Silence swallowed the attic whole.
Thick. Heavy. Electric.
Heat rolled off their bodies in waves, raw, suffocating and wrapping the dusty space like invisible flames.
No words passed between them.
No need.
Their eyes did the talking: dark, filthy promises traded back and forth in perfect, wordless violence.
Ivana knelt between his spread legs, small and trembling, thighs slick and shaking.
Kacy stood above her like a god carved from shadow and ego.
Towering.
Unyielding.
One fist locked in her hair, not pulling now, just holding.
Claiming.
The grip said everything: You're caught. You're mine. And I'm going to ruin you until the only thing left is my name on your tongue.
The scene looked exactly like a trap laid with perfection; the devil finally cornering his favorite prey.
Ready to break her open. Ready to devour every shattered piece.
Their gazes never wavered.
Her innocent emerald eyes locked with his calm, intense blue eyes.
He drank her in, slow and deliberate, savoring the way her curves trembled under the torn black satin, the way her chest rose and fell too fast, her nipples stabbing against the ruined fabric, the faint smear of blood drying on her lower back like war paint.
His wife was fucking exquisite. Always had been.
Her scent hit him like a drug.
Roses, sweet and sinful, bloomed violently under honeyed warmth.
The scent of honey and roses rose from her hair, sinful, utterly addictive. and consuming, dragging him under without mercy, blurring his thoughts, clunging to his senses and devouring what little restraint he had left.
Sometimes lilies and lotus drifted from her strands.
Sometimes sunflower and warm vanilla.
Lately? Lilies and lotus again.
Clean.
Intoxicating.
Addictive.
He'd caught himself burying his face in her hair after sex just to breathe her in until his cock hardened all over again.
He'd wondered, half joking, half serious, if she needed therapy for her shampoo obsession.
Ten different fragrance bottles of shampoo and the worst part, all of them were still shampoo? Who does that?
But in it all, he loved the whole of her.
He did worse.
For her.
During their two-month honeymoon, he'd quietly switched his cologne.
Ditched the dark, masculine notes he used to wear—sandalwood, oud, smoked leather, vetiver, amber and replaced them with something softer, sweeter.
Strawberry.
Chocolate.
Warm, edible, boyish.
Because she loved those flavors.
The way her nose pressed to his throat, lungs greedily drinking him in after he'd taken her raw; each shuddering, desperate inhale like she was starving; sent a sharp ache through his chest, one he couldn't name or tame.
Every time she sought him out; pressing against him, lips brushing his skin, gasping in that ragged, wanton way after he'd claimed her; he felt it again.
The way her body begged for him, trembling and open, as if the world could end at any second, and he would still take her, drag her through oblivion, over and over, letting desire and ruin intertwine.
When had it started?
He couldn't pinpoint the exact second love had taken root.
Maybe the day his father announced the marriage to Ivana Moore, the fallen fashion visionary whose name still haunted runway archives.
He'd ordered a full background check that same night.
Private investigators.
Deep dives.
Every ex. Every lover. Every heartbreak. Every collection she'd poured her soul into before her family burned it to ash.
Her hobbies. Her idols. Her role model: the legendary fashion visionary Mrs. Catalina Velázquez.
How she laughed. How she cried. How she came undone.
He'd told himself it was due diligence.
Control.
But the more files he read, the more photos he stared at—her on red carpets, flawless, untouchable, and entirely his.
Her in studios.
Her laughing at fashion week afterparties.
The more something dark and possessive uncoiled inside him.
Most of the time, when the world slowed and his office sat quiet, his mind wandered back.
To the beginning.
To the pull.
The inexplicable compulsion to know her.
Why had he been so fixated? Why had this woman, this fallen angel in flesh, possessed every corner of his thoughts before they even said "I do"?
It wasn't mere curiosity. Not entirely.
There was something darker lurking in the edges of that intrigue, a hunger that refused to be named.
He had thought it was love maturing. Maybe it was. But love, as he now understood it, wasn't gentle. Not for them.
Curiosity had slid into hunger. Hunger had twisted into obsession.
Obsession had festered, sharp and corrosive, until it became this: a love so vicious, so absolute, it felt like violence; raw, dark, unrelenting.
Not the shallow kind that hides behind sweet words "I Love You..."
He showed her in every heartbeat, every reckless decision, every thoughtless impossibility he created in her name.
He'd do the unthinkable.
The insane.
He'd changed his scent for her without being asked.
She liked strawberry and chocolate, a preference so small yet it consumed him entirely.
One tiny desire of hers enough to rearrange the map of his senses, to bend the world around her.
Fuck. Who else would do that? Who else would let a single word "love"..... rewrite every rule they lived by?
Him.
Only him.
He would burn cities, topple empires, destroy everything if she whispered the word against his ear.
People could call him psychotic. Call him deranged. Obsessed.
But obsession, love and lust were not separate things for him.
They were one.
A storm.
A claiming.
A cage he willingly locked around himself because it held her at the center.
And he didn't care. He wouldn't care. He had long since stopped caring about sanity, about reason, about the world beyond her.
All that mattered was her. And the dark, sweet cruelty of wanting her entirely, always.
He was addicted.
To her curves; soft hips, full breasts, the dip of her waist he could span with both hands.
To her emerald eyes; wide now, glassy with lust and fear and something deeper.
To her scent; roses and honey clinging to him like a brand, sweet as rose-petal jam spooned over warm vanilla shortbread.
Their stares held.
Unblinking.
Unbreaking.
If any couple in the world could win a contest for longest eye-fuck, it was the Lillards.
His serene blue eyes finally broke from hers, sliding down to her parted lips with deliberate hunger.
A soft, wicked smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he drank in the sight of his wife.
Kneeling. Trembling. Utterly obscene in her surrender.
If he were honest, he wanted nothing more than to paint her face, her throat, her tits with thick ropes of his cum until she glistened like a ruined masterpiece under attic moonlight.
His gaze drifted lower.
The faint red scratches on her left leg where the satin had torn during her frantic escape caught the dim light.
Something feral and possessive flashed in his eyes; dark and dangerous, before it vanished behind that calm, sensual mask he wore so well.
His voice rolled through the heavy silence, low, velvet, edged with command.
"You wouldn't want me to repeat myself, little moonlight. Now… shall we?"
Ivana's gaze dropped to the dusty floorboards.
She squeezed her hands into fists, knuckles whitening, cheeks blooming crimson and pink.
He stepped closer close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
"Part those sexy lips wider, Ivy. I fucking mean wider. As wide as that pretty little mouth can stretch."
The filthy words hit her like a slap low in her belly, hot and sudden.
Her cunt clenched hard, fresh slickness soaking through what remained of her lace panties, dripping slow and shameless down her inner thighs.
She lifted her eyes slow, traitorous, dripping seduction and obeyed.
Lips parted. Wider. Wider still.
"Good girl,"
He whispered, voice pure possession wrapped in silk.
"My pretty good girl."
The praise landed like a brand. She flushed deeper, thighs quaking.
He didn't hesitate.
His hand left her hair.
Belt buckle snapped open with a sharp metallic clink.
Hoodie pants shoved down.
Black boxers followed, cock springing free, thick and heavy, veins pulsing, head flushed pink and glossy with pre cum that beaded at the slit and dripped in a slow, obscene thread.
She stared, pupils blown wide, lips still parted, breath catching.
She knew this cock intimately.
She had taken it deep inside her cunt countless times but seeing it like this, inches from her face, hot and dripping and demanding.
Her mouth watered, her core throbbed, every nerve in her body screaming for it, craving it, aching for the touch she both feared and needed.
He gave one step back. Sat on the edge of the antique trunk, legs spread wide, thighs powerful, cock jutting proud and unashamed.
One brow lifted silent command.
She crawled again.
Slow. Sinful. Hips swaying, ass high, ruined gown dragging across dusty wood.
She settled between his knees once more, rising to kneel properly.
Her gaze flicked down her pink manicure chipped and blood streaked nails, black satin gown filthy with dust and streaked with her own dried blood, torn wide open along her left side, exposing thigh and hip.
She cursed under her breath.
Then parted her lips again wider than before.
His cock brushed her stomach hot, velvet hard, smearing pre cum across the satin over her belly.
The sheer size of him pressed against her made her whimper.
He fisted the base of his shaft, guided the swollen head to her waiting mouth slow at first, teasing the seam of her lips then pushed.
Rougher.
Deeper.
"That's it, my pretty good girl,"
He growled against her ear, voice hot and filthy.
"Take it all. Wrap that sexy mouth around every fucking inch of my cock."
She tried.
The head breached her lips thick, stretching her jaw wide.
She managed a quarter maybe a third before her throat spasmed, eyes watering.
She gagged hard, saliva spilling from the corners of her mouth, dripping down her chin in slick strands.
His cock slipped free with a wet pop, glistening with her saliva.
She gasped ragged, desperate.
He chuckled low, dark, sensual.
The sound stroking her clit like invisible fingers.
She glared up at him brow raised, cheeks flaming, lips swollen and shiny.
"You call yourself a teacher,"
She huffed, voice shaky but defiant.
"yet you couldn't even give your poor student time to get used to the hea..."
She faltered, blush deepening to scarlet.
"The head? Right. Little moonlight?"
He mocked, laughing softly at her flustered glare.
He dragged her closer hands on her trembling thighs until her front pressed flush against the trunk's edge, tits squished against wood, nipples scraping rough grain through satin.
"Yeah… the fucking head,"
She muttered, stuttering, cursing.
"Why shove half your thing down my throat when I haven't even gotten used to the goddamn head?"
Her gaze sharpened then softened, roaming his naked body with raw hunger. Broad shoulders. Carved chest.
The faint scars she loved tracing with her tongue. The rose tattoo with a little moon on top at his neck. The birthmark she'd only just discovered.
He watched her in admiration, possession and dark delight.
"Ivy,"
He said slowly, voice dripping mockery and lust.
"Are you stuttering because of the head… or because you didn't get enough time to worship the head of my cock properly? And why the fuck are we having this conversation when we're both completely naked?"
She scoffed huffing in annoyance, trying to hide how drenched she was.
"You think so, Kace? Well, for starters, you're the only one naked. I'm still fully clothed."
He smirked slow, satisfied, devastating.
"Ah… there it is. Finally. After all this time, that soft, angelic, seductive voice calling me Kace again."
He smiled, sweet and almost tender but with a feral glint lurking beneath.
She stared speechless.
Fuck.
Her husband looked carved from sin and marble. Greek god. Aristocratic ruin. Too beautiful, too dangerous, too hers.
Sometimes she still wondered if he'd been born in this world at all or if he'd clawed his way out of some darker place just to claim her.
"It's not angelic or seductive, nut head."
She scowled but the pink flush crept across her cheeks anyway, betraying her.
He smirked, lowering his head to the hollow at the base of her throat.
He inhaled deeply, her rose scent hitting him like a drug, sweet and heady.
His voice came out rough, muffled against her skin between slow, deliberate breaths.
"Fuck… you smell so good. So fucking rose. My fucking rose. Especially when you blush this deep, like a rose about to bleed."
His teeth sank into her neck, hard, possessive.
A sharp gasp ripped from her, melting instantly into a soft, throaty moan that vibrated against his lips.
He pulled back just enough to speak against the fresh bruise.
"And that rude little mouth of yours needs handling."
His lips brushed hers, soft, teasing pecks at the corners, before his voice dropped lower, velvet wrapped around a threat.
"You'd better shut that pretty, sexy, rude mouth, Ivy… unless you want me to shut it up with my cock."
The words sent a violent shiver through her.
His hands stayed clamped on her trembling thighs, keeping her spread, keeping her his.
Then his fingers traced the long tear in her gown, slow at first, following the ripped satin from hip to ankle like he was memorizing every inch of exposed skin.
Then faster. Rougher. Nails scraping lightly over bare flesh until she sucked in sharp, ragged breaths, chest rising and falling hard.
He withdrew his hand, settling both palms possessively on her waist.
She swallowed thickly. Her breathing turned heavy, erratic, then slowed into a shaky sigh.
"I mind... baby,"
She whispered, voice dripping seduction even as fear coiled tight beneath the surface.
He knew. He always knew when she was testing him.
"Are you daring me, little moonlight?"
The question was low, calm, but laced with dark fire, possession and danger bleeding through every syllable.
"What do you think?"
She murmured, voice barely audible.
Her hand slid up his bare chest, fingertips tracing slow, deliberate patterns over muscle, over scars, over his sexy tattoos.
He growled, low, raw, starving, at the touch.
"That you fucking want me,"
He said, voice sweet and hypnotizing,
"And I fucking want my cock buried in that seductive mouth of yours. Bloody fuck."
That was all it took.
Her lips parted, wide, eager, before the words even finished leaving his mouth.
He groaned, deep, guttural pleasure, and pulled her wandering pink manicure nails away from the dangerous path they had started down his neck, over his shoulder, along his collarbone.
Then he guided his cock back to her lips; hot, thick, dripping.
He pushed just the head inside.
"Fuck, baby… wrap that pretty mouth around the base."
She obeyed instantly.
Her small hands wrapped around the thick shaft, struggling to close fully around him, while her tongue glided over the swollen head in one slow, filthy lick.
He moaned, loud, helpless, the sound shooting straight to her core.
God, she loved that. Loved being the reason this unbreakable man came undone.
She licked the tip again, wet, messy, then sucked harder.
His hand fisted in her hair, yanking back and forth in sharp, controlled tugs.
Tearful moans spilled from her throat around his cock.
His own moans matched hers, starving, desperate, perfectly synced in an erotic, filthy rhythm.
She bent forward further, taking half his length into her throat, sucking, licking, teeth grazing lightly, tongue swirling in sloppy, desperate circles.
Wet. Messy. Obscene.
He let her have control for a moment, watching her struggle, watching saliva drip down her chin and coat his shaft in glistening strands.
Then he snapped.
Hand tightening in her hair, he took over, thrusting in and out of her mouth with brutal, relentless rhythm.
She moaned around him, trying to keep up, eyes watering, body slick with sweat.
One thrust. Another. Harder. Deeper.
He fucked her mouth like she was nothing more than a toy, rag doll rough, starving, merciless.
She couldn't take it anymore.
She pulled off with a wet gasp, spit stringing from her lips to his cock, breathing hard, ragged, eyes dropping to the floor under his glare.
"Fuck," he growled, annoyed, voice edged with frustration.
He had been so close to coming, throbbing and leaking, right on the edge when she pulled away.
"Fuck. Bloody fuck."
He gripped her face, hard, tilting it up until their eyes locked.
Then he lunged, teeth sinking into her neck again, tasting salt slick skin, bruising deeper over the last mark.
Heaven.
Her moans vibrated against his palm as he clamped his hand over her mouth, muffling the tearful, shattered sounds while he bit harder, groaning in dark excitement.
She scraped her teeth against his palm, helpless, desperate.
He did not care.
He kept biting until the mark bloomed vivid red, big, ugly, unmistakable. Any bastard who saw it would know she belongs to him.
Finally he released her neck, only to soothe the raw skin with wet, messy kisses, tongue lapping at the bruise, teeth scraping lightly.
Her moans quieted, soft, silent now, throat too sore, too abused from the way he had fucked her mouth like he had been starving for years.
Something told him this was new for her.
She had not been a virgin when they married, but he had a feeling she had never sucked a man's cock before.
But she did a great job sucking his cock, even though it was amateur.
Eager.
Clumsy.
Perfect.
He pulled back.
Calm.
Sensual,
Mouth watering.
His hand stayed clamped over her mouth.
Her eyes never left his. He made sure of it.
He leaned in close, lips brushing her ear, voice low and deadly.
"When I say take my cock, little moonlight… I don't mean fifty percent."
His fingers flexed against her lips.
"I mean take all of it. Fucking take it all. Drench me. Milk my cock with your saliva until I'm dripping down your throat and you're choking on every last drop....."