It starts small, and early. Not in bed, and not in the shower. Not until you're fresh, clean, teeth brushed and hair perfect, clothes selected as for any other day. You're distracted for a moment. Perhaps you catch your reflection in the mirror, and hold your own glance for a moment. Perhaps it's the weather that's caught your eye. A particular unexpected pleasantness. Or perhaps rain. But for a moment, an instant, you're distracted.

And that's when you feel him behind you.

You feel him before anything else. Before you smell the cleanliness of his aftershave, or the musk of the cologne he wears only on special occasions. But today isn't a special occasion. You think hard, wondering if you've forgotten something, but of course you haven't. Except now, it is a special occasion. He's made it one.

"Tonight."

The word is singular and soft in your ear, that deep voice rumbling and resonating so powerfully in his chest that you can nearly feel that too. There's no press against your body. No hands on your skin. Just breath ghosting over the thin flesh of your jaw, warm and gentle, but fleeting. It's gone so fast that you wonder if it was ever there in the first place.

The first time he does it, you'll be confused. But every time after, the flood of memories will return, and your heart will race immediately.

It doesn't matter if you ask him what he means. He'll only smirk that lop-sided, impossibly charming grin, and remain silent. Any attempts for kisses or attention now will be dismissed with a chuckle, and a conveniently pressing work engagement. There will always be one. Part of the point.

So, for the remainder of the day, business goes about as usual. And even when he's not there, not in sight, and you should be focusing on the task at hand, he's there in your mind. That one whispered word. Whether you know what he means or not, the result is the same. Excited anticipation for the big reveal. It absorbs your day, the wait for this largely promised thing.

By the time you arrive home, you're anxiously hoping he's beaten you, hoping that you've waited enough, and that he will tell you what he meant, and deliver on the mysterious one-worded promise. But he hasn't. He's still out. And he casually texts you to ask what you'd like for dinner.

You'll be impatient.

You say 'nothing', perhaps followed by a demand or plea to return home as quickly as possible. But he doesn't obey, and he comes home with takeaway anyway. He gets you something light, even though you asked for nothing. He knows your tastes, and if you're smart, you'll eat. The energy will be valuable later. The first time, you might not. But every other time after, you won't hesitate.

He eats his fill, casually and slowly as he pleases. He'll clean everything up without a fuss, regardless of whether you eat. And he won't respond in the slightest to any attempted conversation on his one word this morning. He talks about whatever else you please, though, be it business or pleasure.

A cigarette comes next. He smokes on the balcony, since you hate when he does it in the flat. He takes his time there too, and your impatience is becoming intolerable. You're jealous, so very, ridiculously, insanely jealous. And what are you jealous of? That stupid cigarette.

The way he twirls the burning paper and tobacco in his calloused fingertips with ginger care, like he should be handling you. The way his lips wrap around it, sucking softly, and you just know his tongue is darting against the blunt tip, just for that bitter, smokey taste.

All that attention should be yours, dammit all. But it's not. Not yet. Because attempting to begin anything on your half ends in rejection, and pushing him too far will make him reconsider. It's a delicate game of patience, and after the first time, you know this is what he wants. He wants you to be salivating for it, for him, for his every motion.

With the cigarette finished, he comes back into the flat, a casual smile on his face. He likely sits on the couch, and the best course of action is to simply sit beside him. But maybe your impatience gets the best of you, and you storm off in a fit, shutting yourself away in your office because you hate so very much to be ignored, and believe he's forgotten.

It's all well and fine. He lets you stew, lets you sit in your self-imposed corner, pouting like a child who didn't receive sweets immediately after they asked. Eventually, how long varies, but by the time you think you're so very angry at being made to wait and then denied that you are ready to flat out refuse him for a month, he comes and finds you.

There's no soft knock on the door like there is when he usually comes to sate your foul moods. He's not bearing tea or any other soothing implement. He just walks in, as though this were his office and not yours, and walks immediately over to you. He's still silent, and you are fuming with anger and impatience, and though you won't admit it, hurt. You don't like to be denied. No one dares deny you. Who is he to-?

Before you can even finish mentally ranting, he steals your breath away with a kiss that's far too powerful for the first one of the night. It's a shock to your system. Like going from an ice bath to a hot tub. Maybe you're pissy and fight against it, but he's stronger than you. The more you resist, the harder he holds you in place, kissing you until you're gasping for air.

It's only after that first kiss that you notice the peppermint-y taste of mouthwash. He hasn't forgotten you. He's taken the time to brush his teeth before seeking you out. He's made you wait for this, anticipate it all day, until you were mad for him. But you've only begun to know madness.

He won't say it, because he hates to sound like a poet, though he may very well be one in his soul. If he has a soul. But the man is talented. His array of skills is varied and wide, and includes a variety of more creative pursuits that he won't readily admit. But the art in which he excels at above all others is that of seduction.

It's no secret between you two that he could have anyone. The scars on his skin and gruffness of his attitude only add to his charm. His pedigree makes him passable enough for anyone wanting an honest man, though he isn't one. And he's precisely the man for anyone with fantasizes about 'bad boys'. Pubs full of men and women who would fall into bed with him, and those blue eyes look only at you.

You don't fight him long.

After all, you've been craving him all day. You want him to shove the papers on your desk aside, work be damned, and have you right there until you're both sweat-soaked and screaming. But he doesn't.

Even if you know what's coming, you want it now. You have waited long enough. It doesn't matter when you were last together, whether it was last night or last week. It's been too long, and you've developed a craving, carefully crafted by the man who is the sole object of your desire at the moment.

"Sebastian."

You say his name like it's an order. He smirks that same smirk at you, and you know who's in charge tonight. But you don't give over control willingly, at first. The next time, you might be a little more apt.

He picks you up like you're nothing. Like there is only air filling your fine Westwood suit, and carrying you is as simple as lifting a kitten. He calls you that sometimes, but not during these times. He calls you by name, if at all, and each time is full of so much reverence, it's almost as though the man is praying. This man, who doesn't believe in God or gods, fate or destiny, he says your name like a prayer.

You want him to slam you against a wall, invade your mouth once more with that fierce and delicious tongue. But he won't. He has before, and he will again, but not tonight. It's another small torture, the walk from your office to your shared bedroom.

You can kiss him now, and he'll let you, for the entire duration of the walk. If you want any control at all tonight, then now is the time to take it. As soon as you're laid on the bed, you're under his control. He takes his time, positioning you directly center, head on the pillows. He straddles your hips, and now, now the real fun finally begins.

Lips, fiery and impassioned, smash against your own. His teeth catch your lip, making the breath you just recaptured fly right from your lungs. His teeth are powerful, vicious, wild. He could demolish you. He could destroy you. He could rip that plush little lip right from your mouth, and leave you screaming and choking on your own blood.

But he doesn't. And he won't.

Somewhere between the sexiness of the power and the thrill of the just barely restrained carnal nature of the beast above you, you found that the skin of your spine has erupted into a sea of goosebumps, your very flesh now starving for his touch. He's on top of you, kissing you, his powerful hands starting to touch, and it's not enough.

He knows.

When his lips leave yours, you can't help but whine like it's some great, long-suffered loss. Tragic and devastating, like some people view death. But its so much more painful than dying. Having those lips leave yours feels like a punishment of the worst sort.

The only thing that cures your suffering is when his strong hands start to slowly undo the buttons of your shirt, and those lips return, this time the press softly against the pale flesh of your chest. They're warm. They're always warm. But somehow, right now, they feel like they're on fire, just like you.

Burning, burning, burning.

Your body could burn away, leaving just the soul you don't have. Charred bone and an acrid, dead smell. That's how warm your skin gets when his lips touch it.

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright.

And oh how brightly he does burn. And just for you. Only for you. He never burned this white-hot for anyone else. He would tell you so himself, but his lips are busy on your stomach, and you may very well die if he removes them.

The worst pain has turned to the most pleasant torture, and every single time it happens, you think that you hope you die like this. That one day, you just die under his hands. Under those lips.

You'd be damned to hell on the principle of the non-existent God's jealousy alone, and you just wouldn't care. It would be the best way to go. To be burned to death by him.

Your shirt is gone, as though evaporated away, and you couldn't be happier that the damned thing is no longer separating you. Your hands might reach to try and undress him as well, but they'll be ignored. He knows how much you like to push, to control, and he's taking that away now.

He's always yours, and always will be. You both know it, and have for a very long time. But tonight? Tonight, you're his, and somehow that's all that matters.

His teeth are on your trousers, tugging buttons until your hips are free and there's even less fabric separating your bodies. He's taking too damn long, and you writhe underneath him impatiently. He doesn't speed up.

That will come later, you learn. His slow building is to a purpose, and it's so that you can endure the hurricane headed directly for you. Because that's what he is. Twisting and turning, powerful and fierce. The destroyer of so much. A bringer of blissful destruction.

He'll make a show out of removing his shirt, because he knows you're watching every single little move he makes. Every flicker of muscle under taut, scarred skin. Every blink of his eyes and glance he makes at your body as it's slowly revealed. You're watching it all, just as intensely as he's watching you.

It's a dance you two perform sometimes, when your eyes lock. They'll stay there and a stillness will fall over you both, entranced by only the sheer existence of one another. Any other night, he would submit and look away first. But not tonight. Tonight he will make you succumb, and not continue until your eyes close and your head rolls back, baring your neck for him in a silent plea not to stop.

Only then will he continue, peeling away the rest of his shirt and denims, leaving both of you in just your pants. He wears black boxers, usually. On these nights, he'll wear the nice ones you've bought him. The Armani ones. He knows you like the feeling of them against your skin as he rubs down against you.

You can't help but moan when he does that, because you can feel him now, so much better than when your clothes were in the way. You can feel his cock getting harder, filling out to its full size, and you know it's for you. It's for you and because of you, and sometimes he'll whisper those words in your ears to remind you.

His lips continue to dance over your flesh, but no matter how much you writhe or plead, he'll take his time. This is not fast. Not yet. It will become faster. Much faster. Faster and harder and more intense than anything you've ever felt, or ever thought you could endure. But this is why he's slow now. So you can handle the fast later.

He hums softly against the fabric of your pants when his lips move there, mouthing over your cock through the fabric. You're hard as can be and craving his every touch now, in some vain hope that all the little touches will add up to enough sensation. They won't, not yet. But he'll take care of you.

Strong, calloused fingertips tug at the band of your pants, and finally they're gone. You're laid bare for him, in every possible way. Naked and exposed, in more than just flesh. He can somehow see into you, see the swirling blackness that encompasses your entire being. But unlike everyone else you've ever met, he's unafraid of it.

He sees you, raw and bare and whole, and wants you still.

You let him have you. You're done, for the moment, fighting for control. You want to be taken, possessed, haunted by him. You want everything now, quick and dirty and painful. But that's not his plan, and his plan is the only one that matters right now.

His lips, soft and full and supple, continue moving down until they're wrapped around the head of your cock. Just the crown of the head, his tongue pressing exactly where you like it, and it takes your breath away. You arch your back and lift your hips, desperately trying for more. But he won't give it to you. He pulls back just enough to compensate, and then off entirely.

Before you even have time to feel deflated and dejected by the loss, his hand is on you instead. A firm, steady grip with a well-lubed, powerful hand. When did he get the lube? When did he open it and apply it? You hadn't noticed. You were distracted by his lips, which was all part of the plan.

As you feel the strength and warmth of his palm wrapping around your cock, you're graced with another sensation. Warm, wet, gentle and prodding. His tongue slips between your cheeks, lapping at your entrance, and your body arches again, this time of its own accord.

A long 'ohhhhh' is all you can manage at the moment, along with a soft pant and a plea for more. A silent plea, at that, as you still have your pride. Your fingers twist in his hair, tugging and pushing, though if you try and take too much control, he'll stop. You're careful.

His tongue is slick inside you, and the sensation makes you gasp every time. Sometimes, the gruffness of his unshaven jaw pricks your thigh, and you growl, though you like it. Other times, he's clean-shaven and smooth. Either way, he takes his time here too, working you with his hand and his tongue until you're gasping and biting your lips. He'll speed up his hand, flicking his wrist near the top and pushing his thumb against the slit.

You're so worked up that you swear you're going to cum from this alone. You can usually last, but he's adamant. He starts going harder, faster, further, and you're not sure you can hold on. You might even try to give a breathy warning, or you might try to push it down, but either way, it doesn't matter.

He knows your body better than even you do, and he can feel that split second before you cum. And right when that moment arrives, he stops everything entirely. His hands move to your hips and his tongue is gone.

The first time, you're frustrated, angry, unsatisfied. But his lips are on your thighs to remind you. He hasn't forgotten. This is just part of the plan. Every time after, you know it's just the beginning. You ache from the denial, from being so close and crashing down without release.

But as soon as you settle and your breathing levels, he's on you again. This time, his slick hand moves to your entrance and a single long, willowy finger slides easily inside. His lips are back on your cock, just the head, and then a few more centimeters.

He slides down more as he works a second finger inside you. And damn it all, he knows just where to press. He knows what you like, and he's using every single piece of that information to give you the best torture you'll ever endure.

He'll bottom out and swallow you entirely. It's a talent he has, that he so rarely performs. He'll massage just that perfect spot you like until you're moaning and writhing and biting your lips again. And then he bobs his head, and you swear you're going to scream.

Again, he starts slow. But then it grows stronger, fiercer, faster than the first time ever was and this time you know you won't be able to hold back. This time you don't give warning, and you might even try to hold him down.

It doesn't work.

He knows you, knows your body. He knows far too well. Right when you're on the cusp again, ready and itching and dying to cum down his throat, his fingers are gone and his mouth moves to press his lips almost innocently to your hip.

This time you throw more of a fit. This one hurts, and you don't want to wait longer. He lets you whine and moan and complain as you come down, but says nothing in return. Your complaints are eventually silenced by the feeling of his lips on your body, and you relent again to his control.

Only because he's over you now, his teeth snagging the skin of your collarbone, and somehow his pants are gone now too. You can feel his cock, fully hard, pressing against you. It's size matches the rest of him. Large. Far too much for a small body like yours to take.

And yet.

You love that push. You love that he's a bit too much. Too big for comfort. Too thick for your body to readily adjust to. The bite of pain sets your teeth on edge, and you need it just as much as you need the pleasure.

You gasp when he pushes into you, but instead of air, you get breath from his lungs. His lips have found yours and all at once you're entirely overtaken. Everything about existing is him. He's all you can see, smell, taste, feel, think about.

He doesn't give your body time to adjust. Now it's fast, hard, hips thrusting against you, plunging him deep inside you. You moan and hang on, hands gripping his shoulders and nails digging into the flesh as you hiss in the overabundance of pleasure. It's all you can do.

"My gorgeous little cockslut." He'll whisper to you, between the heat of your mouths, when he lets you breathe between kisses. "My beautiful cum-loving whore." He's got a talented mouth in more ways than one, and the litany of filth he can murmur is quite impressive. All you can do is whine and nod in agreement.

Your fingers turn to claws in his flesh, simply because it's the only way you can cope with this much pleasure. He likes it anyway, and you like the feeling of ripping skin and blood under your nails. He rewards you, if you scratch hard enough.

One of his powerful hands comes up and wraps around your throat, promptly cutting off any breaths you were able to draw. But his lips don't leave yours and his thrusts don't slow. He knows what he's doing, and if you weren't scratching his back to hell, you are now. The torn skin will take days to heal.

You can't breathe, though your mouth is open and still being invaded by his tongue. You're light-headed, euphoric, almost high. There's a lightness about it, and it sets everything else he does on edge. His thrusts feel sharper. His skin on yours feels hotter, impossibly so, as though you're melting together.

Just when you think you might pass out, he releases you and you gasp in a heaving breath. But he only gives you a minute before that hand is firm on you again, thumb pressing into your windpipe, and you know he could crush it with ease.

He could break you, hurt you, kill you. In so very many ways. It would be easy for him, this tiger of a man. He could hold on just a little too long, apply just a little too much pressure, grab and twist and snap your neck. But he won't. He wouldn't even dream of it.

And that's the most exciting thing of all.

All this raw power, this fury, it's pouring down on you and sweeping you up. He'll hurt you, and you'll like it. Otherwise, he wouldn't do it. He'll only hurt you in ways you like, because he does all this for you. Yes he wants you; yes, he can't get enough of having you like this.

But when it comes down to it, this is all for you.

The tangled mess you both make of the soft, Egyptian cotton sheets, the panting and gasping and groaning that eventually turns to ecstasy-filled screams, the long, drawn-out wait. It's for you. Because he knows everything you want, and he wants to give it all to you.

When you're finally there for a third time, your legs have wrapped around him and you're shaking with need. You're crying out as best you can, and he lets you go because he likes to hear. Your voice is strained and there will be marks tomorrow from his hand.

You cry out his name in desperation, knowing full well that you won't be able to stand if he stops again. Your entire body is quaking with each thrust, and your cock is throbbing so hard against your stomach you think you may very well die.

"Cum."

It's a single-word order, and somehow when he says it, you can't hold yourself back, even if you try. Your whole body jerks, arching off the bed entirely and screaming at the top of your lungs until you swear your throat is raw. But even when you cum across your stomach, spilling your seed in violent bursts from being so thoroughly built up, he doesn't slow.

If anything, he gets more brutal, and you can't take it. You know you can't, and yet he keeps going. It's too much; you're too sensitive; but you can't tell him to stop. He wouldn't anyway. All you can do is scream more, claw more, bite more, anything you can do.

Until finally you feel it, his body tightening and releasing in you. You moan along with him as your mouths connect again, and it was all so worth it. The agony of this morning, the tease of this afternoon, the chase of this evening, the build-up of tonight. It was all worth it.

And it will be the next time, and the next time, and the next time.

It can't come soon enough.