𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐧 𝐑𝐞𝐝 ● 𝐉𝐉𝐊

• 13 • péché la nuit

You blush into his neck as his hands are already pulling you on his body.

His body falls onto the cold floor with you on him. The stone-y floor hurting his back, but your body taking his mind off all the inconveniences the world can throw at him. He didn't fucking care, he was feeling a blood rush. Like he hadn't felt with anyone for so long.

He feels your hands shyly going over his thick body, they rest just below his chest. Not daring to go further, too afraid to touch the contours of his rigid muscles. His breath hits your neck and he finally grips you possessively, pressing your body to his. You whimper in a strained voice, the closing intimacy was all too unreal. Having already pictured sinful scenes of him above you or pounding into you echoing in your mind.

He flips you over, keeping his arm below you so your back doesn't feel the hard shock. His body pasting itself above yours, the darkening eyes trained on your lips who are alone in this coldness and your neck which is attracting his teeth to nip and cut out fresh artworks. Your eyes closed inviting any contact he gives you, you look so possessed and ready. It's so hard for him to keep his whirling mind stable.

He sinks his head fully into your neck as you mewl, his lips brush past the middle of your neck into the hollow part below it. His teeth chuck some skin into his warm mouth and he sucks on it, with occasional fierce swipes of his teeth and his tongue lingering about shamelessly. You grip the back of his T-shirt with desperateness. "Sir.."

His actions seem to get harder as you call him out. He presses your hips down, grips your hair in his palms and drives his lips into your mouth. The grip on your hair is still liberal, he is going easy on you. You still flush and let his tongue grasp yours and torture it with heavy running of kisses and battles. His chest pants into the kiss and you see his large chest breathing rapidly. And his thin torso towering your small form. Your hips buck themselves ahead to meet his torso, which is surprisingly in control. He isn't hard? How?

He has control. He is disciplined. He is a gentleman. No doubt, a beast when his restrictions are unleashed. But until he guards himself, he wouldn't do anything he doesn't want to. Which involves his body, he is not a sissy who gets hard with every little sensual exposure. He is a man in it's truest senses, he knows what he should do and when he should do it.

He again presses your hips back with force. He looks at you warningly and, somewhere behind all that boldness, apologetically. He doesn't want you to do that.

You pull your lips back, causing them to separate and feel sad. You look at him with insecurity and disappointment and maybe some shame.

"..why?" you ask, quivering.

He shakes his head. Looking at you with firmness, like nothing can change his decision. "I cannot let myself be pleasured by you."

You furrow your eyebrows. Almost wanting to tell him that he's behaving stupid. After all this, he says this?

"W-Wh-What?" you ask in confusion, staring at him with doe eyes.

He wants to kiss that pout of whine and accusation and frustration away. "I cannot allow myself, sweetie. I will pleasure you, with all of my power but I can't let myself feel your touches for my own benefit....yet." He adds the last part with a flicker in his eyes. "At least."

His shoulder arches, all his muscles getting bulged up in that space since he is still balancing himself above you on his hand, which he doesn't seem to mind at all.

You look at him very accusingly and almost angry. You are not some child he can play with after all those sweet words, you want both of you to be equals. Not the one who is always at the receiving end. You huff, this is really testing.