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Theo is so much more than I imagined.

He’s usually so composed. This version of him feels damn near impossible.

I couldn’t have dreamed it up, no matter how many different ways I imagined us together. I’m still dizzy from a few minutes ago, my mind and body trying to catch up to reality, and now, here I am completely, recklessly, willingly compromised while he⁠—

“Theo. Fu— Fuck.”

The sound he makes when the toy starts up is nothing short of appreciative. He teases it across my chest and circles each of my nipples while his other hand slides up the back of my calf, guiding me wordlessly until my knees bend and my thighs spread for him.

“I’ve thought about my face between your thighs every goddamn night for a year, Lila.”

I want to respond, to tell him I have thought about it just as often, but when he runs his flattened tongue along the seam of my pussy, words aren’t a thing I’m capable of anymore.

He slides his middle finger inside me and presses exactly where I’ve never managed to get it right myself. The firm, unhurried slide of his long, thick finger is enough to make my toes curl.

He takes his time with me. Every movement is purposeful, patient, all-consuming.

My body’s already begging for release while he acts like he could keep this up forever. I can’t stay still; every nerve feels lit, twitchy, desperate, and he just keeps at it—licking, nipping, sucking, never giving me any one thing quite long enough to push me over the edge.

I let out a small, broken sound, and he pauses just long enough to say, “Awh. Poor baby.” The way he says it is taunting. Amused.

I could cry.

I might actually already be crying.

I should’ve known he’d be a little evil in bed. But when he finally gives me what I need, it’s worth every second of the torture.

My body seizes. I’m clawing, arching, unsteady—overtaken by it.

There’s a kind of awe in the way he handles me. He grips either side of my waist while I recover. But the moment I start to come down, he climbs up beside me, presses himself against my side, and kisses me like he needs it to live.

“You make me crazy,” he whispers. “You drive me mad, Lila. You’re tied to our bed, shaking, overwhelmed, and I’m still nowhere near satisfied. I want to make you come once for every time I fucked my hand while thinking about you when I couldn’t have you.”

He grinds his thick cock against my hip, and I feel how hard he is. How desperate.

I’m also reminded of exactly how fucking big this man is.

I am impossibly wet, and I realize that may have been his goal all along.

We’re going to need it.

“I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you,” he says. “And I don’t just mean like this. I mean everything. You with your morbid little lectures. You, grumbling in the morning without coffee. You in my bed. In my life. I want it fucking all.”

I can barely breathe. Not from the way my body is stretched taut, still tied to the headboard. From him.

“Tell me how to stop wanting you, and I’ll try,” he says suddenly, raw and wrecked and honest. “But I don’t think I can.”

He climbs off the bed and stands at the edge, working to undo the buttons of his shirt.

I can’t move—literally can’t—and somehow that makes it worse. Or better.

The fabric falls away, one piece at a time, until all that’s left is him.

Strong lines, defined shoulders, a body that looks built to fuck.

It’s unfair, the way restraint suits him. Even fully naked, he looks composed, self-contained, like he’s already decided exactly how this will go.

I can’t stop staring. The way he holds himself. The patience. The size.