DIABLO

"I'm under your skin, Bang."

SYNOPSIS

He isn't just your father's business partner. Not only have they been best friends since college, but this man has been a part of every major family event, including being one of the groomsmen at your brother's wedding.

And you're sick of not being able to call him by his first name.

When you return after finishing law school, he's still the same charming player you know, but even though you look the same, he can't recognize you at all.

You're gonna be the death of him one of these days.

Content Warning & Disclaimer

Unless my common sense dictates something should be tagged, I do not spell out everything that takes place in a story in the content warnings. It's largely to provide a "blind" reading experience by preventing as many spoilers as possible. If prior warnings significantly matter to you and/or you're not sure whether you should continue reading past this point, please see this page first.

Reader discretion advised: Age gap, obsession, zero moral ground, heavily risky, strong language, explicit sexual content.

You are the fucking demon, he’s sure of it.

Chris once knew a girl. Levelheaded, diligent, the pride of her family with all her achievements. The dictionary definition of go-getter. Surely will make a great heiress one day. 

He has no idea when you have become… this. 

Sometimes he thinks he’s going insane because you act like an entirely different person around other people. You might be fooling everyone with your good girl antics, but he doesn’t buy it.

He can smell trouble from a mile away, and you are the worst kind of it.

The midweek chaos in his 48th-floor corner office is drowning him. The phone won’t shut up, the emails won’t stop, his secretary keeps buzzing the intercom like an annoying notification alarm every five minutes…

“Mr. Bang, your 8:30 is here.”  

“Mr. Bang, the settlement draft…”

“Mr. Bang, the deposition…”

“Mr. Bang…”

FUCK the day he thought law school was a good idea.

As he goes back and forth between trashing his obnoxiously large office and jerking off for stress relief, the frosted glass door opens. He looks up.

From the looks of it, the devil no longer wears Prada, but she still looks like a classy whore.

“Wow, you look like shit,” you sneer as you approach his desk.

“Good to know my mood shows on my face, I guess,” he retorts.

“Why? I heard your divorce is finalized at long last,” you mindlessly reach for the little plane figure sitting on a box. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you.”

“Does that mean you are free to fuck whoever you want now?”

HUH?!

He’s pretty sure he looks like the human embodiment of the word dumbfounded now. He can feel his mouth part; he’s even making some sounds, but no words come out. You seem amused, grinning wider at the sudden disappearance of his speech ability, packing up all vocabulary and fucking right off into the night.

“May I use your restroom?” you point to his left.

“You uh… Er erhm… Don’t you have one in your own office?” he manages to collect the crumbs of his wits.

“My office is on the other side of the floor,” you say, already making your way towards the large black door. “I won’t move in, don’t worry.”

The door closes with a satisfying clank, and he rolls the last ten seconds back in his head. What the absolute FUCK does that even mean? Why are you suddenly interested in his prospective body count? Were you custom-produced to fuck with his head on this Wednesday from hell by any chance? Are you bored or something?

“God, Chris…”

He checks his overpriced watch to confirm he hasn’t somehow blacked out and lost five hours. Nope, it’s still noon.

Does he need to make an emergency shrink appointment because what’s up with the auditory hallucinations in broad daylight?

“Chris, come fuck me…”

No… Fucking… Way…

Eyes glued to the restroom door, he slowly stands up, vigilant like he’s approaching an intruder he’s about to catch red-handed. His throat is parched, but somehow what he craves to quench his unholy thirst is not water. He walks closer, almost tiptoes, unsure if he’s doing it to hear better or because he’s scared you will stop.

Because a part of him really, really, really doesn’t want you to stop.

Ever the sleuth, he pulls up his phone and hits record, collecting evidence on his sanity levels. Only when he can’t gasp does he realize he’s been holding his breath.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Chris, please… Please!”

The soundwaves are right there on the screen!!!

You make no attempt to keep your voice down. You’re moaning like this is his bedroom. He can clearly hear how wet your pussy is with your fervent fingering. 

What the fuck are you playing at?!!

He returns to his desk a changed man, trying really hard to process his reality. Are you trying to seduce him? Is this how you’re trying to send a message? Do you have any idea how inappropriate this is?

Will he be able to survive the shame of how turned on he is right now?

The door opens again, and you emerge, glowing like you’re six months pregnant. You’re somewhere between sleepy and high. He can make a sophisticated guess about what you look like when you cum, and his entire body stands at attention at how fantastic it is.

He should have just trashed his office.

“What?” you ask as he looks at you completely bamboozled, then you leave without saying anything else.

Only when he makes sure you’re halfway across the floor does he walk into the restroom. He’s very much not insane; it smells like you in here. It also smells like a freshly fucked pussy. Something dark on the floor attracts his attention, and he looks down, using every single drop of his willpower to stay sane.

You’ve left your underwear, and the white, damp lines on the black fabric are prominent. This isn’t the kinda shit one does by accident. He reaches for it before his reasoning can even begin to say ‘Don’t do it.’

What the hell are you trying to pull here?

“Chris, come fuck me…”

He loses all control.

His painfully hard cock throbbing in his palm, your scent on his nose, your taste on his tongue, he fervently strokes himself, trying to imagine what exactly you did in here mere moments ago. Did you really imagine him with you? How did you imagine him? Were you sitting on his face? Were you riding him to death? Were you begging for praises in your ear for being a good little slut? God, you deserve a lesson. You deserve a proper punishment for what you’ve done. You deserve spanks on your ass and tugs on your hair and a hand around your throat while he’s at it. If you can offer a heartfelt apology, then he can consider making you cum until you cry. 

He unloads a week’s worth of cum on your underwear when he finishes.

The post-nut clarity hits like never before. He’s mortified by what he’s just done. He deadass fantasized about railing you flat right here on his desk five minutes ago. His best friend’s daughter. His best friend’s corrupted as hell daughter who has seemingly walked through a portal and turned into the most lethal woman, all innocence lost, now hellbent on driving him insane.

He pulls out his phone and hits play. Then he plays it again. And again. And again.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum. Chris, please… Please!”

You are the fucking demon.

He’s sure of it.

What a fucking bitch…

You’re smiling at the client sitting across the table, but you hate her with every fiber of your being. She’s shamelessly flirting with her gorgeous lawyer sitting to your left, and not only does he not stop it, he seems to be enjoying it.

You’re so ticked off, you’re about to slap a bitch.

“You can hold my hand during the trial, right?” she reaches for Chris’ hand over the table. “I’m scared of courtrooms.”

It’s not like she will appear before a judge at a RICO trial. This is a fucking defamation lawsuit, but if she can’t keep her hands to herself, you might consider contributing to the slander.

“I can even rub your shoulders if you want,” he raises the stakes for no reason, “but we have to put it in writing that you’re asking me to do it.”

“You’re such a lawyer,” she playfully smacks his hand and tucks her hair behind her ear.

And you’re such a slut, you sneer inside. 

“If you have drinks with me this Saturday,” she leans back into her chair, crossing her legs while staring right at Chris, “my business is yours.”

Something at the back of your head finally snaps.

“Coercion is a felony, miss,” you intervene with an ice-cold voice. “You’re not exactly helping your bullying scandal here.”

“Coercion?” she lets out one of those hearty old money laughs. “A good time with a hot model would be considered more of an incentive, don’t you think?”

“That incentive is called economic duress. We can drop your case right now and sue you for unlawful business terms.”

“W–Wait, I was just joking,” she suddenly perks up when her priorities rearrange themselves in her mind. “I really need to get these claims against me thrown out. Please.”

Chris watches the whole thing in silence, not sure if he’s amused, scared, or aroused. Possibly all three at once.

You leave the building with the multimillion-dollar lawsuit in your briefcase and walk towards the Chrysler waiting for you in front of the plaza. Chris has a satisfied smile on his lips, but it has nothing to do with securing the business of a spoiled nepo baby.

“Unlawful business terms, huh?” he asks while descending the marble stairs, though not quite in the form of a question.

“Sorry, would you rather get your reputation tarnished?” you scoff.

“I don’t fuck my clients,” he responds seriously. “Even if I was, she’s not my type.”

“What’s your type then?”

He stops before the car and turns to you. The look on his face screams pleased arrogance, and that stupid ego-filled smirk is making something boil in the pit of your stomach.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he opens the door to the backseat and enters first with no gentlemanly manners whatsoever.

Your plans for instant retaliation go out the window when you see your father and brother in the car. As the driver takes off, the fervent hostile takeover discussion reaches an intermission, and your father turns around to address Chris.

“If you didn’t get the case, get the fuck out.”

“Come on, they don’t call me The Closer for nothing,” Chris boasts, unbuttoning his blazer and spreading his legs as wide as he can.

You almost wheeze your lungs out.

Oh, he’s so damn smug. Oh, he’s so full of himself. Oh, he needs to fucking stop acting like he didn’t almost cream his pants just five minutes ago.

“You can learn a thing or two from him, sweetheart,” your father points at his ride-or-die. “Watch closely.”

He turns back around to glue his eyes on the laptop screen, and the thing that has snapped at the back of your head goes off, turning into a full-on mushroom cloud.

“Oh, really?” you raise your voice hyperbolically, shifting your body in Chris’ direction fully. “How does one become The Closer? Do tell, I’m watching.”

He looks entertained, clearly about to say something infuriatingly cocky again, but when your hand lands on his inner thigh, he chokes. The grin vanishes. His eyes dart down. The shudder comes third.

“What is it?” you purr as your hand gently slides up his thigh. “Are you not in the market for a mentee?”

He wants to say Stop it for a lot of legitimate reasons, but his mouth doesn’t render the words. He stares at you instead, lips parted, eyes widened, screaming a silent Do you want to get us both killed? Terror rushes through his veins when you unzip his slacks. Your hand reaches deeper inside and holds his arousal captive in your palm, warm, throbbing, very much tangible under your touch. He pulls his briefcase onto his lap in panic and glances at the two men in the front to make sure no attention is channeled to the back seat.

He’s so paralyzed that it doesn’t even occur to him to remove your hand instead.

“There’s uh… Th–There is an art to this,” he utters, alarmed that his porcelain poker-face already has a chip on it. “It’s… not much different than… er erhm, seduction if you think about it.”

“Are you saying I should seduce all my clients?” you start jerking him off with an utterly straight face.

He lets out a shaky exhale and pounces on the window switch for a sip of fresh air.

“You can say that,” he thickly swallows, wholesome dimples still kissing his cheeks as if he’s not having an active meltdown. “Though you gotta play the uh… plausible deniability card.”

“Stop teaching my sister how to be a legal slut, will you?” your brother playfully speaks over his shoulder, though not turning all the way back.

You both freeze in your places and wait until he submerges himself under a corporate law handbook again. So they are not fully distracted. You need to stop; otherwise, this is going to derail really bad.

Which is why you start stroking Chris faster as the next natural step.

“Eh, who cares if it lets me win?” you hold his cock in a tighter grip, your smirk spelling eight kinds of mischief. “Like, say, if I don’t go out with them to get their business, that’s plausible deniability, right?”

He’s sweating. He’s internally screaming. He’s fighting the urge to shove your head down and fuck your face hard while speaking the worst profanities you’ve ever heard. He focuses all his energy on regulating his breathing.

Then his hand reaches under the briefcase and wraps around yours, making you squeeze him even tighter.

“As long as no bodily fluids change hands, you’re good,” he responds, staring deep into your eyes. “There are no laws on what constitutes flirting.”

“So I should just make sure I’m not coming on too strong, and there will be no problems,” your eyes dart to his lips, watching the way he licks them.

“Yes.”

“Or as long as I’m not overtly sexual.”

“Yes.”

“Can I still wear blouses with some cleavage?”

“Y–Yes…”

Trying to control his body while cumming is the hardest thing he has ever had to do, and this man has heard murder confessions. He takes close-mouthed deep breaths like he’s just trying to ride out the pain of getting his blood drawn, hand slapped to his mouth to prevent any questionable sounds. The car comes to a halt in front of the company, and Chris looks like an absolute wreck.

“Are you okay?” you ask with bootleg concern, your slightly cum-laced hand pressed on his sweaty forehead.

“I just need a minute,” he pants. “I feel very queasy.”

“You’re not coming, sweetheart?”

“Oh, shoot, I think I left my phone at the plaza, Dad,” you immediately put plausible deniability into practice, going through your briefcase. “You go ahead. I’ll be right up if I can find it.”

The NPCs leave, and the scene clears. The suspicious stain on Chris’ pants doesn’t. Once the two Prada suits are sufficiently away from the car, you turn to Chris, way too proud of your work.

“I’m under your skin, Bang,” you gently kiss his ear. “Let another woman touch you again, I fucking dare you.”

You didn’t call him Mr. Bang like you used to. You addressed him like a nemesis as if you have generational blood feud between you. He is definitely losing it because this is the last thing he should be aroused by, not to mention the fact that he has just unloaded on himself.

He watches you walk to the revolving door, the click of your heels the only thing echoing inside his head. He closes his eyes and leans against the headrest, but his head is not resting. It’s trying to contain the deplorable thoughts uncontrollably multiplying inside like a wildfire.

You are the fucking demon.

And he’s captivated.

“Of course not! We have the best of the best on this case.”

The Zoom call has been going on for almost two hours now, and Chris is running out of brain cells to deploy. He pinches his nose bridge and squeezes his eyes close to alleviate some of the headache, but it doesn’t seem to work. If anything, it gets worse when you walk into his office carrying a file.

He tenses at your sight.

It’s been a few days since what shall be known as The Chrysler Incident, and neither of you has talked about it, which is part of the reason why he feels like he made it up in his head. Lucid dreaming awake. If so, then fucking WHY? What the hell happened to corrupt his mind palace this bad that he can’t think of much else other than rawdogging you into the next week?

“I think our strategy is pretty solid on this one,” he talks into the camera while pointing at the leather armchair across his desk for you to sit.

You settle down and cross your legs, waiting for the call to conclude, but it seems to be neverending. It’s not long before your boredom takes over you. You look at your nails. You look around the office. You look at the new vinyls he has added to his collection, clearly a gift from a client in the music industry.

“The client knows Chris and I are the dream team. We should go in as Mr. and Mrs. Bang at this point,” a woman’s sultry laughter blares out of his speakers.

He immediately makes eye contact with you.

It’s not so much ‘Oh, no’ but more of a ‘Go ballistic on me again’ dare. He heard you loud and clear the first time. He’s not letting another woman touch him.

But you never said anything about the verbal grounds, and loopholes are Chris’ bread and butter. He abuses them for a living.

His eyes return to the screen, but he can still see you in his peripheral vision. He knows you’re uncrossing your legs. He knows you throw one over the armrest.

He has to confirm with his own eyes that you’re indeed touching yourself, though.

“Chris, you good?”

How the HELL did they know?! Did his face change that noticeably? Or was it how he gulped?

Well, how can he not when your pussy is that wet? He can almost hear the begging in a slightly tweaked version.

“Chris, come lick me…”

“YEAH! Yeah, I’m fine,” he shakes his head, loud voice trying to overcompensate for his flustered state. “What were we talking about?”

It pleases you that he’s not fine at all. It amuses you how easily he gets horny. Is he touch-starved, or does he just have a high sex drive? How long does that stamina last? Can he fuck you from midnight until daybreak, for example? Or can you help him with the endurance training so he can go past breakfast hours maybe?

Much like some entitled bitch, you have incentives you can offer, too.

You slowly unbutton your shirt. He can feel your gaze on him and eventually looks back. The lace of your bra would be tolerable, but when you reveal your breasts and start playing with them, he freaks out, muting his microphone in panic.

Don’t you fucking CARE that the door can be swung open at any time?

“Fucking stop that,” he hisses with a straight face so as not to attract suspicion. “Your father is next door.”

“Chris? Your mic is off.”

“Yeah, your mic is off, Chris,” you echo the faceless woman in the call, the smile on your face lethally infernal. “Why don’t you turn it back on, so they can hear how wet you get me?”

“This is very serious. Do not do anything stupid,” he urges with a clenched jaw, genuinely mad, then turns his mic back on. “Sorry, I think I’m having technical problems. Can we try this in like five minutes?”

“No, we can’t,” a man replies this time. “We’re in the home stretch now. Focus.”

Okay, he didn’t have to be that fucking hot when he’s mad, but he was.

And unfortunately for him, it was giving you ideas. 

You fix yourself up, merely for logistical purposes, and rise to your feet. He knows he’s in trouble, and his uneasiness culminates into unmitigated dread with each step you take towards him. He doesn’t look your way as you place the file on his desk. It’s good that he doesn’t. It could have ruined the element of surprise.

You get on your knees and crawl under his desk.

“…so we know for a fact that they have no other CHANCE!” he jumps in his seat.

His pseudo-scream rips from his throat when his cock meets slippery warmth. It feels too deep to be just your mouth. He’s growing bigger in whatever demoniac glory hole you’re hosting him, so ridiculously fast that it gives him a brain freeze.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” another participant in the call observes.

“Just… Cramp…” Chris folds in half.

He’s trying to focus, but he doesn’t hear shit else. Your quiet panting on his cock magnifies into screams within his body. He wants to hear it. He wants to hear how wet it sounds when he fucks your face. He wants to see your eyes roll back. He wants to watch you drool.

He spectacularly caves.

“Gotta go. Emergency.”

He leaves the call with that half-assed excuse and slams his computer close, rolling his chair back just enough to see the sight that will haunt him for years on end. You choking on him like you’re on death row, your eyes closed, slobber dripping down your chin.

It’s a miracle how he doesn’t blow right then and there.

“What? You fucking forgot how to moan now?” he tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs on it. “Don’t even lie, you got wet just from sucking my cock, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t receive a verbal answer. He receives an eye contact and laughter soundwaves so thick he feels them in his ribcage. You’re going at it like he’s been starving you, but turns out, that’s not even the designer of his demise.

Time bends into slow motion when he sees your fingers reach between your legs.

“Be quiet,” he snarls, yanking your hair again. “I wanna hear.”

On cue. Flawless obedience. Impeccable good girl manners. Suddenly, the only thing that hits his eardrums is the room tone and something… wet. God, it’s so wet, he doesn’t know whether he should keep listening, or sit you on his desk and inhale your pussy whole, or bend you over and fuck you so hard your spine snaps.

“Stick your tongue out,” he commands. “Now.”

He vehemently strokes himself to the very brink, and his brain goes numb as he watches strings of his cum land on your tongue. A part of him dies when you swallow each drop looking right at him. His entire body becomes limp with his release, and he lets himself fall back into his chair.

He’s gone.

He faintly remembers you standing up and heading to the restroom. He doesn’t know how long has passed until his feet touch the ground again.

“Just what the fuck are you trying to do to me?” he asks with a faded voice when you reemerge, still taking long, drawn-out breaths.

“What are you talking about?” you contort your face in confusion, as if nothing remotely scandalous has happened in this room within the last five minutes, then tap on the file on his desk. “I just came to bring the questions for the mock deposition. Be ready at 2.”

If you weren’t dragging your finger on the corner of your mouth to wipe off the residual cum, he really was going to believe you for a second.

You’re clearly high on your little victories, and it’s tricking you into getting bolder, making you bet things you might not afford to lose. Because you’re so sure you’re going to win at the end, aren’t you? It’s fine, Chris is nothing if not a patient man, but it’s time for you to face the music now. Even though he knows it won’t change certain facts.

You are the fucking demon.

And he might be addicted.

“What are you doing here?” Chris opens the door to his ridiculously expensive condo.

The question is rhetorical—he knows what you’re doing there. Earlier that day, he casually asked his secretary to ‘Send Ella to his place’ when he knew damn well you were within earshot. Now he’s reaping the rewards, gazing at the beauty before him wrapped in a classy black trench coat.

“Thought we could discuss the defamation case tonight,” you show him the thick folder you’re holding. “We need a strategy.”

“Not a good time,” he crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m going out to meet a client for drinks.”

“Drinks?” you break into hysterical laughter. “Don’t tell me it’s the—”

“It’s Joaquim Ferreira,” he interrupts. “You might be familiar with him since his name is on our library.”

Oh.

Well… The fact that you know the person doesn’t prove anything. He’s still not being truthful. He says ‘Not a good time’ clearly as an excuse to send you away, doesn’t he? What is it that he desperately doesn’t want you to see around here?

You get a partial answer when you hear the footsteps in the distance. You take one look at his bedroom to your left, bed suspiciously unmade at this hour of the evening.

“Is this where you fucked her?” you ask with enough animosity to end nations.

“Who?” he asks, confused smile adorned with furrowed brows.

“What did I tell you about another woman touching you?” you take a step closer to him.

The footsteps are at their loudest now. Someone’s about to walk out of that hallway, and you will crush his flimsy lies into dust. You wait for the shadow to reach a strategic opaqueness, then you yank the belt of your trench coat like a pro flasher, revealing the lingerie you’re wearing inside.

The woman that appears by the kitchen counter is utterly scandalized.

“Oh my god, sorry baby. I thought our appointment was today,” you fake the most convincing surprise. “Should I come back another time?”

There is a lull before another voice is heard again, but it’s not Chris. If anything, he’s refusing to be the one to talk.

“I’m… so sorry, Mr. Bang. Did I confuse the days?” the woman slaps her hand on her mouth. “Your secretary told me you wanted housekeeping today.”

The extremely irritating grin slapped on his face literally has captions, and it says ‘Gotcha’.

“You’re not the one who confused the dates, Ella. You’re good,” he reassures her, dimples so deep it gives you the bends.

Ella nods, gathers her jacket and bag, then leaves at lightspeed. There is no trace of astonishment nor embarrassment on your face, and not even being alone with Chris brings them out.

“Something you wanna say to me?” he tilts his head.

“No,” you reply with annoyingly perfect poise, not acknowledging a granular amount of slip.

The distance between you is not that far, but it feels like he takes an hour to come close. He brushes two fingers between your breasts and slides them down, indescribable amounts of satisfaction coursing through his veins as he watches the goosebumps break on your skin.

“But there is something I wanna say to you, baby girl,” he breathes against your lips.

And for the first time ever, he sees something akin to panic in your eyes.

You suddenly find yourself in his arms, your heart about to jump out of your chest while being carried to his room. Your mouth suddenly goes dry. Your breathing suddenly becomes erratic. Your entire snark arsenal is destroyed, and all you can do is watch Chris as he empties a drawer on the nightstand. With dubious dexterity, he quickly cuffs you to his headboard, ties your feet to the corners of his bed, tapes a clit sucker on your pussy.

Yup. Tapes.

“Now I’ll go for those drinks, and you’ll fucking wait for me to come back,” he throws on his blazer and fixes his cuffs. “I have a bone to pick with you.”

Then he turns the toy on and casually fucks right off as if he didn’t just rewrite the playbook of a menace.

He’s on cloud nine when he enters that bar, so much so that Mr. Ferreira feels the need to ask if he’s high. Chris lies through his teeth with a heartfelt smile because technically speaking, the satisfaction of a good retaliation isn’t clinically narcotic. Maybe it should be. He orders double of the lounge’s most expensive scotch and gets to talking business, not rushing to finish his drink, but not exactly exercising patience, either.

“Chris?” Mr. Ferreira asks. “Is everything okay? You’re constantly checking your phone.”

“Sorry. Just checking the security cameras,” he puts his phone away, relieved he can at least pass the aggressive flush on his cheeks as the glow of the Macallan. “No need to be alarmed, but our meeting will have get cut short. There might be an intruder in my house.”

He is immediately excused, but for someone who has an emergency, he is much too nonchalant, whistling a tune to himself as he strolls back to his place with hands in his pocket. Once he finally opens his front door, he is welcomed by heaven—your tired moans echoing all over the place, your scent permeating every inch of the place, tears of overdose pleasure running down your cheeks…

“Have you reflected a little bit?” he removes his jacket. “Ready to apologize to me now?”

“What… What do I… For what?” you barely manage to utter.

He unbuttons his shirt as slowly as you did in front of his desk and walks to the bed, finally turning off the toy to give a respite to all your overstimulated neurons.

“For fucking me up this bad,” he whispers into your ear like a spiteful secret and places the softest kiss on it.

He turns on his nightstand lamp, and the vista revealed before his eyes should be fucking framed and put in a museum. His sheets are soaked. Your thighs are drenched. He has never been this turned on, and he’s salivating.

“Apologize,” he iterates his wish. “Or I’m gonna make you cry harder.”

“Why don’t you?” you maniacally smile at him. “That was the best part.”

He undoes your restraints one by one like he’s carefully opening a present. The anticipation of ten seconds into the future stretches into a forever as he kisses the burns from your ankles up to your wrists, giving birth to a never before discovered species of excitement in his bed.

“You have a fucking problem, you know,” he declares, but he can’t help reflecting the exact unhinged shade back at you. “I think I’m in love with it a little bit.”

You wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, then let yourself go into the calming waters of his kiss. You have walked so far beyond the threshold of sensitive that when he finally finally disappears into you, you find yourself on the brink of crying. You resurrect each time he breathes a bit of himself into your lips. You die all over again when he moans your name.

“Faster,” you claw at his shoulders.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do anymore,” he bites into yours.

His rhythm suddenly turns ruthless, and you can swear your vision turns white every time he hits that dead end inside you that hard. It’s like he’s trying to avenge something. Maybe something lost, maybe something that has never been spoken, but he’s gunning for it at full speed, breathless, no longer giving a fuck about anything other than how terribly he has wanted you for so long.

God manifests within your body as Chris spills into you. When all his strength relents with the last drop out, he collapses, trying to find the whereabouts of his mind somewhere in the crook of your neck.

“Thank… you,” you kiss his temple, the most fucked out giggles of your life forcing themselves out of you one by one.

“No tapping out,” he rolls to his side and wraps your leg around his waist. “We’re just getting started.”

“Are you trying to make me pass out or something?”

“Maybe. If you don’t make me pass out first,” he tugs your bottom lip down. “I’ll race you for it.”

The only thing you remember from the rest of the night is the pure bliss of being his, but it’s nowhere near wholesome. It’s drenched in the heroinesque depraved pleasure dripping off his walls. Even though you know full well every orgasm is a gateway drug to Chris, you just can’t help it. And come the daybreak, you might be irrevocably addicted.

You might be the fucking demon.

But he has invented it.

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