Warning: smut ahead
The honeymoon suite glowed in candlelight—shadows flickering over rose-draped sheets, champagne still sweating in its bucket on the side table. You stood by the window in nothing but silk, the city glowing behind you. But you only felt his eyes, locked on you like a predator savoring the final moment before a feast.
Joker stood shirtless, suspenders hanging off his shoulders, tattoos on full display—each one telling a story written in blood and madness. But tonight? There was something different in his stare. It wasn't hunger. It wasn't lust. It was something deeper. Something terrifying.
It was love.
He crossed the room slowly, like he didn't want to startle you. His voice, usually a growl laced with mischief, was soft. "You look like a fucking dream, Mrs. J."
Your breath caught as he reached you, his fingers brushing your cheek before sliding down your throat, resting lightly like he was claiming you without pressure. His mouth found yours, slow and sensual—lips moving like he had all the time in the world.
Then he whispered, "Lay down for me, baby."
You obeyed, sinking into the bed, the silk cool against your heated skin. He hovered above you, trailing kisses down your neck, between your breasts, down your stomach, stopping just short of your thighs. He looked up at you from between your legs, his smirk gone.
Tonight wasn't about games.
He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow, then again higher—until his mouth pressed to your core, tongue flicking gently, teasing you open. Your hips bucked, but his hands gripped your thighs, holding you in place as he buried himself in you.
"Oh my gosh—daddy," you gasped, fingers curling in his hair.
He moaned into you, deep and sinful, licking and sucking with a rhythm that made you tremble. You were already dripping, your body begging, but he didn't rush. He worked you over like a man starved, but still savoring every bite.
When he finally pulled back, your legs were shaking.
"You ready for me, baby?" he asked, voice raw.
"Yes. Please," you begged.
He crawled over you, sliding the tip of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance. Then, with one slow, controlled thrust, he sank inside you.
You cried out—part pleasure, part disbelief. He was usually rough, punishing. But tonight... he was gentle. Deep and slow. Every thrust felt like he was trying to memorize your soul.
His mouth found yours again, his hips rolling against you, dragging out every sensation.
"You feel that?" he rasped against your lips. "That's mine. Every inch. Every sound. Every fuckin' tear."
And god, you were crying again—because it was too much. Too good. Too real.
His thrusts got a little deeper, a little harder, but never brutal. He stayed close, his forehead resting against yours, his body pressed to every inch of you, like he couldn't stand the idea of even an inch of space between.
