Archive of Our Own

The invitation that sat untouched on your desk for the past week while you’d been working on a case in the N109 Zone, was addressed to you specifically. Of course it was. You wouldn’t have expected anything less from Thomas, who it appeared, had handwritten the letter himself. The contents were simple and understated, enclosed in a sleek, matte-black envelope, with its edges embossed in gold. You recognized the seal immediately—a gold wax seal of a tail peeking out of waves of water. Your heart sank to your stomach at the daunting realization that it had been weeks since you’d last spoken to Rafayel. 

The N109 Zone was just the latest trip you’d been forced to take out of town. Before then, you’d spent a week in Skyhaven with Caleb. A week before, an assignment in the No Hunt Zone with Xavier. But having followed up with the elusive leader of Onychinus last week had proven to be fruitful in your endeavor of uncovering an illegal crime syndicate you’d been scoping out for months. They had not only caused the Hunter’s Association trouble, but Sylus’s business as well. And if you hadn't spent much time on your phone as of late? Well…that was just part of the job.

This was the life of a hunter, a life that you had willingly signed up for. Long nights, endless travel, and barely enough time for yourself, let alone for other people. Working cases outside of Linkon City came with the territory. Surely, Rafayel knew that…right? But then again, when had Rafayel ever been reasonable enough to listen to you when you inconvenienced him? And now, you had really inconvenienced him. 

As you stared at the bold lettering on the invitation, you almost felt guilty seeing the formality of it all. Normally, if Rafayel had wanted you to attend an event of his, he would’ve texted or called you himself. And yet, there you were, wiping a thin layer of dust off of an invitation he hadn’t even bothered to send himself. 

Did Rafayel even know Thomas had sent it? The thought sat uneasily in the back of your mind, thinking of him stewing alone in his studio, too stubborn to reach out first. It felt heavier in your hand than it should have. You read and reread the invitation a half dozen times, eyes tracing the elegant script as if the words might relieve the weight off of your chest. 

You are cordially invited to the private unveiling of Rafayel’s newest collection.

Friday evening. 7PM. Flux Arts, Linkon City. Formal attire requested.

There was none of that familiar warmth or playfulness you’d come to expect from Rafayel. No personal touch. No playful doodles in the margins, or sly remarks about how ‘you’d better show up this time’. Just cold formalities and the neat, careful penmanship of Thomas. It was an invitation you’d suspected had been sent to dozens, if not a hundred or more people. 

You set the invitation down again with a sigh, rubbing your temples. Why hadn’t he told you about this himself? 

The last conversation you’d had with Rafayel was a while back, but it hadn’t ended poorly. He was disappointed, sure, when you told him you were leaving. He made you promise to stay in touch, to call or text him when you could. He’d even embraced you, kissing the top of your head and giving you that smirk—that same, familiar expression that could pierce your heart in ways you scarcely had the time to acknowledge or understand. Not when life had become so busy, and you were being pulled in so many different directions that you could hardly keep up.

But now, you could feel the guilt coiling in your gut, seeping into your blood and making you nauseous. 

You’d forgotten him. 

Not intentionally, of course. But did that really matter? You’d spent these last few weeks buried in work, surrounded by your other friends…well, if you could call Xavier, Caleb or Sylus your friends. You hadn’t called him like you promised. You hadn’t taken pictures from your travels to share. You hadn’t texted him to let him know that you were back in Linkon City. 

And now, as you paced back and forth in your apartment, the city beyond your window spreading light across your hardwood floors, the harsh reminder of your transgressions had finally settled onto your shoulders. 

You should’ve been finishing the case report that still sat open on your datapad. You should’ve been prepping for the debrief with Jenna the following morning. But all you could do was think about the quiet way Rafayel had slipped out of your life, and how this gaudy, cold and distant invitation, was the only piece of him you had left.

He was angry. His silence was proof enough. You couldn’t even necessarily blame him. 

You sighed, exasperated, checking the digital clock on your nightstand. 4:30 PM. 

You still had enough time to get ready. 

-----

You spent an hour and a half in the mirror, slipping into the elegant gown you'd worn only once while undercover last week with Sylus. You were nervous to show it off again, nervous to be seen in such daring apparel, especially since you hadn’t planned on ever wearing it twice. It was far more expensive than anything else in your closet. But on such short notice, what else could you possibly wear that would fit the requested attire?

You barely recognized your own body as the sleek, silky material clung to your figure like water with its midnight-blue color. The neckline was low, the back dipped even lower. A high slit on your thigh showed off more skin than you would’ve liked. You could hardly believe Sylus bought the damn dress for you in the first place, let alone allowed you to keep it after. If Rafayel could see you in this now, what would his reaction be? Would he even care? 

You wasted little time on your hair and makeup, already running late by the time you called a taxi to your apartment. The arts center was on the other side of town, and you’d have to beat rush hour to get there now. As you fastened your strappy heels, grabbing your keys and purse, you could’ve sworn you heard movement upstairs as you hurried down the hall, into the elevator. It wasn’t worth it to have to explain to Xavier why you were rushing to get downtown in a dress that made you look like a movie star, so you ducked your head and hoped you wouldn’t get stopped on your way out. 

It was awkward enough, having to explain to him why you had to cancel your plans at the last minute to make the event. It would be even more awkward having to explain why you were attending and what your relationship with Rafayel was, if there even was a relationship left to speak of.

By the time you arrived at Flux Arts, the sky overhead was streaked with soft pinks and deep violets. The gallery was already bustling by the time you stepped out of the cab and the echo of your heels against the polished marble steps only added to your nervousness. You clutched your purse tightly to your side as you squeezed past the line and stepped into the building with your handwritten invitation in hand. 

The first thing you noticed as you entered the carefully curated space were the dimmed lights, casting shadows across the large open area. Guests draped in furs and velvet moved through the gallery, clinking their champagne flutes and murmuring words of admiration under their breath. Above you, a string quartet played a soft tune from the mezzanine, adding to the overwhelmingly pretentious atmosphere. Thomas had certainly spared no expense on the opening, either looking to impress the donors of the art gallery, or patrons looking to purchase one of the many art pieces on display. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat, searching the crowd for a familiar face. When your search had fallen short, you graciously accepted a generously filled glass from a passing waiter instead, hoping the champagne would soothe your frazzled nerves. 

The artwork was breathtaking, but that was hardly a surprise. Rafayel had always possessed an uncanny ability to bring out a visceral reaction from you, every time he allowed you into the crevices of his heart—half-buried in the sands of Lemuria and splayed out in vibrant pigments on canvases of all shapes and sizes. 

The largest piece stood at the center of the room, highlighted by a single spotlight. It was a sculpture you’d seen molded by hands that once held your own, your fingers intertwined as the clay formed beneath your joined hands and a soft smile against your heated skin had whispered words of encouragement. 

“That’s it, cutie…now you’re an artist too.” 

The ceramic sculpture was shaped like a crashing wave, the movement of the sea mimicked by a cerulean curve and an explosion of white at the top, resembling sea foam. It looked like the ocean, captured mid-roar. It was powerful. It was devastating. You peered down at the silver plaque beneath it and you felt your heart drop to your stomach.

Forgotten Lover’s Rage. 

You inhaled sharply, your breath caught in your throat. This was more than a petty message. It was both a confession and an accusation. For a moment, all you could do was stare, your glass flute nearly slipping out of your hands. 

“Beautiful, isn't it?” 

A voice from behind you caught your attention and you were forced back into reality, where your heart pounded for entirely different reasons. 

When you turned towards the familiar voice, you smiled weakly. 

“Thomas,” You said, almost relieved that it wasn’t Rafayel, “Hello.” 

He smiled softly in return, bringing your attention back to the art piece.

“He’s most proud of this one, I think. Took him weeks to come up with a title.” 

The corners of your mouth faltered ever so slightly. You swallowed your nerves along with the alcohol. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find a buyer for it tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t think he’ll be willing to part with this one. Especially with a name like that,” He commented with an arched brow, taking a sip of his own champagne glass before shoving a hand in his pocket nonchalantly. “I wonder where he got the idea for it.”

His eyes met yours and you fought the urge to shrink away from his gaze. Thomas didn’t push the topic further. 

“Is he here tonight?” You asked after a moment, glancing at him sideways. 

He shrugged, “Not sure. He rarely comes to these events unless I drag him out. He didn’t seem particularly keen on coming tonight, but knowing him…” 

He trailed off. You understood what he meant. Thomas isn’t normally the one to invite you to Rafayel’s events. He usually did that himself. When he wasn’t with you, he was cold, aloof. You always did bring out the more playful side of him. But this event and the collection placed on display here tonight wasn’t playful or fun. It was personal, raw and unabashedly him. And you were obviously invited for a reason. 

“Well…” You murmured, your eyes burning slightly, “Thank you for the invitation.” 

Thomas nodded once, his eyes following the movements of the crowd, “Thank you for coming. Enjoy the event. A waiter should be coming out with hor’dourves shortly.” 

And with that, he walked away, making his rounds and schmoozing the rich and powerful citizens of Linkon City as they admired the illustrious artistry of a man you were certain now despised you. 

Of all the art galleries you’ve been to, of all his collections you’ve seen unveiled, this one hit the hardest. Maybe it was his absence, his lack of enthusiastic comments whispered in your ear, or maybe it was just your own guilt. But you felt the sudden urge to leave, to pretend you hadn't attended the event at all and had instead chosen to lay comfortably beneath your sheets, watching one of your comfort shows until one of the various men in your life dragged you off somewhere.

Regardless, you forced yourself to see the night through, either out of stubbornness or spite. The longer you stared at the centerpiece, the sculpture that had the whole room in awe, the more you could feel your own rage reflected in the azure glaze. 

How dare he embarrass you like this? How dare he make such a statement, place it on display for the world to see, when he’d made no effort to reach out to you either? If he truly felt abandoned by you, why hadn’t he called or texted? The phone works both ways, after all. 

You turned on your heel and headed straight for the waiter carrying the tray of champagne. After downing your glass, you were in desperate need of another. You nearly startled the poor young man as you reached for another flute with less grace than you intended. He looked startled as you practically ripped it off of the tray and muttered a hasty apology under your breath before feeling the sparkling, slightly sweet liquid sliding down your throat. You welcomed the familiar sting, anything to help drown out the flush that was starting to spread on your cheeks.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed as you walked through the gallery, admiring Rafayel’s artwork—some of which you recognized, and others you did not. Another uncomfortable feeling twisted your stomach, reminding you of just how much time had passed if you couldn’t even recognize the pieces on display tonight. 

You tried not to think of the nights spent lounging in his studio, teasing him by smearing streaks of paint across his cheekbone. He feigned annoyance then, practically chasing you in an attempt to spread paint across your own face until you tripped in his arms, giggling like you hadn’t a care in the world outside of that one moment. And now? Now, you couldn’t recognize half of his artwork. Every single one of his paintings had titles that only heightened your growing frustration. 

Fragments of Yesterday.

Shattered Promises. 

Tides of Greed.

You paused before the last one, watching as a couple stopped in front of it, murmuring to one another about its ‘beautiful composition’ and ‘abstract yet evocative elements’. You fought the urge to roll your eyes. 

But what really did it for you, what really pushed you past your limit, was the fact that as you turned to walk away, you recognized a tall figure standing at the center of the room—commanding the attention of every patron in the establishment as if he owned it. 

The moment you saw Rafayel, you felt the air pull from your lungs and your fingers stilled on your half-empty glass. As effortless as ever, he stood in front of the arched entryway leading to the next exhibit, now blocking the only exit. 

He was dressed to the nines in a sharply cut charcoal suit with a half-buttoned long-sleeved shirt, and silver earrings dangling from each ear. A small crowd orbited around him like he’d hung the moon, laughing at every half-assed comment he made. As he smiled stiffly, but politely, at something someone had said, you could see the very moment that he had charmed the room. He was the very picture of charisma, despite his obvious disinterest. That's what made him so loved, so mysterious. 

Was it confidence? Or was it arrogance? You couldn’t rightly tell, and neither could they. But the moment his attention was on you? That’s when you felt chosen. That’s when you began to fall in love just a bit. It was obvious by the way the rich young ladies in the crowd gazed in awe at him, that his captivating aura had entranced them. And yet, despite his astounding performance of either practiced or genuine nonchalance, his smirk didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

That is, until his eyes met yours. 

You hadn’t realized you’d been staring until he finally looked your way while you were mid-sip, lips pursed around the edge of your glass. If you’d been holding it any tighter, it would’ve shattered in your hand. For a moment, you thought you might choke on the liquid. But then he did something unexpected. In that brief moment of connection, that slight flutter in your heart at the sight of his recognition, you had expected his smile to falter, for his eyes to widen in shock. They did no such thing. 

As if nothing had happened, as if you hadn’t spent the last month in a limbo of radio silence, his smirk deepened and he raised his glass in your direction with a smooth nod. His attention went back to the crowd as if you were just another guest, an admirer, a stranger. As if you weren’t his muse and direct inspiration for every single piece of art inside of this building.

You felt sick. You felt humiliated. How dare he? How dare he paint you in every corner of this room, carve your name in every metaphor, only to barely even acknowledge your existence? Was this some sort of punishment? Was he that angry, that he would have the gall to send his agent to do his bidding, inviting you to an event that he clearly anticipated for you to attend, just to embarrass you? 

The soft cadence of the orchestra and the hum of laughter around the room suddenly felt too sharp, the spotlights beneath the paintings too bright. You needed to breathe, to get air, to do something. But he was blocking the exit, and you had no place to escape to. So, instead of storming out in anger, you did the only sensible thing you could think of. You emptied your champagne glass with a single gulp and strode towards the back of the room, where the shadows could at least hide the redness of your visage.

Your bare back leaned against the cool plaster of the wall, steadying you. Whether it was nervousness or outrage that caused your breath to come faster, you were unsure. All you could focus on was the fact that Rafayel seemed hellbent on pretending you didn’t exist. And if he wanted to play that game? Fine.

You’d gotten along without him just fine, hadn’t you? What need did you have to go stirring up drama or causing a scene? This wasn’t the time or the place, and even if your head had already begun to spin from the mix of alcohol and the rush of blood to your head, you weren’t about to go making it known to him how you felt. Even if every stroke of his paintbrush felt like a mockery, even if every stark pigment across jagged lines felt incriminating, you wouldn't be the one to break tonight. Of that, you were positive. 

You felt exposed, laid bare by the art pieces surrounding you. And your stubborn nature refused to allow yourself to look away. It wasn’t just grief that haunted his work, it was judgement. And you were at the center of it all. 

You spent several minutes sticking to the wall, pretending like you weren’t on the verge of collapsing when you heard it. A voice, smooth and deep, approaching you from behind, almost causing you to flinch.

“Don’t tell me you’re already critiquing my work, cutie.” 

You didn’t have to turn your head to know who the voice belonged to. You would always recognize it, no matter how much time has passed since you last heard it. 

“I didn’t think my opinion mattered all that much to you,” You said stiffly, turning your head slightly to look at him. 

Your heart skipped a beat when you realized how close he was standing—close enough now that you could see the birthmarks speckled on his skin, his smirk plastered on his lips. Close enough to catch the glint of his earrings beneath the dim, ambient lighting. He leaned casually against the wall beside you, as if he were chatting with an ordinary fan. As if he couldn’t be bothered to fully face you and give you his full attention. As if you hadn’t once traced those birthmarks with your fingers in the dark.

Still, you didn’t miss the way his eyes, as deep blue as the sea and as fiery red as a flame, lingered on the fabric of your dress clinging to your curves, the high slit on your thigh exposing parts of your body not covered by silk. 

He inhaled sharply, his eyes briefly flickering back up to meet yours as he wet his bottom lip with a swipe of his tongue, “And what gave you that impression?”

You didn’t dignify that with a response, just huffing under your breath as you took another sip of champagne, pretending to admire the brushstrokes of a nearby painting. It was relatively easy to avoid his gaze when there was so much else to focus on. Your heartbeat, for one, and the swell of classical music doing little to soothe your nerves. 

He snickered before stepping in front of you, effectively blocking your view of the rest of the exhibit. Your eyes widened when he braced one arm against the wall, trapping you. 

“Besides,” He said, leaning in closer, his voice laced with a hint of mockery, “You never held back on your opinions before.”

Your pulse quickened, your mouth going dry as his eyes drooped down to the front of your dress once more. You swore he could tell that your heart was racing, that his presence had already begun to affect you. He probably enjoyed it, relished in it.

“Go ahead, cutie. Give me a good critique.”

He was baiting you, and you couldn’t deny that you were tempted. But as headstrong as he was, you were worse. There were so many things you wanted to say, so many different emotions—each one more confusing than the other, and yet you couldn’t voice any of them. So instead, you raised your chin slightly, ignoring the heat creeping up your neck. 

“You can cut the act, Rafayel.” You retorted, your voice sharp, “I’m not here to stroke your ego. If that’s what you want, I’m sure your little entourage would be more than happy to oblige.” 

Something flickered in his eyes at that, something you couldn’t quite recognize. He chuckled softly, but it was a hollow sound. If he was hurt by your words, he certainly didn’t show it. 

“And yet, here you are.” He leaned in closer, his smirk widening as his lips grazed against your ear, “Coming to my exhibit, wearing that dress…”

You felt a wave of desire wash through you, sharp and hot as it prickled your skin, forcing you to exhale shakily. His voice dropped even lower as he murmured, “Where did you get it, exactly? I don’t think I recognize it from your closet.”

His free hand trailed up the side of your arm, tantalizingly slow and unbearably delicate. You fought against the shiver that threatened to course through your body. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how close you were to breaking as his fingertips toyed with your spaghetti strap, brushing a piece of your hair back behind your shoulder. 

“It was a gift,” You muttered, your voice coming out more breathless than you would’ve liked. 

His fingers stilled on your shoulder momentarily. The pause was just long enough that you could see the very moment his eyes darkened with something dangerous, something you’ve never recognized before. 

“Oh?” He asked, coolly, “From who?” 

You arched an eyebrow at him, your gaze intense and incisive, “From a friend. Does it matter?”

You could tell by the way his hand dropped from your shoulder that you gave the wrong answer. Still, somehow you doubted that telling Rafayel about your secret mission in the N109 Zone with Sylus would do you any favors. 

Rafayel never really struck you as a jealous man. But the way he was looking at you now, as if you’d done something to personally wrong him, as if he knew every single moment you spent with another man these last few weeks, had seared into you, almost frightening you. 

Rafayel was never cold with you. Never. Not once. For a moment, you feared he might back away, might build a shell around himself, as if the last year you spent getting to know him, on both a personal and far more intimate level, were suddenly thrown in the garbage along with your pride. For a moment, you wondered if he might leave you there, wanting and regretting, while he entertained others far more worthy of his time than you. But he didn’t. His hand had returned to his side, but he still remained too close for comfort, his overwhelming presence like a siren’s song—tempting and perilous. 

“You know, I can hardly keep track of who your friends are, nowadays.” He spoke in an almost taunting tone, “You seem to have so many of them.”

You nearly flinched at the feeling of his hot breath against your ear, the fresh, citrusy scent of his cologne starting to go to your head. Or maybe that was just the champagne. You couldn’t really tell anymore. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” You tilted your head towards him, offended.

He let out a sardonic laugh that sent a wave of heat through you. “Oh, nothing. I just find it funny how you seem to have all this time for these…friends of yours, and yet, you never seem to find the time for little old me.” 

Your face flushed with frustration, your tone defensive, “I’ve been working, I have responsibilities—”

Rafayel rolled his eyes, cutting you off,  “Excuses, excuses. I bet you don’t tell them to your other friends.”

A fire began to burn inside of you, despite how flustered you were by how close he was standing, despite how handsome he looked, how delicious he smelled. You couldn’t focus. He had invited you here, and for what? To guilt trip you? To ridicule you? The implication of his words seemed to temporarily override the shame that stuck to you like a leech from the moment you entered the gallery. 

His eyes flashed with something akin to satisfaction at your agitated expression. He knew he was getting to you. 

“Is that why I’m here, Rafayel?” Your glare could’ve melted glass. “Because you’re jealous?” 

He barked out a laugh, loud enough that it caught the attention of a few passersby. The sound was sharp and unpleasant. So unlike the softer, lighter laughs you remembered from getting caught in the rain with him. That felt like a lifetime ago now, a simpler time. You nearly flinched at the sound.

“Jealous?” He repeated the word, scoffing as if it was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. And yet, his jaw had tightened. “Puh-lease. Don’t insult me, cutie.” 

“Then what is it?” You demanded, “You’re angry that I didn’t call?”

“You don’t get to turn this around on me,” Rafayel pouted, his voice lowering even deeper as he surged forward.

His chest was flushed against yours, your back pressed even further against the wall. You weren’t so well hidden that others wouldn’t notice. And if they did? Well, Rafayel clearly didn’t seem to care. Still, your breath hitched, your eyes widening as he minimized the space between you. Your heart thundered so loudly against your ribcage, you were sure he could hear it, could feel the heat radiating off of you. Your breath fanned across his face, close enough that the tops of your breasts, pushing against the silky fabric of your gown with every shallow breath, pressed against his button-down shirt. 

“Don’t I?” 

Your words settled in the air between you and for a moment, you forgot where you were. You forgot that in this dark corner of the dimly lit art gallery, you were being watched by a dozen or more eyes. You forgot there was anyone or anything else outside of this moment, outside of the way his lips parted, the way his cheeks reddened, the pink tinged on the tops of his ears. You forgot how to even breathe. 

“You ghosted me,” He muttered, his eyes searching your face, drinking in your reaction, “Not the other way around. Did you really think I was going to let that slide?”

You opened your mouth to speak, but he didn't stop. His words came out rushed and heated as his breath consumed the air around you, “Oh, come on. You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to? I know where you were, who you were with. I waited for you to tell me you were back in town. And then you show up to my gallery, looking like a fucking sin—”

“No one told you to stalk me,” You interrupted him, your voice coming out tremulous. You felt a bit like a caged animal, trapped against him, trapped beneath your own skin. You needed him to either get off of you or grab you by the hair and ravish you against this very wall. You needed an outlet. Something, anything, to ease your own desperate, spiraling need.

His gaze was still fixed on you as he exhaled sharply, attempting to maintain control of himself as his eyes roamed over every inch of your body pressed so tightly against him. 

“Then maybe you should’ve kept better tabs on me,” He leaned in closer and your eyes dropped to his lips, “my sweet, silly girl.” 

You shuddered, almost letting out a groan. He was infuriating. He was provocative. He was utterly devastating, and you couldn’t help but want him. You squeezed your thighs together, to quell the ache that had been starting to build inside of you the moment he gave you that aggravating head nod. 

A mixture of anticipation and defiance swept through you like a wildfire, and you fought the urge to push on his chest, to make a scene and embarrass him the same way he was embarrassing you. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to kiss him until the anger melted off of your tongue. But all you could do was stand there, frozen and trembling from his touch.

“Tell me, cutie,” His hand reached up again to graze your jaw, the pads of his fingers so gentle against your skin, you almost choked at the contact, “Are you still mine?”

Your throat closed as you attempted to form words, your brain scrambled as his fingers slowly slid down the column of your throat, feeling your rapid pulse fluttering beneath his fingertips.

You stammered, “Y-you have no right—”

“Don’t I?” He echoed your earlier words, throwing them in your face with a dangerous grin.

“Rafayel.” 

Both of your heads turned at the sound of a voice, apprehensive but firm, shattering the illusion of privacy. 

Thomas stood a few feet away, his expression wary as he cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. You felt caught. Rafayel didn’t move. 

“What?” He replied impatiently. 

“We have donors arriving, and you’re expected at the entrance.”

His eyes lingered on you, still fixed on your quivering body, on the way your chest was rising and falling with each ragged breath. 

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Rafayel murmured, still not looking at Thomas.

Thomas replied, strained, “They’re waiting now.” 

A muscle in his jaw ticked before he let out a small huff of breath. You half-expected Rafayel to tell Thomas to fuck off, to leave the two of you alone. But, instead, he stepped back, straightening the lapels of his jacket like nothing had happened. Nothing at all.

“Don’t go far,” he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours in what felt less like a suggestion and more like a command.

That wasn’t the end of the conversation. Of that, you were certain. 

The moment he stepped back, air returned to your lungs like a wave crashing down, cold and bracing. You felt the rush of it fill your body, your head clearing slightly as if someone had doused you with ice water. But the moment of clarity didn’t last long. As Rafayel disappeared into the crowd, his figure swallowed by tailored suits and glittering dresses, you became acutely aware of your surroundings again. The soft hum of conversation, the clink of champagne glasses, the distant echo of the quartet playing a delicate waltz. And the eyes of nearly everyone in the gallery, watching you closely, as if enjoying the spectacle they just witnessed. 

Your cheeks burned as you pushed yourself off of the wall, smoothing out the fabric of your dress before making a beeline to the bathroom. Head down, your shoulders squared, you cut through the crowd, your heels clacking obnoxiously as if taunting you. Eventually, you found a bathroom door tucked behind a heavy velvet curtain. Thankfully, it was empty when you entered. As your hands gripped the edges of the sink, your knuckles white against the porcelain, you looked at yourself in the mirror. Your makeup was still flawless, your hair pristine. Your dress fit like a second skin, not a stitch out of place, and yet your eyes were wide, almost crazed with want and mortification. 

What the fuck was that? 

You contemplated splashing your face with cool water, but you didn’t want to risk ruining your makeup. Not when you were pretty positive that the night was going to drag on far longer than you originally anticipated. Instead, you’d taken a deep breath, or several, and forced your thoughts of Rafayel down, like swallowing sickly sweet medicine.

You should’ve been angry, furious even. Maybe a part of you was. But the much louder, more insistent part of you, wanted nothing more than to drag him by his collar and tear into him like tissue paper. You could tell by the way he lingered by your side, looking ready to devour you whole in front of the entire gallery, that he was feeling the same. 

Fuck…how did this get so complicated?

You spent several moments trying to cool down, trying to suppress the desire that’d been causing you to shift uncomfortably, to ignore the ache now throbbing between your legs. Eventually, you mustered up the last remnants of your pride that hadn’t been tattered by him, and held your chin high, forcing yourself to go back out there. The show must go on, and you’d made a promise to yourself to not break first. Even if you were hanging on by a thread, even if you had every reason to leave and never come back, you would see the night through, if only to spite him. He told you not to go far, and you wouldn’t. Not while you still had some more fight in you.

But the moment you stepped back out into the public, winding between aisles of paintings meant to ridicule you, you had accidentally stumbled into someone. You didn’t know where you were going, only that you couldn’t stay still, and so it was your fault for not paying attention to your surroundings.

“Pardon me,” You said automatically, steading yourself.

But then your eyes flickered to his, and you felt your stomach drop. You knew this man. Tall and handsome with a sharp jawline, he blinked at you, stunned. He was in a tan suit this time, rather than the navy one from the gala you attended in the N109 Zone. It was unmistakable—the man who’d spent last Saturday night practically drooling over you while you dangled half a glass of merlot and bantered while working undercover with Sylus, was now looking at you like you were a meal. And you knew right then and there, that you were royally screwed. 

“Well…” The man purred, his smile growing like a Cheshire cat, “look who it is. What a pleasant surprise.”

Your heart rate, which had just started going back to normal after your timeout in the bathroom, had begun to race once again. You had played your part well, probably too well, while undercover. Sylus didn’t buy you this dress just for the event. It was his one-way ticket to gaining inside knowledge into the black market of the N109 Zone. Well, at least the territory he didn’t already claim. And now, the man you had been acting as a honeypot for, and who was vital to your investigation, was standing a foot away. 

You couldn’t break character. Not while the investigation was still open. Not even while Rafayel could be watching. Selfishly, you hoped maybe he would, just as a bit of payback for the humiliation he just put you through. So, instead of cringing away from the rich, dangerous man, your lips stretched into a sweet, charming smile. 

“Fancy that,” You replied, letting your voice drop just slightly, “I didn’t expect to be remembered.”

“Oh, I’d never forget a face like yours, my dear,” He said, stepping a little too close, “Or a dress like that.”

You laughed softly, even as your spine went rigid. “You’re too kind.” 

From across the gallery, you could feel heat on the back of your neck, eyes watching your every move. A chill ran through you, and before you even turned your head to acknowledge him, you knew Rafayel was there. 

In that miniscule moment your eyes met Rafayel’s, the man standing beside you leaned in even closer, tilting his head towards you, “What brings you outside of the N109 Zone? You dashed away so quickly after the gala, I thought I might’ve dreamt you.” 

Like a storm brewing on the horizon, you caught the way Rafayel’s hand tightened on his glass. The group he was surrounded by, even those who were directly speaking to him, weren’t distracting enough for him to not zero in on you, penetrating you with his intense, unreadable stare. 

You tilted your head and raised your glass at him in response, smirking as if you’d just won something. Two can play at this game. 

“Now that you mention it,” You placed a delicate hand on the man’s shoulder, “You still owe me that drink.” 

The man let out a low, rich laugh, “Ah, of course. Lead the way, my dear.”

As you let him lead you toward the bar on the other side of the gallery, every nerve in your body sparked to life. You weren’t sure what you were doing, either fanning a fire or starting a war. Either way, someone was getting burned tonight, and you prayed it wasn’t you. But the minutes passed like hours, and after every laugh, every carefully placed smile, every practiced line, you could feel the tension growing. Rafayel wasn’t even near you, and you could still feel him. His presence loomed behind you like a shadow, and despite his coy smiles and his nonchalance, you knew better than anyone that he was close to erupting. 

You let the man pay for your drink, listened to him preen until you felt exhaustion weigh heavily on your shoulders. You smiled and laughed like you were supposed to, raising your glass to your lips when you felt a hand ghosting around your waist. 

The contact was sudden, so sudden that you hadn’t even heard his footsteps as Rafayel approached, his tone pleasant and disarmingly polite as he cut through the haze of the moment, “There you are, darling. I was wondering where you ran off to.”

His fingers dug into your side, tight enough that you could feel the warning in them, the coldness of his eyes as he smiled. You opened your mouth to speak, flustered as he turned his head to stare at the man, interrupting you, “And you are?”

The man appeared startled, clearly thrown off by the sudden intrusion, “Oh, well I’m—”

“We should really get going, don’t you think?”

Rafayel cut straight through the man’s words, not even letting him finish his introduction. You were practically shaking with frustration, heat flooding to your cheeks. How many times tonight was he planning on embarrassing you? 

“Rafayel,” You started, forcing a smile. 

His smile was unwavering as he glanced briefly at the man, his tone jeering, “If you’ll excuse us.”

Before you could respond or protest, before you could even react, he was dragging you away, his hand sliding lower along your back, firm and unrelenting. You should’ve resisted. You should’ve shoved him off of you and ran away, but you couldn’t. Not when your heart felt like it was about to explode, not when he led you through a corridor, up a flight of stairs, and into a room you didn’t recognize. Either a green room, or Thomas’s office—its furnishings bare, save for a large window overlooking the gallery, a loveseat and a desk. The moment he led you inside the unoccupied room, his blue-red eyes had swallowed you whole with their rage. 

His expression was dark and hungry. The door slammed shut behind you, but before you even had the opportunity to speak, before you could get any words out, he had you pinned against him, his mouth crashing down onto yours with no warning. 

You let out a soft sound of surprise, your hands instinctively reaching for his chest to push him off, but then he let out a soft grunt against your lips, his tongue slipping inside of your mouth and all rationale had disappeared along with his decorum. His mouth moved against yours with a forcefulness that surprised you, swallowing your sounds of protest as he walked you backwards until your back hit the wall. You could feel the way he poured every drop of his pent-up frustration, his jealousy, his all-consuming need for you into the kiss, diving back in when you tried to catch your breath. He couldn't get enough, wouldn’t get enough. 

“Raf—” You started to say, but then his hands tangled in your hair and he tilted your head back, his eyes wild with want.

“Stop talking,” He murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle as he kissed you again. 

You trembled as his hand reached for your hip, tugging you closer, his touch burning you through the fabric of your dress. And even with the confidence that he exuded every time he entered a room, you could feel him trembling against you too. And that knowledge, more than anything else, was what finally broke you. The way he tasted, the sounds he was making, the hard muscles of his body pressing against your soft curves was intoxicating. More than the champagne, more than the heady scent of his cologne. 

“This is what you do to me,” Rafayel murmured feverishly as his hands roamed your body by memory, his hands recognizing every dip and swell. “This is why you can’t disappear on me for a fucking month without calling or texting. This is why you can’t just leave.” 

He kissed you again, deeper, harder. His tongue delved into your mouth again, coaxing you to respond, to give in to the heat building between you.

“I…I’m sorry,” You muttered shakily against his mouth, your nails digging into his shoulders, hard enough to hurt. 

As angry as you were, as frustrating and confusing as this entire night has been, you missed him. More than spite or pettiness, more than this stupid cat-and-mouse act the two of you had played into, you missed him. Telling by the way his hips rolled against yours, the way you could feel him throbbing, trapped in the confines of his pants, you knew that he missed you too. 

It dawned on you then that it wasn’t just jealousy that motivated him. It wasn’t solely his pride, but you, the one person he’d let into his heart, who had been the cause and effect. That's what this entire spectacle had been about. The paintings, the coyness, the obvious need to show off and pretend he hadn’t been affected by your absence whatsoever. All this pomp and circumstance, just to lead you here, back into his arms, right where you belonged.

Rafayel shuddered when your hands reached for his face, cupping his jaw forcefully. You pulled back, your eyes meeting his and feeling your heart clench in your chest at the sight of the longing, the mix of anger and relief that you were finally within his reach again.

“No, you’re not.” He murmured, his voice gravelly. Your hand moved, now threading through his purple strands. He yanked on yours, and you almost winced as he bared your throat to him, devouring your neck with his teeth and tongue. 

He bit your skin, soothing the sting with his tongue as his other hand slid up your side. You weren't wearing a bra under your dress and you gasped at the feeling as he cupped your breast, thumbs brushing over your nipple through the thin, silky fabric. He felt it pebble under his touch, heard your breath hitch, earning a low groan from him. 

“Rafayel, we…we have to stop—”

Your words were cut off as he kissed you until you were breathless, clinging to him until he could feel the heat of your core seeping through the fabric of your panties, pressing against his knee as he spread your legs open. 

“Says who?” 

The entire gallery, full of people expecting him to greet them, to make an entrance,  awaited you downstairs and he had no intention of letting you out of his sight. Not again, not even for a second.

He roughly tugged on your body, shifting and pressing you against the window, your exposed back hitting the glass. You gasped. Your head was spinning. You couldn’t get enough air in your lungs. Panic coursed through your veins. The window was high enough up that the view was obscured, but wide enough to see the gallery below. If someone dared to look up, wouldn’t they see you like this, being thoroughly ravished by the man of the hour? 

“W-wait—” 

You tried again, only to be met with another roll of his hips, grinding the thick bulge of his erection against your core as he suddenly hoisted your thigh up against his waist. 

“We’re not stopping anything,” Rafayel whispered against your lips, a wicked glint in his eye. His voice was low and rough with desire, his own breath coming faster now. “Not until I say so. You think you can get away with flirting with that man in front of me, like every inch of your body doesn’t sing for me?” 

Your protests were feeble and weak. He rolled his hips against you once more, and you let out a shaky sigh, your head falling back against the glass. Every moan, every shudder, every breathless gasp, was now his to claim, his own personal victory over you. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, and he was savoring it, basking in it. There was nothing in this world he loved more than seeing you reduced to such a state of desperate, wanton hunger. And he loved knowing that he was the only person on the planet that could make you feel this way. 

Without warning, he had hoisted you up, and you could hear the sound of your beautiful, expensive dress ripping. 

“Rafayel!” You yelped, your eyes popping out of your skull.

“I’ll buy you another,” He murmured feverishly against your skin, as if he hadn’t even noticed, as if he didn’t even care, “I’ll buy you a thousand.”

His fingers skimmed over your breasts through the now-ruined dress, relishing the gasp you let out in response. He pressed himself against you again, his hips rolling in a torturous rhythm, making you more greedy than you’d ever been before. He took in the sight of your newly exposed skin, the red marks on your throat and collarbone, the torn fabric of your dress, hanging off of you. 

“Look at you,” He rasped, fingers tracing the edges of your spaghetti strap.

His hands slid to the front of your dress and he tugged it down roughly, tearing it off of you. The sound of ripping fabric filled the room once again as he bared more of your skin to his hungry gaze. He swallowed your gasp with his mouth, his moans matching your own. 

“Raf, someone might see—” You tried to speak, tried to reason. Your voice was a jumbled warble. 

“Let them.”

Rafayel pushed the tattered remains of your dress off your shoulders, letting it pool around your waist, leaving your top half naked.

“Tell me you want this,” he demanded, his eyes pleading with yours. “Tell me you've missed me as much as I've missed you.”

He was as desperate for you as you were for him. 

“Y-yes,” You let out another breathless whimper, “Fuck…yes.”

His hand trailed down your body, between your legs. He let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a groan as he felt the heat of you, the dampness of your panties as he continued to tease you, his fingers moving so slowly as if drawing out every single sound you were capable of making from your lips. 

It was almost as if your body was a living, breathing instrument and he was playing every one of your nerves like a violin. You hated how vulnerable he made you feel, hated the way you were so completely at his mercy. But there was no point in denying the truth. You were his. You’d always been his. And no amount of time or distance would ever change that.

"Did you find it amusing? Torturing me like this…" He ducked his head, his tongue swirling over your nipple as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric of your panties, brushing lightly over your slick folds.

Your hips bucked against his hand and he could feel how needy you had become, and it only served to make him even more feral for you. He was going to make you break, he was going to make you beg for him. He was going to slowly drive you insane. There was a sadistic gleam in his eyes, every touch like a slow torture, a sweet agony. He wasn’t done humiliating you tonight. The art pieces on display, him embarrassing you in front of that man—all of it, was just the appetizer. 

His fingers glided over your soaked center, moaning at your wetness as you let out another keening sound. His mouth was sinful, his words even more so.

"You’re so wet for me already, and I’ve barely touched you," he snickered. "You know I hate waiting. And I’ve been waiting a long time for you, cutie.”

He circled your clit slowly, derisively. Your body tensed, your pussy clenching as your breath came in short pants. “You…ah, could have called…y-you didn’t have to do all of this…if you were just…just trying to get my attention.”

His fingers teased your entrance. He was so close to where you wanted them, but not quite there. He was dragging this out, making the wait unbearable. 

He mouthed at your breast, nipping and sucking your sensitive skin before he raised his head to look down at you, at the flush in your cheeks and your reddened lips. His voice was a dark whisper as he leaned in, your lips barely brushing against his, "Would you have even answered? Weren't you busy with your other friends?"

He said that last word like it left a nasty, bitter taste in his mouth, and you could see the flash of jealousy in his expression. He increased the pressure of his fingers, still teasing you, still driving you mad with want as he pushed a finger inside, agonizingly slow. 

You whimpered at the sensation, feeling your inner walls spasming as he moved at his own leisure, smirking as you squirmed. It wasn’t enough. Not even close to being enough, and you needed more. 

“I think it's your turn to wait now,” He muttered, his eyes glazed over in amusement and lust as he added a second finger. 

He pumped his fingers faster, harder, curling them just right to hit that sensitive spot deep inside you. His thumb circled your clit, rubbing tight circles around the swollen nub. He could feel you gushing his fingers, your body desperate for release.

“Please—” You sobbed, your head falling back against the glass window.

“You're going to wait until I say you can come.” He added a third finger, grinning as he watched your face contort with pleasure. “You're going to wait until I'm buried deep inside you, got it, cutie?”

His words had an immediate effect on you, causing you to moan shamelessly. He loved hearing you like this, all control ripped away like the torn fabric of your dress. He captured your mouth again, swallowing your cries and whimpers, tasting your pleasure.

“Now, tell me,” Rafayel murmured against your lips, fingers still steadily fucking your soaked cunt. “Who do you belong to?”

“You,” you gasped, your words shaky. You didn’t even attempt to negate him. “I belong to you.”

At that, a wicked smirk appeared on his face, satisfaction rolling off of him in waves. "Good girl.” 

With every word, he pushed his fingers deeper, curled them just a little harder, watched as you writhed beneath him, making your legs threaten to give out beneath you. Your back arched off of the glass and you could see it in his eyes, hear it in his ragged breathing. He was drinking in the sight of you, and he was barely holding on. But he wasn't done with you yet. He wouldn’t be satisfied until you were groveling at his feet, utterly and thoroughly humiliated by your desperate whimpering and pleading. His fingers slowed their pace and you felt tears pricking your eyes. 

"Please," You sobbed again, bucking your hips against his hand with wild abandon. "Please let me come."  

He laughed, a dark sound that rumbled through his chest. "Not yet," He said, his voice low and rough, retracting his fingers. You almost cried out in frustration. 

He grinned as he got down on his knees, his evol burning the scraps of your lace panties away, the flames licking your skin, but not hurting you. He would never hurt you. Even now, torturing you with his touch, his eyes gazed up at you lovingly as his hands moved up your thighs, spreading them open as he kept you flush against the window, naked for anyone down below to see.

He leaned in, his breath tickling your skin as he moved his head between your thighs, planting kisses along your flesh as he watched you shiver. Your hand covered your mouth, trying to stifle the obscene moans emitted from your mouth when he began to suck on a sensitive spot, bruising you. He looked positively fiendish as he laughed, “Don’t start holding back now. I want everyone in the gallery to hear how desperate you are for me.” 

You shook violently, the tension building in your body starting to become impossible to hold back. "Rafayel," you whimpered his name again, your voice ragged and desperate, breaking on a sob.

 It didn't matter that you might be seen or heard. It didn’t matter that your naked body was flush against the glass, put on display, not just for his eyes or his touch. All that mattered was this moment, the fact that your orgasm was threatening to explode out of you and yet he refused to allow you any moment of respite. All that mattered was the fact that this stupidly gorgeous man still looked at you with such adoration, as if you were his greatest work of art. An entire art collection dedicated to you beckoned the masses—surely, one of his greatest and most heart-rending collections to date. And he was here, kneeling before you, sculpting your body with his hands, memorizing your outline like paint on a canvas, like clay on a pottery wheel.

“Shhh…I know, darling,” He nipped at the tender flesh of your thigh. His eyes flickered up to meet yours and you almost collapsed then and there. “But first, I want to taste you.”

And with that, he buried his face between your legs, his mouth latching onto your dripping cunt. He licked a broad stripe up your slit, moaning at the taste of you. His tongue circled your clit, flicking and sucking at the sensitive bud until your hips bucked wildly against his face. Rafayel groaned against your flesh, fingers digging into the meat of your thighs as he pulled you tighter against his mouth. You could’ve sworn your eyes rolled into the back of your head as he ate your pussy like it was his last meal. 

The obscene sound of your wetness filled the room, mingling with your desperate cries and Rafayel's own muffled grunts. He could see the tears flowing freely down your face, could hear the hitch in your breathing as he drove you closer and closer to the edge. He could feel your legs starting to give out, your body going limp in his hold, but he wouldn’t let you fall. Your hands fisted his hair, tugging harshly. He lapped at you hungrily, never once coming up for air, even as you bucked your hips against his face more than once. 

You could feel it coming, could feel the white hot, sharp sting of pleasure at the base of your spine. You were so close, you were right there…

But as your vision started to blur with tears, and as your body began to seize, Rafayel stopped and pulled away. You let out a choked sound, the feeling of him edging you almost painful as he left you reeling, practically weeping. 

You couldn’t even speak intelligibly. Your heart raced, your nerves were frazzled, your entire body sparked like a livewire. His lips and chin were glistening with your juices, as he rose to his feet, his lips finding yours in a rough, hard kiss. You could taste yourself on his lips, could feel his desire for you poking against your thigh before he flipped you around with no warning. 

He leaned in, pressing his body against yours from behind, his hips grinding into you as he pressed you against the window again. Your chest pressed against the glass, the sudden coldness causing you to inhale sharply. But you didn’t move, didn’t try to shrug him away.

His fingers skimmed over your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. His touch was both gentle and greedy at the same time, his hands wandering over every inch of your body, caressing you with a tenderness that belied the wild hunger in his eyes. You shivered involuntarily, feeling his breath on your neck. You were completely bare and vulnerable to him, exposed to the entire gallery if someone looked closely enough, and you were aching for it.

"You're mine," he whispered, the words rough and feral as he nipped at your earlobe. "Every inch of you."

And from behind you, you could now hear the sound of his belt dropping to the floor, the slight rustle of fabric, the sound of a zipper being undone. You let out a soft gasp as you felt his body pressed against yours, hard and leaking. His hands gripped your hips, holding you tightly in place as he lined himself up against your entrance.

“I’m not going to let you forget again, silly girl,” His lips grazed the shell of your ear and you could tell he was smirking, even with your front pressed firmly against the glass. “Understand?”

"Y-Yes," You managed to gasp out, your voice trembling with anticipation. "Please..." You tried to push yourself back against him, wanting to take him inside of you already. 

He chuckled as he notched the thick head of his cock against your entrance, the hot, hard flesh throbbing against your slick heat. You could feel every ridge and vein, every pulse of his desire for you. He was so big, so familiar, and you knew he would stretch you deliciously, fill you up so completely. He had so many times before. Why wouldn’t he just get it over with and fuck you already?

“So impatient,” He tsked, sliding his cock up and down your dripping folds, gently rubbing against your clit. 

“Rafayel,” You wailed, rocking your hips backwards, “Stop teasing me, I…I learned my lesson, okay? Please, just—”

"Shhh," he said, his voice low and commanding. "You'll take what I give you, when I give it to you." 

His hand moved to your chin, tilting your face up to look out of the window. You could see the gallery, still filled with people. A shiver ran down your spine at the thought of being seen like this, helpless and exposed in front of all the patrons and spectators below. 

"See all those people down there?" He murmured, his tone smug. 

You whimpered softly, unable to form a coherent response. His words were like a sick taunt, a reminder of how completely in his control you were. You couldn't move, not with his hand gripped tightly around your hips. Even if you could, you wouldn’t. As twisted as it was, a dark part of you found the thought of being seen as both terrifying and thrilling.

"Don't look away," He taunted you, his voice a low hum as he rocked his hips against your ass. "I want you to look down there and imagine what would happen if any one of them looked up right now. Imagine how they would react to seeing you like this, spread open for me.”

With a single, sharp movement, he thrust inside of you, pressing your face against the glass. You gasped, your body arching against his as you tried to brace yourself with your hands. It was overwhelming, the feeling of him inside you, filling you up so completely, so thoroughly. It was almost too much, and you could feel your mind slipping away, your senses overwhelmed by him. It had been so long, too long, since he last had you like this. You’d almost forgotten how perfectly he fit, as if your bodies were always meant to move together. 

Rafayel groaned, voice strained as he pushed himself deeper inside your tight heat. “Keep looking down, cutie. I bet your friends would be so fucking jealous if they knew what I was doing to you right now.”

Rafayel punctuated his words with a sharp thrust of his hips, grinding against your cervix. You almost screamed at the sensation, and a filthy moan spilled from his mouth as he felt your inner walls clamping down at him. 

“Oh god,” You cried out, tears flooding your eyes again as he fucked you harder, faster against the glass. “Don’t stop, please!”

He pulled nearly all the way out, until just the tip remained inside you, before slamming back in, setting a hard, deep rhythm. The gallery below wouldn’t hear the obscene sound of it over the music and chatter, but you could feel it, could feel the force of Rafayel's lust for you with every thrust, every jut of his hips. And all the while, you kept your eyes on the people below, feeling a strange mix of humiliation and excitement. The thought of someone seeing you sent waves of heat through your body, even as you tried to ignore it, tried to push the thought out of your head. The risk, the danger of it all, was only making you wetter, making your body coil even tighter as Rafayel fucked you senseless.

He was losing control, his movements becoming less calculated, less precise. “You wanna come, don’t you, cutie?” He gave a sharp thrust, driving his point home.

“Yes, yes," you pleaded, desperate for sweet release. Your hands were pressed against the glass, condensation building up where your breath hit the window. You couldn’t focus on anything but the feeling of him inside of you, stretching you to your limit.

His hips started to stutter, his rhythm growing erratic as he chased his release. His fingers reached around to circle your clit, rubbing the sensitive bud in rough, fast strokes. The pleasure was almost too much to bear, your body wound up so tight that you felt like you might shatter at any moment.

You felt him lean forward, his mouth pressed against your back, his breath hot and heavy. "Beg for it."

He slammed his hips into you again, pushing his cock as deep inside you as physically possible. You could feel him throbbing, pulsing, his orgasm fast approaching. Tears streamed down your face, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps as you teetered on the brink of climax.

“Please Rafayel, I need it,” You wailed, voice breaking. “Please, let me come. I won’t ignore you again, ahh, please!”

His own restraint was wavering, slipping away like grains of sand flowing through his fingers. “Mmm, that’s it, that’s my good little cutie,” He groaned into your ear, savoring the words. “I knew you could do it. You’ve learned your lesson, right, darling?”

"Yes," You manage to gasp out. "Yes, I swear."

“Good,” He murmured, voice rough and heavy. “That's what I like to hear. Now come for me, sweet girl." His thumb pressed down hard on your clit, grinding the sensitive bud against your pubic bone as he slammed into you one last time. 

Your body seized up, back arching as your orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You screamed as you came harder than you ever had before, completely powerless to your pleasure. Your vision went white, your whole body going tense as your eyes rolled into the back of your head. He held onto you tightly, his body pressed flush against yours, his arms wrapped around your waist as he buried his face in your neck. “My perfect little cutie.”

Your cunt clenched down around him, rippling and fluttering around his cock until he let out a choked, almost whimpering sound as he slammed into you one, two, three more times before burying himself to the hilt, grinding his pelvis against your ass. His cock jerked and pulsed as he started to come, hot jets of cum painting your insides.

You could feel his heart pounding against your back, the muscles of his chest contracting and relaxing as he caught his breath. He nuzzled his face into your neck, leaving soft kisses along your skin as he came down from the high. You still couldn’t breathe, but the moment it was over, you were slumped over, your body used, marked and utterly ruined by him. He held you gently in his arms, pulling you closer against him, humming contently as he kissed every inch of skin he could find. 

“Holy shit,” You muttered, unable to say anything else. 

Rafayel just laughed in response, turning you around to face him. You didn’t even bother to hide your embarrassment as you felt his cum leaking out of you, spilling onto your thighs as you tried to cover yourself with the tattered scraps of your dress.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Rafayel smirked, not sounding sorry at all. He just pulled you tighter against his chest and kissed the top of your head while you leaned your head against his shoulder. “Oh, and for the record, it’s a one-way mirror. Nobody can see inside.”

Your eyes widened, your jaw almost dropping to the floor. “Are you serious?”

His grin spoke volumes. You felt a wave of humiliation and embarrassment wash over you as you realized how ridiculous you must have looked, how filthy you must have sounded as you came undone for him. All the while, he was doing it just to fuck with you. 

“That’s what you get for not calling,” He murmured against your shoulder, burying his face in your hair.

Ouch. You probably deserved that. You sighed, leaning against him as he brushed your damp hair out of your face, “You’re a jerk.”

“You love me,” He said, lifting his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you thought you saw a hopeful look in them. 

Your heart skipped a beat, and even naked, debauched and humiliated, you realized his words have never been more truthful. “Yeah. I do.”

And this time, when he smiled at you, a wide toothy grin you recognized time and time again, you knew that this was the greatest artwork of all.