure you do not look somewhere else, as his tongue peeks out, a tiny bit at first, then daringly more as he swipes it around the swirls atop of your cone. The ice cream pools in the little cup of his tongue, and suddenly you do not think even this desert will be enough to keep you cooled off. He swallows, the roundness of his Adam’s apple obvious, dripping in sweat still in the hot night. And then his tongue is out of its mouth again, licking around his mouth with careful consideration, ending folded above his lower lip, as Sylus cleans each messy smudge around his mouth.
Your hand shakes, between your two bodies, as Sylus settles back, casually, hands in his pockets. You step closer, ice cream held away from your shirts, your other hand coming up to take hold of his chin.
In the dim light, you scan for further stains.
Then, pressing on your tiptoes, you press your tongue against the corner of his mouth, licking over his skin.
Sylus gasps, turning to grab at your body, shifting so he can kiss you properly, his mouth against yours, wildly, his tongue licking at your canines, yours swettling over it, chasing a similar, familiar touch in his own mouth.
The ice cream drops to the ground, and neither of you gives a fuck as your bodies battle one against the other. Steps are blindly taken until your back hits the firmness of a wall, his hand curled around your skull cushioning any harsh bumping.
You pant, your chest pressing against his, as your cunt settles, definitely and immediately, over his thigh. The light is even fainter in this alley you’ve fumbled into, and it’d be so easy, drop to his knees, hook your leg around his shoulder and let you fuck his tongue.
But, resolutely, as your hips are already rubbing against his leg, delicious friction at your clit, but chased with the quickness of the truly desperate, you grab his hand and guide it over your chest. Sylus dives, a man guided and trusted, hand kneading the soft roundness of your breast, face nosing at your cleavage. He contracts his muscles, your breathing turned harsh, a needy mewl in the night.
“You wanna use me?” he asks at your collar, hand slipping down the thin bands of your dress, dragging the material down to your hip.
You’re not wearing a bra, that having driven him insane as well: each shift and step read through the slight jiggle of your tits, and Sylus not capable of holding them, easing some of discomfort as the night continued.
You nod, incapable of words, as your pelvis rolls in wild patterns, incoherent to nothing and no one but your cunt and its needs. Sylus lets you settle your cunt against his knee, swears as he feels the material growing wet against his skin, because fuck him you are also not wearing panties either. He takes your nipple in his mouth to stop himself from whimpering, ask you to touch him. This is about you. The other nipple he pinches with his hand, and your back arches into his ministrations.
He hums, tongue licking around your bud, teeth carefully grazing against it. You cry out, a mumbled meaningless disaster, your rutting turned wild. His fingers take hold of your other nipple, twisting it, harshly and painfully. You still, your body shaking and trembling with your orgasm, as Sylus bites into the soft flesh of your tit. It’ll bruise, beautifully and deeply, something for him to admire for days to come.
You do not yet have the power to make this into a fair command, but he goes simply because it’s you, the shove at his shoulders having you flip positions, his back resting comfortably against a wall warmed by your body. You do not care to put yourself together, not yet, and Sylus watches, transfixed, the smooth movement of your breasts, as you dig your hands in the waistband of his shorts.
He, too, is not wearing anything under it. His cock is a red, angry swollen thing, so painfully hard that even the feel of the chill air has his breathing quicken. He has to hold your wrist, still you in place for maybe just a moment; to come like this, undone simply by your utter disregard for himself as you chase your own pleasure, when he has been wanting you for days, would be good, but Sylus wants perfect. So he tries to catch his breath, thinks of his million letters awaiting him at home, and is caught unguarded at the stroke of the clock.
You both still, listening to each one, counting the loud pangs of the town clock, as it settles, resolutely, onto midnight.
“We need to go back,” you whisper, panicked eyes looking up at him with no fear, but utter disappointment.
If you miss this last boat, there’s nowhere to sleep on this island tonight. And as sweetly as your cunt would be, he refuses to put you through something like this. He wisely thinks you would not necessarily approve of his private jet, in the middle of a trip you so deeply wanted, so he shoves his cock back in his pants, and helps drag the dress back on over your body.
1.
A whole day with you.
The kind of luxury he thought he earned, previously, stupidly believing it’s not something he’ll have to work for the rest of his life. Sylus knows better now, as you settle against him on the towel.
The sun is dipping at the horizon, the breeze turned pleasant rather than suffocating. And in this hidden alcove of the beach, you two are finally, blessedly alone: nothing to do but each other. This apprehension, the growing tension, has its own kind of appeal, he supposes, but after waiting for you for so long, Sylus hates having limitations put on how often he can have you.
If this was his world - and yes, he is working on it - he’d have you always at his side, let no mundane little annoyance ever come again between you two. It’s the type of greed he’s been warned against his entire life, the type of greed they talk about in the Bible and call a cardinal sin.
When by your side, Sylus thinks it only natural. Only someone of lower feelings would not have the bravery to fight the fabric of the world for you.
You’re a sight taken out of his fiercest dreams, even sun-kissed, tangled hair at your back, crumpled dress over a swimsuit that has seen better days. You have refused his offer to buy you anything but silly matching shirts, and Sylus has put his aside in his luggage with the reverence supposed to holy things only.
“Must I beg?” he asks, against the shell of your ear, as you turn to blink at him.
He has tried to be patient, has truly enjoyed spending the day swimming, tasting the last of local cuisine you didn’t get to yet, lazing around while catching a last minute tan. But the day is coming to an end and you didn’t so much as twinned your hand with his, and Sylus is not above it, he just wants to make certain his desperate advances are not unwanted.
“Oh,” you say, easily, breathed out with as much relief as he feels when you roll on your knees, settling over his legs, not quite yet in his lap.
Did you truly not know? How badly he’s needed to feel you like this? How badly he’s dreamt of this moment, your hands shy but direct as they drag at the waistband of his swim trucks, pulling out his member with a harshness that has him gasping against your shoulder. How many times he’s spilled himself under that accursed shower, cold water down his back doing nothing to quench the growing, gnawing lust in his veins?
You rise on your knees, hips pointed forward, hand holding on to his cock as you guide him to your entrance. He swears, a moan around your name, as he pushes in, just the tiniest bit, your body trembling.
His arm lifts, palm settled splayed at your open back, a different dress but the same blessed design, the same foregoing of underwear, and in the furthest recesses of his mind, he wonders when exactly did you go without your swimsuit bottoms, how long you’ve wanted this, teased yourself to this exact image?
He adds a tiny bit of pressure at his fingertips, as your body slowly relaxes above him, as you go down another maddening inch, so much and not enough at the same time, as he whispers praises onto your skin.
“You’re doing so well, sweetie,” and the pet name in itself earns him another two inches and a moan that at least you can let be heard, no one around.
This is the bit you’re normally struggling with, the last two; by this point you’re huffing with the fullness, upset at the lack of friction, trying to hurry him even if it’d hurt you - the pain turns to pleasure quick enough, but Sylus never entertains such desperation.
He doesn’t now either, letting you do as much as you can, his touch guiding you as you lift on your knees, sink back down, not taking him fully, but taking what you want and need out of him. His gaze is, strikingly, stuck to the large dip of your cleavage, skidding just for a mere moment to where your bodies are stuck together, where he is inside you.
Suddenly, he can look nowhere else but there, the slickness growing on his length, the swollen puffiness off your lips, the last bit he knows you’ll take, the bounce of your body up and down his cock.
Your leg cramps, trembling, and you whimper, frustrated, trying to push your body through the discomfort anyway. You just want to feel him, want him to fill you, and you’re childishly ready to throw a tantrum over not being dicked down recently, when his finger comes to gather some of your arousal from between your bodies. Then, with a hushing sound he’d offer to a crying infant too, he presses his fingers at your clit, rubs immediately with a ferocity that turns your sounds to immediate moans, growing higher and higher: in intensity and loudness.
Your body trembles, shatters, comes down, and he can feel it all around his cock, just as it was always supposed to be.
“I missed you,” he breathes out as if in one word, his head nestled at the curve of your neck.
You laugh, taking him in, finally, down to the hilt, settling in his lap with your full weight.
“You had me all week,” you explain, just as gently as he’s pushing away at the edge of your strap.
“And it was bliss,” he says, suddenly ferocious, scared that you won’t understand him, scared that this will belittle somehow all you were allowed to experience, together. “But this… kitten.”
The last word is a whimper, deliciously broken on the last syllable as you flutter around him, squeezing, grown pleased and putty and needy and close by the pure adoration in his voice.
“This?” you hum, your hips rolling, and his own stutter, his mouth open around a soundless moan.
“Please,” and Sylus does beg, as he pulls your body against his in a crushing hug, where he can feel the press of your chest against his, where you can rub your pelvis against the hard muscles of his stomach. “I need to come inside you.”
Your fingers dig in his back, as hard as you can.
“Okay,” you murmur, pushing his hair away so you can press tender kisses against his temple.
They contrast, widely, with the way he’s snapping his hips now, his buttocks contrasting so he can glide that tiniest bit deeper inside you, his arms lifting your body and slamming you back down on his cock. You try to help, unsure at first, then grown bold by your desire, meeting each movement with your own. The squelching sound of your pussy is embarrassingly loud, drowned by the rising groans coming from Sylus.
You come first, an unexpected roll of his hips, as he pushes your body down, into him, and you’ll never be over the way he feels, inside you. You didn’t think it could feel like this, like giving yourself fully, like receiving every little secret of the universe.
He’s barely a moment behind you, coming with a roar he tries to muffle against your shoulder, tongue messily lapping at skin.
“You wished for me,” he whispers, awed, not moving away, both of you feeling the extent of your ruin, his cum trailing down on both your laps.
You nod, your forehead pressed to his, and he would gladly go blind if the last thing he gets to see is your eyes.
“Always,” you reply in kind, a secret that is no secret at all to anyone who looks at the two of you together.