The sound I make is embarrassingly needy, but I can’t help it. He fills me, stretches me, and it’s overwhelming in the best possible way. His jaw is tight, eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting to stay in control.
“Fuck,” he grits out. “You feel… Christ, Lily.”
He starts to move, slow and deep, each thrust pulling a moan from my throat. His hands slide back up to frame my face, his forehead resting against mine like he needs the contact as much as I do.
“I’m not letting you go after this,” he vows, voice low and wrecked.
“Good,” I breathe.
Then his mouth is on mine again, his thrusts harder now, faster, like something in him has finally snapped and there’s no putting it back together. The bed creaks beneath us, the air thick with our ragged breathing and the quiet, desperate sounds I can’t hold back. He shifts, angling deeper as he collars my throat again, and pleasure bursts through me so sharply I gasp his name like a prayer.
“Say it again,” he demands.
When I do, he groans like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. We move together, faster, harder, until I come again—nails scratching down his back—and this time he comes with me, buried deep, holding me so tightly I can feel the beat of his heart against mine as his cock throbs inside my pussy.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. His face is buried in my neck, breath hot and uneven, his arms trembling where he’s still braced over me.
When he finally pulls back to look at me, his expression is a mix of hunger, disbelief, and something softer, something dangerous.
“Now do you get it?”
I nod, still catching my breath. “Yeah. I get it.”
Chapter 11
Age 18, London
Matt’s flat smells like him in a way that feels like home.
Clean cotton, faint spice, something warm and comforting I’ve come to associate with safety. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor at the foot of his bed, sketchbook balanced on my knee, charcoal smudged across my fingers. The late afternoon light slants in through the window, catching the edges of fabric swatches scattered around me.
For once, I’m drawing without overthinking it. Long lines and sharp seams. A silhouette that feels like armour and softness all at once. Sketches that I hope one day will do more than just live in my imagination.
Behind me, Matt’s on his bed, laptop balanced on his knees, sleeves rolled up. He’s frowning at the screen like it personally offended him.
“Why,” he mutters, “does this site insist on asking for a ‘flirty bio’ like it’s a bloody dating website?”
I smile to myself, shading in a waistline. “Because capitalism thrives on charm.”
He snorts, and even without looking I know he’s rolling his eyes. “You don’t want me to write‘loves long walks on the beach’, do you?"
“Only if the beach is a metaphor for something a lot kinkier,” I tease, a smirk tugging at my lips.
After we crossed a line that should—at least in theory—have been uncrossable, Matt’s become a man on a mission. He’s vetting Tempt like it’s a hostile takeover, obsessively curating my profile with the kind of focus he usually reserves for code and contracts. I let him, gladly.
Matt knows his way around computers far better than I do, and if there’s even a whisper of something off, he’ll find it. It’s reassuring, having someone looking out for me—and yet it’s also so incredibly foreign that I don’t know how to react.
Keys click, then he exhales.
“Right. Come take a look at this.”
I push myself up and circle the bed, leaning in beside him. My name—well, Lily’s Loves—glows back at me from the screen, framed by his careful wording. It looks professional, like it was built by someone who knows exactly what they’re offering—and what they’re worth.
My chest tightens, not with fear, but with something steadier. Something like anticipation. Like excitement for what comes next.
“You made me sound… powerful,” I say quietly.
Matt’s expression shifts instantly, all teasing gone. “Because you are.”
