ᴜɴᴅᴏɴᴇ | ᴅ.ᴍ

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐘-𝐎𝐍𝐄

He rested his hands on my shoulder, as he slowly went down my arms, tracing them like he did that day—when he was teaching me. "Have I told you how annoyingly hideous you look tonight?" He whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.

"Yes," I mumbled, a pause, "you just did."

"I'd rather show you instead," he whispered again as his hand traveled to the front, resting against my stomach as I leaned back—against him, almost.

His hands make their way down to the hem of my dress, as he's toying with it for a moment, twirling it around in his hand as the coldness of his hands against my thighs makes my body shiver. His rings pressed against my bare skin as he's placing them between my thighs, dragging them upwards.

"What are you doing?" I let out a sentence, hardly, as my mind is too focused on his hand on my body, slowly traveling up. "Do you want me to stop?" He whispered in my ear again as I didn't say anything, not clear if I'm thinking rationally.

The tips of his finger, tracing my skin as he's moving my dress upwards, giving himself access to do whatever he likes, slowly pressing his fingers against my inner thigh as his thumb is stroking the lace of my knickers, a gasp escaping my lips as my back is pressed against his chest.

My fingers wrap around his wrist, stopping him from doing anything further, as he fiddles with my hand, feeling the coldness of his rings. "Don't you have to play with your new toy from that night?"

He chuckles, "who said I wanted to do anything with her?" His lips touch the shell of my ear as I tilt my head slightly, exposing my neck. "Didn't seem like it the way she kissed you."

He hummed, "does it bother you that she was touching me, love?" He questioned as I swallowed. It shouldn't bother me that another girl is kissing him—or touching him or doing anything at all. It doesn't bother me, it shouldn't bother me. "Or," he paused, "does it bother you that I was touching her?"

It felt weirdly good to have his hands on me, touching my skin as he traced it with the tips of his fingers, memorizing it like it was art.

"Or do you desire that I touch you?" He murmured as I hesitated before I reacted to anything. "Do you like it when I touch you?" he hummed at the end. I felt like the need to breathe wasn't my main priority right now as his hands traveled down to my waist.

"What do you want from me?" He waited for an answer as his hands moved down, taking his time like he knew it was torture, "tell me, and I'll make it happen."

"Tell me," I whispered, "tell me what you want to do."

His hands stopped moving on my body as I felt myself frown from the sensation disappearing as he's turned me around to face him, my back pressed against the top of the couch—his hands gripping my waist as I looked up at his eyes—deeply grey.

"I want to take you right now," he quickly spoke, his hand swirling around my thigh, "I want to fuck you against this couch till you beg me to stop. I want you right now, I want you here, and everywhere. I want to make you into this unholy mess, I don't want anything between us."

He's looking down at my lips as I'm looking up at his eyes, my hand on his forearm as he's forcing himself from not leaning in, holding himself back from doing much more than he is right now.

"I want your clothes off, I want to touch your skin—I want to have your bare skin against mine. I want to feel every part of you, with the lights on, so I could memorize and study every inch of you."

"Would you like that, Young?" He muttered as my head leaned back, my eyes strictly glued to his lips—I can't help but stare, to know him and every single one of his features, to know the slope of his nose or the curve of his lips. The need to trace his jawline with my fingertips as I feel his soft skin, running my hand down to his neck, I want his weight pressed against mine.