his little pawn

game over II

003 game over
──────────────────────

IT'S LIKE FLIPPING a switch. He's on you in a second, mouth crashing against yours with a ferocity that steals your breath. The kiss is hungry, all teeth and heat, like he's been waiting too damn long and he's not going to waste another second. His hands are everywhere—one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him.

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours in a way that's all—consuming, dizzying. You're barely aware of your hands fisting in his shirt, of the low sound he makes when you pull him even closer, until you're pressed up against the cool marble countertop, his body caging you in.

"Kuroo," you breathe out, barely breaking away, your lips brushing against his as you say his name.

"Mm?" His voice is a low growl, vibrating against your mouth as he dips down, trailing kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat.

Each brush of his lips sends a new wave of heat surging through you, and you can't help the soft sound that escapes when his teeth graze your pulse point.

"Fuck," you whisper, fingers curling in his hair, your head tipping back to give him better access.

He takes full advantage, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck, sucking lightly at the skin until you're squirming under his touch.

His hands roam, sliding down your sides, slipping under the hem of your shirt, fingers skimming over bare skin. "You have no idea," he murmurs against your throat, voice husky and rough, "how long l've been thinking about this."

You shudder at the words, the admission crackling in the air between you. "Then don't just think about it," you manage, voice breathless. "Do something."

The look he gives you is searing, pupils blown wide, jaw clenched tight like he's holding himself back by a thread. "You sure?" he asks, and despite the ragged edge to his voice, there's a seriousness in his eyes, a weight that anchors you.

"Yes," you breathe out, the word a plea and a command all at once.

That's all it takes. He's on you again, mouth capturing yours in a kiss that's somehow even hungrier, more desperate. His hands slide up under your shirt, fingertips dancing over your ribs, brushing the underside of your breasts, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

And when his hands shift, lifting your shirt higher, you don't hesitate. You break the kiss just long enough to let him tug it over your head, the cool air hitting your bare skin for barely a second before his lips are on you again, trailing down your neck, down to your collarbone, lower—

You arch into his touch, every nerve ending alive, every thought dissolving into a haze of want, of need. "Fuck, Kuroo..."

He groans against your skin, the sound reverberating through you as he mouths at the swell of your breast, fingers slipping under your bra to cup you, thumb brushing over your nipple in a way that has your breath hitching.

"Tell me what you want," he rasps, looking up at you, eyes dark and smoldering, lips swollen and glistening from your kiss.

You're not even sure how to answer, not when his hands are on you like that, not when every brush of his thumb has you biting back a whimper. But you force yourself to meet his gaze, to hold it, to let him see just how far gone you are.

"I want—" The words falter as his hand trails lower, skimming over your stomach, down to the waistband of your jeans. "I want you."

That's it. The effect is immediate. His eyes darken, his grip tightening just enough to make you gasp.