Chapter Text
She married him because he made sense.
Not because he made her wet.
Not because he made her ache.
Not because he made her feel anything in that deep, feral, terrifying way. No—she married Poe Dameron because he was good. Kind. Dependable. The kind of man who kissed her forehead after long days and brewed her favorite tea without asking. Who smiled in photos. Who called her sweetheart. Who waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Even on the wedding night.
“You don’t have to,” he whispered, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand as they lay side by side in the overpriced hotel bed, skin flushed with champagne and soft laughter. “We’ve got time.”
He didn’t press. He never did. He touched her like she was made of tissue paper. Looked at her like she might break.
And Rey—Rey thought that was what love was supposed to feel like.
Gentle.
Soft.
Safe.
So she said yes when he proposed. Smiled through the vows. Signed her name on a piece of paper that made her his.
They hadn’t had sex.
Not yet.
Poe said he wanted her to be ready. She said she was. But the truth was messier. Sharper. The truth was: Rey didn’t know what she was supposed to want.
But she knew it wasn’t that.
⸻
He booked the trip as a surprise.
“Paris, Rey,” Poe said, grinning as he handed her the envelope. “Four days. Solo. Five-star suite. Room service. Spa treatments. You’ll finally get a break.”
She blinked. “You’re not coming?”
“I wish I could,” he said, tugging her close for a kiss. “But General Organa’s conference—remember? I promised I’d speak.”
She remembered.
“You’ve been… tense,” he added gently, fingers brushing over her arm. “I thought you could use some time to yourself.”
To unwind, he meant.
To breathe.
She nodded. Kissed him back. Told him thank you.
But inside, something pulled tight.
Like a noose.
⸻
The hotel was too expensive, too gold, too indulgent.
She didn’t belong here.
She didn’t belong anywhere.
Her suitcase barely fit in the entryway of her suite. She wandered it like a stranger in someone else’s fantasy. Cream-colored linens. A marble bathtub. A king-sized bed she would sleep in alone.
Outside, Paris sparkled in the distance.
Rey turned away from the window. Stripped off her clothes. Stood under the hottest shower she could bear until her skin was flushed pink. She dressed slowly. A black silk slip Poe had never seen. Lipstick darker than she usually wore. She didn’t know why.
She went to the rooftop bar.
She ordered a glass of red.
And she met him.
The bar was dim. Elegant. Hidden on the twelfth floor, like a secret kept by the hotel for those who knew to ask. She hadn’t planned to be there. She hadn’t planned on the wine. Or the dress that clung too tightly to her hips. Or the lipstick—darker than she’d ever worn before.
And she hadn’t planned on him.
He sat three stools down, tall and still, like he was waiting for something only he knew was coming. The bartender knew his name. He didn’t give it to her.
But he looked at her like he’d been waiting all night.
And when Rey glanced over, he didn’t look away.
He didn’t even blink.
His voice came low. Rich. A slow sin sliding down her spine.
“You always look that lonely when you drink alone?”
She swallowed. She hadn’t realized she was. Not really.
“I’m not lonely,” she said softly.
“You are.”
She turned toward him, defensive, but his eyes were unreadable. Dark. Focused. Almost… hungry.
“I’m married,” she offered, as if that were a defense, as if the ring meant anything more than the weight it left on her finger.
“I didn’t ask,” he said.
She should’ve left then. She should’ve smiled and turned her stool and walked back up to her overpriced, over-luxurious hotel room and sent Poe a picture of the Eiffel Tower like a good, faithful wife.
But Rey didn’t move.
Not when his fingers brushed his glass. Not when his tongue flicked across his lower lip. Not when he said, “What’s your room number, pretty thing?”
Her breath caught.
“Excuse me?”
His smile was a cruel thing—slow and deliberate. Like he already knew her answer. Like he was dragging it out for the pleasure of watching her squirm.
“Say it,” he murmured. “Room number.”
Her thighs pressed together under the bar.
“You don’t even know my name,” she whispered.
“I don’t want your name,” he replied. “I want to fuck you against the window with Paris watching.”
Her breath left her in one slow, stunned exhale.
He leaned in, just slightly. “Tell me no. Tell me to leave you alone. Tell me you’re a good wife, and I’ll walk away.”
She didn’t say anything.
His hand slid across the bar top, the tip of one finger grazing the inside of her wrist.
“Can’t say it, can you?”
“No,” she whispered.
“You want to be good. But you’re not. Not really.”
His voice was silk and sin. He could’ve been the devil in a suit.
And Rey—Rey felt something between her legs she’d never felt before. Not with Poe. Not ever. Not even alone.
“Room 313,” she said.
And she didn’t know if she gave it to him or if he took it.
⸻
He didn’t touch her in the elevator. He didn’t have to.
She could feel him behind her, like a shadow. Like heat. His eyes never left her reflection in the mirrored doors. When the elevator stopped, her heart was hammering. Her hands shook as she opened her room.
He stepped inside first.
He was tall. Too tall for the room. He turned toward the window, pulled the curtains back himself. Paris lit up behind the glass like it was watching. Like it knew what was coming.
He looked over his shoulder.
“Take off your dress.”
Her breath hitched.
“I—”
“Slow.”
Rey’s fingers moved to her zipper like they didn’t belong to her. She peeled the dress off one inch at a time. Her skin burned. Her nipples were hard from nothing but his voice.
She was left in pale lace and trembling knees.
Ben—because he had to be Ben, he had to be something dark and biblical—walked toward her. His hand cupped her cheek, and his thumb slid over her lip.
“You ever let anyone else touch you, Mrs. Dameron?”
She shook her head, helpless.
“No one but your husband?”
“No.”
“No cock but his?”
Her thighs trembled. She shook her head again.
“Poor thing,” he murmured. “Tied up in gold, but no one’s ever ruined you.”
“Ben—”
“You shouldn’t know my name.”
“Then tell me to stop.”
He growled. Low. Deep.
“If you stop, I’ll fuck your name out of me.”
She gasped.
“You want to feel something, don’t you?” he whispered. “You want to be filled up. Bred. Stretched around something that’s too much. You want to be ruined.”
She nodded, desperate, lips parted.
He didn’t kiss her.
He pulled her toward the window. Pressed her chest against the glass. She cried out when it met her nipples.
“Ben—someone could—”
“Let them watch,” he growled. “Let them see what a pretty little wife looks like when she spreads her legs for a stranger.”
He pressed himself against her back. And fuck, he was big. She could feel it—thick and hot, still clothed, still hard.
“You ever been fucked before?”
“No.”
He growled again, lower.
“Fuck, you are perfect. I’m going to ruin you. You’ll never go back to him.”
She whimpered.
He turned her head so he could see her face.
“You want me to stop?”
“N-N No.”
“You want me to fuck your virgin cunt on this window?”
“Y-Y-Y Yes.”
“Say please.”
“Please, Ben.”
⸻
She never stood a chance.
He laid her on the windowsill. Undressed her slowly, reverently, like she was his to unwrap. Her body trembled under his hands. He kissed her thighs, bit the inside of her knee, licked up the seam of her trembling, untouched heat until she sobbed.
He spread her open with his thumbs.
“Look at that. Fuck, you’re wet. For me.”
“For you,” she whispered, shameful and needy.
When he slid two thick fingers inside her—slowly, inch by inch—she gasped. She’d never felt so full. She clenched around him like she was starving for it.
“Shit,” he whispered. “You’re tight.”
He worked her open with thick, curling fingers, whispering filth between kisses to her neck, her shoulders, the sweat-slick line of her spine.
“You’re going to take me,” he whispered. “You’re going to take all of it. And when I cum inside you, you’re going to thank me.”
“Yes,” she cried, not knowing why, only knowing it had to be him.
Ben stood, towering over her, dragging the tip of his cock across her slick entrance. He was big. Too big. Her mouth fell open in shock, eyes wide with panic and desire.
“Look at that,” he whispered, eyes burning into her. “So fucking tight. This sweet little cunt’s never been used. Not even by your husband.”
He shoved in slowly.
She cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. It burned, stretched, overwhelmed. But she didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. Her body betrayed her, slick and greedy and aching for more.
Ben leaned in, forehead pressed to hers.
“He doesn’t get this,” he said, grinding into her inch by inch. “He doesn’t get to ruin this pretty little pussy. I do.”
She moaned, tears slipping down her cheeks. Not from pain. From need. From relief. From the way her body was finally being filled.
He pulled back. Slammed in. Again. Again.
He fucked her hard, steady, brutal, dragging her up against the glass of the window until her bare breasts were pressed to the pane and the whole city of Paris could see.
When he finally took himself out, she heard herself whimper. Then he pushed inside—slowly—until she screamed, her nails digging into his back, her breath leaving in staccato, choking gasps.
He groaned like it hurt to be inside her.
“You’re mine now,” he said, voice ragged. “You think you can go back to him after this?”
She couldn’t speak.
“You’re not going to bleed for your husband,” he growled, hips rocking in shallow, deep, deliberate thrusts. “You’re going to bleed for me.”
She cried out, thighs shaking, cunt fluttering around his cock like she was already cumming.
“I’ll give you a baby if you want one,” he whispered. “Put it in you so deep you feel me for months.”
She sobbed, back arching.
“Want me to breed you, little wife?”
“Yes—yes—fuck, yes—”
And when he came inside her—thick, hot, and deep enough to make her shudder—he didn’t pull out.
He stayed there. Buried. Breathing like a man possessed.
“I told you not to say my name,” he murmured.
She closed her eyes. Swallowed a sob.
“I’m not sorry,” she whispered.
He smiled against her neck.
“You will be.”