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their home, the very early evening.
Feet tired, eyes dropping, lips downturned, Nesta drives down the familiar road to their house, searching for the beacon. Eyes unflinching, she spots it, the bright colour hurting her eyes.
The rich, cherry red of their front door. A gorgeous stained-glass piece at the top, silver handles.
Their red front door had been the cause of their biggest, loudest, stupidest argument ever. The one thing the two of them really are famous for, the one thing that will always follow them around. No matter what they do, no matter how many times they try to get that antisocial behaviour fine expunged from their records.
No matter what, the fight haunts them.
Cassian had been desperate to paint their front door red. Something about wanting to show the world he loves her. Something about connotations of the colour being passion, lust, desire, love, and most importantly, danger. (She’ll sooner stab you with those wicked heels of hers before she lets you disrespect me, her husband had so lovingly supplied to the painters when they’d questioned the choice and scoffed.)
Desperate, like a puppy for a treat when they know they’ve done something right.
Red, he’d argued, had always been a significant colour to him. Since his childhood, since his mother adopted him when he had been wearing a red onesie. From that day forward, red had been Cassian's colour.
In the same way that blue was Azriel’s colour. And still is.
In the same way that purple was Rhysand’s colour. And still is.
Nesta, at the time, hadn't wanted to draw attention to the house they were moving into. The same one they live in today. Not desiring the attention a red front door would always bring to their house, the stares and questions it would bring in a neighbourhood of soft greys and quiet whites.
Nesta lost.
Their front door is red.
Untucking her high-heeled feet from under the driver’s seat of her car, she leans over the centre console and grabs her handbag. A large, expensive, red leather bag that sits perfectly on her shoulder. Not only does it sit perfectly on her shoulder, but it's also the perfect size for all the paperwork and office supplies she carries within it, day in, day out.
With the bag in hand, she pushes open the car door and slings her feet to the ground with shocking grace for someone lacking grace at all other times. Standing up fluidly, she closes the car door, locks it, pulls on the handle to double-check it’s locked and starts up the ten terracotta tiled stairs. The slow and low clicking of her heels is heard only by her, a steady beat—the same tempo as her heart.
Finding the door key isn’t an issue, it's never an issue. Not anymore. It could never be an issue because connected to the house key is an obnoxiously large keyring featuring Cassian's face. He and his juvenile sense of humour had commissioned some poor, innocent being to the torture in order to get it done, after hearing a few too many stories from her sisters about frantic, teenaged Nesta and her habit of losing her keys no matter what.
The cool metal is refreshing between her fingers, the languid slide of it into the keyhole a weirdly soothing thing to look at, but she’s always found the weirdest things attractive. (her husband being exhibit A.)
Sliding her body past the racks of coats and scarves and hats and gloves and shoes and bags in the hallway, she kicks off her red-bottomed heels and chucks her bag onto the hall table. Her shoulders ache after a day of holding them high and firm, making sure she never looks anything other than poised and professional.
She knows that the second her husband gets home, he’ll see the skewed coats and scarves and hats and gloves and shoes and bags in the hallway, and then see her shoes kicked haphazardly into the living room, her bag on the hall table and know something is up with his wife. She knows that he’ll come straight to the bedroom and find his wife on the bed, lights out, pyjamas on, head buried into the pillows wishing on all the gods, in all the religions, in all the universes that this stupid fucking back pain leaves her the fuck alone.
Nesta does so. She rips off her fitted suit pants, slips out of the matching suit jacket, pulls her arms from the billowing, red blouse, disregarding the sweet and innocent white lingerie she put on this morning with the hope she and Cassian could have some fun after their workdays ended. With her hair still in her signature braided crown; her subtle makeup still on her face; her body covered only in a ratty t-shirt of her husband’s; she slips under the heavy duvet and blankets on their bed and promptly rolls onto her front.
Her face sinks heavily into the pillows, black surrounding her and slowly lulling her to sleep.
The soft dip of the mattress as her husband comes to her after he arrives home goes unnoticed by her sleeping form, the kiss he places on her revealed shoulder unknown to her. The soft sigh he releases as he empathises with her going unheard.
their bedroom, the early morning.
Nesta wakes up suddenly.
She expects to hear the incessant ringing of her alarm clock as she does so, but what shocks her is that she doesn't. Her house is painfully silent, the only sound she can hear is that of her heartbeat and her husband's quiet snoring.
Her face lifts from her pillows, her feet stretch for some reason, hands search purchase so she can lift herself up. She knows she’s been asleep for too long; she feels overly rested. What puzzles her is that her alarm hasn’t gone off yet. It’s set for every day at six in the morning, and she gets up at six-fifteen every morning. Not because she's too lazy to get up, but because Cassian makes a fuss of loving her and having to start the morning off in the best possible way, which means with at least one orgasm.
Before she can move into a position she can sit up from, her back buckles and pushes her into the soft mattress and her pillows. Cursing her body, she lays still. But only for a moment, then she’s trying to push herself up again. It ends very much in the same way, only with the addition of a low, pained groan this time.
The groan sends her husband sitting up straight, dread and panic and worry etched onto his every feature. His eyes are startled but still sleepy, his hand shoots out towards her and rests on her back. A rumbling yawn escapes the rough man, his eyes screwing up and his whole body tensing and relaxing as he does so. With his fingertips keeping her steady, Nesta turns only her head to look over at her alarm clock on her bedside table.
The red number reads 04:13 AM and the sight alone makes Nesta want to cry. It’s so gods-damn early. And she is in so much gods-damn pain. Turning her face back into her pillow and then in the opposite direction so she can see her husband causes her such pain that she lets out a pathetic little whimper.
His palm settles more firmly on her back, fingers spanning the entire width and then some, his little finger just where her breast begins to curve up. Keeping only the smallest amount of pressure on her, he pushes himself up with the opposite hand until he’s reclining steeply against his own pillows.
Nesta can’t move her head to look up at her husband, but she doesn’t need to in order to know what he looks like when he’s worried about her and her back. The usual lines on his forehead are more deeply defined; his dark eyebrows are drawn down and together over the bridge of his nose. Dark eyes squint just the slightest bit; his nose furrowing just that tiny bit—a result of the rest of his face. Front teeth bite into his lower lip, his jaw clenching enough that the muscles in his cheek jump and beat.
“Mornin’, sweetheart,” he groans, once again yawning and stretching and undoubtedly flexing those sinful fucking muscles of him. She’s never been able to get over how much they turn her on, not even when she told herself she was a shameful stereotype for finding something so classically masculine attractive.
“Not a good one, that’s for damn sure.” Comes her surly reply, mumbled and grumbled into the soft expanse of her pillow.
“Very funny, Nes. But sweetheart, don't push yourself too hard, you know not to when your back is givin' you trouble. Stay here, yeah, and I'll rub your back. Or I can help you with the stretches the physical therapist gave you.” His tone is quiet and calm, and she knows there's nothing in it that warrants her urge to shout at him, but she still wants to.
Still has issues, apparently.
"You think I don't know that, sweetheart. You say it as though you actually know what I'm going through. But you don't, you have no single clue what it feels like, so maybe you should let me deal with my pain in the way that I know, yeah?" Her tone, gods, she wishes it were different. But she can't control herself when she's in pain. She never can help that she's more easily angered, more easily insensitive.
"Nesta. You know damn well that all I'm trying to do is help, so don't come at me wielding some fucking sword forged of misplaced anger. I'm doing this because I love you beyond what any other person has loved you before me and I cannot sit here and see you in pain without wanting to help you." Calm, his voice is so calm, but it still conveys everything it needs to and Nesta can't help but think that if she had taken a few pages out of Cassian's book in the past she might not have had to rebuild her relationship with her youngest sister.
Sometimes it hurts that her littlest sister and her husband have a better relationship than Nesta has with her. She doesn't let it show, she could never.
Cassian's miniature speech has settled the anger in her to little more than irritation, leaving Nesta docile and more willing to stay put and wait for her husband to do something about her back.
She's not docile enough to resist the urge to turn over and face her undoubtedly shirtless husband. Those tattoos and biceps and abs of his never fail to heat—heal—her.
She can’t help the little moan of distress she gives as she does so and she knows that Cassian is already planning what he's to do. Which stretches are the best, which combination of essential oils will relax her the most, given the recent events, whether to massage her thighs and hamstrings first or the tendons in her neck, whether it’s her hamstrings or her tendons that are giving her trouble.
Never once before meeting Cassian had Nesta thought she’d love a man who fussed her so much, who did so much for her. Her early twenties had been spent laughing in the faces of chivalrous men, calling them raging misogynists and massive sexists despite their (sometimes) genuine and legitimate chivalrous intentions. Intentions with nothing to do with her being the supposed inferior sex and them being the supposed superior sex.
All in response to the actual raging misogynist and massive sexist Tomas Mandray, the asshole she’d dated through her senior year of high school all the way to her senior year of college. He gave her trauma like Cassian gives her love and affection and orgasms.
Sometimes she wishes she could apologise to them: they didn't deserve her anger thrown in their faces.
Then she met Cassian.
Cassian, who wasn’t afraid of her fire-breathing dragon act, her hostile personality, the dark eyes, and the even darker outlook on life. Cassian, who wasn’t afraid to look at her. Cassian, who wasn’t afraid to love her. Cassian, who won her heart so quickly she couldn’t fucking believe herself for giving it away with so little prompt.
Cassian, who reaches into his bedside draw, bypasses the chargers, lube bottles, silk ties, fluffed and unfluffed handcuffs, and long-forgotten batteries. Bypasses everything until he reaches the bottle of massage oil. A blend he’d personally curated that ensures Nesta’s every comfort and enjoyment.
Hearing his hand rummage in the draw sends Nesta into the centre of the bed. With much discomfort she slips off the shirt she’d worn to bed, flinging it to the floor. She then lies still, her arms by her sides, her legs straight out behind her, pelvic floor engaged because it just feels comfier while she lies on her front. With her face nestled into the soft cotton of their pillows, her senses are dulled. She doesn’t miss the slam of the draw, the click as Cassian opens and closes the bottle, the wet sounds as he rubs the oil into his palms.
She doesn’t miss the warm sensation as he drips the oil down her spine, the way it sinks into her, the way the drops fan out and slip into the crevices of her vertebrae through the skin of her back. The cooling sensation as it settles in little, shining pools. The duvet rests beneath her stomach, nothing covering her from her husband’s hungry, appreciative gaze.
He doesn’t do much more than gaze appreciatively though. Knowing how much pain his wife is in doing a little to kill his libido. Nesta’s core still heats though, an involuntary reaction to her husband in this vicinity, with the intention only to make her feel better, to heal her with his hands.
The low little laugh he lets out enough to tell Nesta that he notices the wetness that’s collected in her core. That he intends to do something about it.
Nesta has no question that he’ll rock her world in doing so, that he’ll make her feel so good in his efforts to pleasure her that she’ll forget her own name (but never his), let alone the fact that she was ever in such excruciating pain.
Her only question is when?
Nesta jumps when Cassian’s hands make contact with her skin, his permanently hot hands giving the pained muscles some kind of instant relief, even through her skin. A happy little moan escapes, thoroughly embarrassing Nesta and making her face sink that extra inch into the pillows at the head of their bed.
Cassian's hands start by running up and down and up and down the line of her spinal cord, pressing down with the heels of his palms. Hands run down her sides, plucking her ribs with rough fingertips, rubbing her sternum gently with those same rough fingertips. The sensitive skin pebbles beneath his caress, she shivers at all the sensations he brings to the table.
The rich smell of the massage oil.
The delicate touch of his hands.
The quiet sounds of their breathing.
Without so much as a warning, Cassian's hands come up to bracket her neck. His thumbs push into the skin, meeting at the nape of her neck while his fingers work on easing the tension in her shoulders. Those thumbs rub slow and purposeful circles into her neck, one pushing up at times in order to keep her hair out of the way.
Each time Nesta has to resist the urge to scream at him, "Grab it in your fist, pull on it, yank my head back, rest it on your shoulder as your thighs spread my own open. Touch me but not enough." The very feminine urge to do so.
Fingertips hook under her collar bones, massaging and teasing and easing the tension there. Nesta has to stop herself from moaning.
Clearly, not moaning isn't a rule that applies to the masseuse, because not even a second after Nesta stops her own, Cassian's letting one slip past those lips of his. On the tail end of his moan, Cassian moves from where he was (on his knees at her side) to where he thinks is appropriate (straddling the tops of her thighs, the morning wood he always sports sitting pretty against her ass through his boxers).
Nesta has to admit that the contrast between the smooth, either shaven or waxed skin on her legs and the not so smooth, not shaven or waxed skin on her husband's legs is interesting and something she's very much looking forward to revisiting in the future.
Now, with better purchase, Cassian can massage her new ways. But in her own opinion and probably several others, the bump of his cock against her ass repeatedly isn't a massage.
For what feels like hours, Cassian's fingers and palms rub her neck, easing and easing and easing a little bit more. Her neck feels looser than the loosest of things, her shoulders wide and happy to be alive after the extensive treatment they were given. He now moves down, having tackled her neck, he now needs to tackle her shoulders.
Hooking his fingers, once again near her collarbones, he puts his thumbs over her shoulders. Those long fingers of his act as an anchor, slipping over her collarbones and her neck with each movement of his thumbs. They meet in the drop between each shoulder blade, pushing in ever slightly on her vertebrae. His thumbs dig into the skin and sinew and muscle on the plains of her shoulder blades, around and around, his fingers move from her front to massage her sides, fingers catching every so often on the soft skin of her breasts.
The deep, penetrating warmth of his massage, the tender loving care he places into every action and shift of his digits, it all has Nesta welling up. Close to crying, and she just wants to turn around and thank Cassian. Thank him for everything.
For loving her.
Loving her when she was an angry mess with a constant frown.
Loving her when she was a depressed mess with a constant frown.
Loving her when she was a happy mess with him, with him always.
For accepting her.
Accepting her when she was an alcoholic, unable to see hope.
Accepting her when she was a healing, relapsing mess with hope.
Accepting her when she was happy and healthy and in love.
A sharp bolt of pain that travels down her spine has her focus broken and returned once again to her husband and his magical fucking hands. Magical hands, indeed. She lets out a disgruntled noise, Cassian responding with a "You usually like a little pain with the pleasure when we're in bed together, sweetheart,” all in that deep, morning voice of his. Gravelly and all broken-glass-like, rough and ready to make Nesta come like never before.
Cassian’s hands move down her shoulders, his focus now on the bottoms of her shoulder blades, the jutting skin there. His fingers are angels sent down from heaven, caring and loving and teasing her. Fingertips dig into the notches of her spine, they fan out and massage the smooth expanse of her back. Curving along her skin, dipping, and diving and circling and creating a release of tension that has Nesta sighing.
Now they stroke all along the length of her spine, his hands working Nesta, up and along, down and out. He stays away from the base of her spine, where the fragile bones connect into her pelvis. He knows all too well that if the rest of her isn’t ready for the pressure and thoroughness of his massaging at the small of her back, it could be detrimental.
For what feels like hours and minutes and seconds and lifetimes, Cassian's hand take care of her like she's the only thing on the earth. Every press of his fingers, every stroke of his palm, every circle of his fingertips, every movement and action makes her want to either die or come.
Skipping over the small of her back, he moves his hands to the curve of her ass, large, calloused palms encasing her. He rubs gently, pushing the globes together and pulling them apart. His fingers brush up and down the split between the cheeks, reaching the opening and then backtracking.
Nesta heats with embarrassment, she knows in all the dark and dusty corners of her soul that Cassian can see the ruined state of her pussy, wet and shining with her want for him. His fingers skate towards her core, brushing down her ass and in, inches from the soaked lips of her pussy. She's vibrating with anticipation, her hips jumping and shuffling over the duvet, her cheeks are fiery with the shade of red they've turned, her eyes glazing over, her vision hazy with the need she's suddenly overcome by.
"So hopeful, aren't you? Thinking I'm gonna touch your cunt, I think you're forgetting that I'm not finished taking care of you yet, sweetheart." His hands move from her ass to the backs of her knees, fingers digging in and pulling up and along her thighs.
He focuses his attention on her hamstrings, a deep tissue massage is like nothing else when they're tight, whilst also dabbling in her quadriceps. His thumbs are heaven on earth, strong in their efforts to heal her, unbreakable in their work to help her.
And when he finally deems Nesta’s back ready for the treatment, she almost wishes he hadn’t. This is the bit that always hurts the worst. The first touch of his thumb has her bowing away from his touch, pain singing in her blood as he does so. He knows her so well now, has been dealing with her and doing this for her for so long now that he knows just how to make her deal with it.
The ever-present contours of her thighs muscles act as guidelines for Cassian's thumbs, pressing harder on the inside and not so hard on the outside. The overall effect of his massage is like a godsend, like a miracle. It's a special kind of paradise.
On a long, upward stroke of her thigh, his finger moves steadily up her thigh until it reaches the apex, the soft skin and arousal calling desperately to Cassian. Unable to see the hunger written across his features, Nesta lies with her face in their pillows, her mind overrun with pleasure and want and the ultimate decision to tease and frustrate Cassian into fucking her.
His index finger moves to her folds, stroking a line up her slit, from clit to ass, parting her around it. She let’s out a moan, the excessive length of it all a part of her plan to be utterly ruined by his dick within the hour. A shift of her hips opens her wider, a slight manoeuvre of her thighs making her ass shake in his face.
Nesta's breathing hitches. Her eyes close, her throat tightens around a moan, her head digs into the pillow, her nipples pebble. Her whole body reacts and she can tell Cassian loves watching her back as it shifts in response, as her glutes and thighs respond so thoroughly to the torture. She’s sure that a self-satisfied smirk plays on his lips, a flash of white showing as his teeth make an appearance, biting down slightly on his bottom lip.
The fucking picture of casual confidence.
His finger moves back down her, slipping inside her just the tiniest bit before pulling out and moving once again. That damn finger of his continues to tease her, dipping in and out, pressing on her clit, parting her and allowing Cassian's heated gaze to reach her. The pink of her opening, the shine of her arousal as it collects on her, dripping ever so slightly.
His other hand continues its work, rubbing and soothing, tackling the knots of tension in her thighs the same way he would the knots of tension in her neck. Carefully and thoroughly.
The dual sensations have Nesta on the edge in minutes, the tease of his finger, the sensual movements of his hand, the gentle stroke of his palm over her ass. It's all too much, and all too soon she's rocking her hips back into his finger, desperate to get him deeper, desperate to come.
Moans escape her constantly, short, little, high-pitched noises of desperation and need. She's rolling like waves against rocks, curves bunching and then pulling taut, rough and smooth. Heaven and hell. The sinful dance between the two.
Cassian's finger is soaked, as are his others—her wetness dripping down the digit. Nesta’s sure that he's cursing himself as he removes his finger from her cunt, as he detaches his hand from her ass cheek. Pulls back enough that she's got nothing to grind against and is left painfully hungry for her orgasm.
Nesta has the urge to scream the roof off of their house, right on the edge of her orgasm, she's left without what she needs. In the absence of his finger and her unwavering concentration on making him give it back, she's unaware of the new direction his hands are moving in. Heading straight for the biggest knot of pain and tension and agony, heading straight for the small of her back. The shock of his warm palms against her is enough to have her back arching and then bowing, her reaction is telling of the extent of her pain.
“Shh, sweetheart. It’s all right, it’s only going to hurt for a moment, yeah? I’ll make sure the pain goes away, all while you lie here, nice, and still, all good for me, and let me help you. Like a good girl would, yeah?” His words are a balm. A ridiculously sexy, gravel-voiced balm, but a balm nonetheless.
Nesta’s body relaxes easily, at just the smoothness of his words, the sexual intent so heavily accenting them. Nesta knows that when she’s really good, when she lets him get all those deep spots she doesn’t let her physical therapist get, that he rewards her.
For the next ten minutes she’s a whimpering mess, bending and bow and arching in an attempt to escape the relentless massage his fingers give her. The small of her back is so soaked in massage oil that it’s dripping onto the bed, the scent so thoroughly in the air of their bedroom she can’t imagine they’ll ever get the scent out of their curtains and carpets.
With a thumb driving into the base of her spine, his fingers stroking the skin there in an effort to relax her, Cassian is treating her like she’s stronger than she is, like she’s so much more than impenetrable. And gods, she loves him for it. He’s never once doubted her strength, never once thought that she wasn’t able, that she couldn’t do something.
But maybe that’s because of his extensive history with her iron will and steel nerves. That endless resilience and the well of determination in her.
While one hand is treating her pain, the other holds her down with fingers splayed over her shoulder blades, making sure she can’t escape. Nesta doesn’t notice the absence of his hand against her shoulder blades until she’s feeling it grace the skin of her ass, once again.
“You hadn’t thought I’d forgotten, had you? That I’d forget how much you like it when my thumbs dig into your ass, how it makes you writhe beneath me, how it makes your pussy drip, had you?” His words are so him, so rough and dark and caring and gentle and full of love and the need to make her beg for it, for him.
For his dick.
Nesta doesn’t want to admit she had, that she had forgotten how she loved it so. She doesn’t want to think back to the last time he’d treated her like this, how utterly ruined she’d been for him, how much of a scatter-brained idiot she’d been for the rest of the day. Her pussy: still sore, wet, and wanting more of him, only hours since he’d fucked her thoroughly.
She almost sighs when his thumb leaves the spot it had been so deliciously torturing, and Nesta almost didn’t want to admit how much looser she felt, how little pain she was in now, all thanks to her husband’s dedication to her body, to her, to loving her. Instead, she moans a little “Thanks, Cass,” into her pillow and shimmies her hips.
And if he takes it as an invitation, he’d be spot on to do so.
Cassian dives head first into her, maybe finger first would be more accurate. Already naked, his fingers have no journey they have to make to reach the wet heat of her. Again. Nothing to remove, she’s right fucking there. Spread out and dripping, all for Cassian.
Nesta’s breath hitches as his finger ghosts a trail down her, from the last notch of her spine, down the crease of her ass cheeks. Brushing just so over the opening of her ass, meeting the overwhelming wetness just below. She wants to cry out and beg, but she won’t. Not this early into their little game. Not when she knows it won't do anything to stop him from leaving her on the edge.
Like last time.
With her arms under her head now, she covers her mouth with the palm of one of her hands, taking the extra precaution so Cassian can’t tell just how desperately she wants to beg.
His finger continues further down her slit, pulling some of her wetness with him until he meets her clit. Finally. The bundle of nerves had been begging for, craving, attention. Throbbing and pulsing. He circles around the bud, making a deliberate effort to avoid actually touching it, making a conscious decision to take away all the pleasure it would give her. His finger never tires, continues those tight, teasing circles until Nesta’s too close to begging him to fucking touch it.
As if reading her mind, his finger meets the bud of her clit, pushing down and drawing a circle with his thumb. She moans into the barrier of her palm, teeth snapping gently at the sensation. Fingers on her other hand curling into themselves a little.
The second he gives her the pleasure of having her clit played with and touched and teased, he takes it away again. Opting to run the same finger down her slit and tease her opening. The feel of her splitting the slightest bit open around the tip of his finger is intoxicating, the thickness unheard of. He pushes in, just the tip, feeling her stretch around him.
He continues to push into her, until his finger is overwhelmed by her, up to the last knuckle, swallowed by her pussy. She can feel his heavy gaze upon her, feel the way he wants to ravage her but drags it out for her. Knowing the longer she waits, the harder she comes. And Cassian always aims to please.
With one finger in her, his other hand trails down her spine, rubbing and teasing now, rather than massaging and releasing pain. The thrusts of his finger are slow, deep, and luxurious. She wants to beg for more, beg for another finger, a faster pace, harder strokes.
More, more, more.
Of fucking everything.
With her eyes closed and rolled into the back of her head, Nesta shuffles her hips. In an attempt to tease Cassian into putting two fingers in her, in an attempt to pull him from the calm and controlling and dominating stance he’s in now.
She fails.
Not for long, though.
Before Nesta can curse her husband, call him out for treating her like blown glass that could shatter at the slightest touch, he pulls out and inserts two fingers into her. Her words are swallowed, coming out as a fierce moan that the world can hear through the supposed cover of her palm. The slight stretch is heaven to Nesta, the push and pull of his fingers just fucking perfect.
He works up a steady pace, a constant that doesn’t change. It couldn’t bore Nesta if it really wanted to, she’s so consumed by the feel of her husband in her. Without a moment’s notice he flicks his thumb against her clit, the sensation sending electricity up her spine.
She’s working herself into a frenzy. Hips rolling and anticipating his every thrust. Nipples hard and rubbing against the cotton of their bedspread. Eyes screwed shut and squeezing tight with each flick and press and circle of that damned thumb of his. Lips parted and heavy, panting breaths coming from between them. Neck stretched and twisting from side to side, her hair swishing around it, baring her neck to Cassian with each movement. Her back muscles tightening as she writhes and wriggles and moves.
It’s enchanting and an absolute joy to watch.
His fingers never stop, never cease, never even slow. He’s got an infinite amount of patience when it comes to pleasuring Nesta in bed, he had to in the beginning. They work her over and over, pushing against her walls, rubbing against that sweet, sweet spot inside of her. Pulling out and rubbing, dipping back in, and spreading the wetness around her. Pulling the slightest bit to her ass and just letting it sit there.
Just letting Nesta lie and go out of her mind and wonder whether he’s going to slip a finger in, whether the tip of his thumb is going to make an appearance.
Her body tightens impossibly, every sense heightening and every aspect of her a wick waiting to be lit by the fire her husband represents. Desperate for the flame that will burn her to ashes, leave her tired and wrung out and still wanting more when she knows she’s had too much.
Every thrust of his thick fingers brings her closer, till the distance between Nesta and her orgasm is so little that she can taste it. she is rocking and rolling and pushing herself back onto his fingers at this point. Demanding her orgasm. The relief she’ll be granted when she comes, the sight of it when Cassian sucks his fingers dry. Or maybe he’ll give them to her, watch her as she sucks herself off his fingers, moaning and desperate for his cock.
She can’t tell which she’d prefer.
Close enough now that she abandons any hope remaining silent, she drops her palm, lifts her head and moans out loud, utterly ruined for any other male, “Fuck, fuck, oh gods. Cassian, Cass. More, ‘m so close, close. Ugh.” Her tone is that of a wanton, sexual being, low and throaty and desperate and oh so fucking tempting.
“How close, my little temptress. My little witch, how close are you?” The question is muttered into the air, she bets Cassian has his head to the ceiling, his cock straining in the boxers he no doubt wore to bed, face contorted in a pleasure of its own making.
“So close, oh gods, I’m right there, right… there!” It’s seconds before she’s coming over him, milliseconds before she’s screaming.
Except it’s not.
She’s suddenly empty, devoid of touch and freed from his grasp on her shoulders. She doesn’t want to be empty when her cunt clenches and clenches and searches for something to give her that final push over the edge. She doesn’t want to be devoid of touch when she knows a brush of a calloused palm down her ribcage would send her tumbling into mindless pleasure. Doesn’t want to be free when she craves the tightness of his hold and the firm anchor it provides her.
A low whine escapes her, she hates how needy and desperate she sounds. But she’s dripping onto the sheets and the brush of a fingertip away from coming, who gives a fuck if she sounds needy. She is needy.
“Nesta, sweetheart. Come on, sit up,” He guides her into a sitting position, her back against his chest before he spins them around. Cassian lays flat on the bed, his hands on her hips while Nesta sits astride his thighs. Her eyes catch on the thick ridge of his erection, the tensed muscles in his abdomen. Her own eyes widening when she spots the fire in that caramel gaze of his. The firm set of his jaw.
Crooking his fingers in a come-hither motion, Cassian locks eyes with Nesta. Her husband watches her intently as she sits up onto her knees and moves up his body slightly, planting her core against the valleys of muscles on his stomach. Her breasts bounce slightly with the motion, and he’s entranced.
His breath catches when he registers the wetness of her pussy and the way it now sits on his abdominal muscles, the slow rocking movements his wife is now making. Getting herself off on his abs—they’ve never done it before, but who’s to say they never will.
His arms push forwards, gripping her waist and pulling her off his abdomen, pulling her up and up his body till she’s hovering above his face. “Come on, Nes, sit on my face, ride my face, get yourself off on my tongue, my teeth, my lips. I can feel how wet your sweet cunt is, let me help you.” Even with his invitation, his encouragement, Nesta remains hovering over his face, her knees bracketing his neck, her feet against his shoulders.
Nesta feels his hands on her hips too late, before she can protest and say she doesn’t want to suffocate her husband when she can no longer keep all of her weight off of his face, she’s being pulled down onto his mouth. His tongue is poking out slightly, meeting her clit in a passing brush as she sits.
Her back remains straight, her hands go to the headboard and grip for dear life, hoping it will mean she won’t suffocate her husband. It’s been long enough since he’d pulled his fingers from her that she’s not so desperately on the edge of release, it’s been long enough that the touch of her core to his tongue and his lips don’t set her off, coming over his face.
His hands have a firm grip on her hips, fingertips digging in and soothing that frantic noise in her head.
His tongue sits, resting temptingly against her cunt, tasting her wetness and luxuriating in the way it coats his tongue. He moves slightly, pushing his tongue against her folds, sending a shockwave through Nesta, pushing her forwards against his face, pushing his tongue onto her clit. His tongue presses it down, circles the bud closely and then laves down her slit and over her opening. Dipping the slightest bit into her.
It’s all she can take before she’s divesting herself of her insecurities, thrusting a hand into the mess of Cassian’s hair and settling herself over his mouth. As she rocks and rolls over his mouth, he pushes his tongue into her, licking into her cunt, brushing against her walls. His tongue works at inhuman speeds, pushing in and out, along her and around her slit and back in her, touching her walls and licking through the lips of her cunt.
It’s a teasing combination, it’s all too much. In seconds she’s back there, right on the edge, the rock crumbling beneath her feet, the cliff rocking and swaying, she’s ready to dive into the ocean of release and relief and endless pleasure.
He stops.
Closes his lips, his tongue between them, his hands leaving her hips. Utterly still, giving her absolutely nothing to go on.
“Oh gods, Cassian, gods. I need to come, I need, I need to come. Please, let me come.” She’s crying out, begging ever so nicely to come, to come on his face, around his fingers, on his cock. She does not fucking care, as long as she comes.
He doesn’t move. He stays firm, even with her wetness dripping down his lips, even as her smell temps him and sends him wild with want and need. He stays strong and true to his cause.
A minute passes, Nesta’s hips rocking so slightly, so gently against his chin that he knows it’s subconscious, that she’s trying to stay strong but she’s so close she can’t stop her hips from trying to find a way to fill her cunt.
Another minute and Nesta’s hand is leaving the headboard. She thinks she’s sneaky, thinks Cassian can’t see her as her hand reaches her tits and palms one, pulls her nipple between her thumb and forefinger. Thinks he doesn’t hear the keen or feel the extra force behind the rocking of her hips. Thinks he doesn’t see it go behind her, doesn’t feel her finger poke his chin in an attempt to find her dripping core.
His hand whips up, gripping her wrist and taking it back to the headboard. Wraps her fingers around the top and squeezes them as his hand leaves, making sure she gets the message. To not move her hands from the headboard.
Her husband decides she’s waited long enough, wanted long enough, and licks a stripe up her pussy, from her ass to her clit, along her folds, parting them around his tongue. His tongue circles her clit thoroughly, tight little circles that tease her beyond sense and coherent thought. All she knows is to roc her hips and moan and whine and keen her exquisite pleasure.
She’s close again, not needing so long to get back there this time, since it had been a shorter break between. Once again, she’s close, rocking and writhing and begging and heaving. Her tits moving up and down, nipples peaked and hard and tight, her thighs clenched around his face, drowning him in the sweetness of her flesh.
Once again, Cassian pulls away. Denying her, no orgasm for her.
“Please, please, pleasepleasepleaseplease. Cassian, gods, just let me come. Let me come, please. Oh, my gods, I’m so close. Fuck, Cass.” She’s incoherent, mad with desire, wrecked beyond sanity.
“Oh, I’m sorry sweetheart, did you want to come. Did your drippy little cunt want to feel the relief of your orgasm? Were you really, really begging for it?” His tone is domineering, dominating, she feels small and delicate.
All she can do is moan, push her hips around and try to find friction.
Her prayers are answered. Every dream and wish and longing she’s ever had is answered when his hands capture her waist and roll her onto her back, careful with her even though Nesta’s sure he’s fucked her so good pain couldn’t disturb them if it tried really fucking hard.
He’s leaning over her, still in his boxers. Those damned grey ones, which do nothing to hide the erection he has. Nesta can’t stand it, the tattooed arms and torso over her head, biceps and triceps bulging as he holds himself up on his elbows, his face staring down at her as though he’s the sunrise and she’s the sunset and they are forever doomed to only see each other in moments, not lifetimes.
With frantic and hurried hands, Nesta is dragging his boxers down, watching as his cocks comes free, head dripping precum. He pushes them down all the way, kneeling gloriously bare between her legs, one hand fisting his erection while the other slips under her ass and lifts her slightly. His eyes lock with her own, and she’s desperate to feel his cock in her, feel her cunt stretch around him, feel his head hit her g-spot, feel his cock as she comes around him, as he comes in her. His finger flicks her clit in the same moments he slips the crown of his cock in, as he pulls his hand up to pinch a nipple, as he slides the rest of the way in.
He leans down as he bottoms out, pressing his chest to hers, his lips to hers, forehead to forehead, heartbeat against heartbeat. Her clit brushes his pubic bone each time he shifts, every thrust has her moaning beneath him.
It’s seconds before she’s ripping her nails down his back, pulling him into her and not letting him go with her heels and legs wrapped around his waist, kissing him messily and haphazardly and just perfectly.
Then she’s coming.
Squeezing around him, clenching and moaning. Her mind blank and her body shaking with the sheer force of her orgasm. Her lips are locked with Cassian’s, and she never wants them to separate. Lying there, in love and satiated, Cassian pumps in only a few more times before he’s coming, groaning into the soft, biteable skin of her neck.
With her hands in his hair and his hands wrapped around her, heads tucked into the opposite spaces, they fall asleep on top of each other, waking only when it’s evening again.