Bound In Love's Curse [Gojo Satoru x Female Readers]

188 ~ Hundred And Eighty-Eight 🔞

[T]he moment Gojo warped you into his apartment, the atmosphere changed—thick with tension and the kind of raw, electric energy that prickled your skin. It was familiar territory, but you barely had a second to process your surroundings before he was on you—swift, relentless, like he'd been holding back far too long, craving the inevitable.

"You should've listened," he murmured, his voice a heated whisper against your neck.

You didn't need to see the smirk tugging at his lips to feel its presence—the same infuriating, cocky grin that always meant trouble was on its way. The sharp, dangerous kind of trouble that came wrapped in pleasure.

A slow, controlled exhale left your lips, your body reacting instinctively, arching into him before your mind could catch up. There was no room for restraint, not when every inch of your body felt his heat, the way his frame molded perfectly to yours. The pressure of him hard against your back—deliberate, unapologetic—sent a wave of anticipation rippling through you.

"Listening's boring," the purr that escaped your lips was defiant, your words slow, dripping with a hint of challenge. You didn't just say it—you meant it, meeting his intensity with equal fire. "I prefer things a little more... challenging." The smirk that followed curled at the edge of your mouth, provocative and almost smug. Almost.

Gojo's fingers twitched at your waist, his grip tightening ever so slightly. A small, barely noticeable hitch in his breath. Got him.

For all his smug bravado, you knew exactly how to match him, playing the game just as well as he did. And this wasn't just any game. This was the kind of battle where tension and desire fought for dominance, where control slipped through fingers like water.

A deep, rough chuckle rumbled from his chest, vibrating through your body, resonating in the space between the two of you. His hands slid under your hoodie, warm palms skimming over your skin in a slow, deliberate exploration.

There was no rush, just the intense, unspoken promise lingering between you. "Always so difficult," he muttered against your neck, his lips tracing lazy, taunting lines along your skin. The barest graze of his teeth made your pulse stutter, your breath catch.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," you shot back, your words tight, packed with heat. His fingers had drifted higher, rolling your nipple between them with just enough pressure to make you gasp, the sensation shooting straight to your core.

It was an exquisite kind of torture, every teasing touch designed to unravel you slowly.

Gojo didn't rush to respond. Instead, he took his time, dragging his lips along the back of your neck in slow, deliberate nips. Each kiss, each bite, felt like a mark—a claim—a wordless reminder of his dominance, as if with every touch, he was branding you as his.

"Keep testing me, see what happens," he growled, voice rough and edged with warning, a dark chuckle vibrating deep in his chest.

One of his hands abandoned your breast, the other drifting lower, teasingly close to your waistband. Your breath caught in your throat, a knot of anticipation tightening in your chest. Before you could react, his fingers gripped your chin, turning your face toward him so you were forced to meet his gaze—intense, unyielding.

When his mouth finally collided with yours, it wasn't just a kiss—it was an explosion, a fiery clash of lips and teeth, fierce enough to steal your breath. His tongue invaded your mouth with an urgent, possessive hunger, each stroke a silent declaration that he wasn't just taking you—he was claiming you. The kiss left no room for thought, only sensation.

He broke away just enough to nip at your lower lip, dragging it between his teeth, his breath mingling with yours, hot and intoxicating. "You're the one who said you could handle this," he muttered, the amusement in his tone laced with mockery.

His lips trailed a slow, tantalizing path up your neck, lingering at the sensitive skin below your ear before he bit down lightly, enough to send a jolt of pleasure straight through your body.

"But look at you now," he teased, fingers brushing the waistband of your pants with agonizing slowness, each movement deliberate and torturous, drawing out the anticipation that crackled in the air between you. "You're already shaking."

"Shaking? Please." The retort slipped from your lips with a veneer of confidence, yet the racing pulse in your chest betrayed you. "You're... predictable." Your gaze locked onto his, defiant despite the heat surging through your body.