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You spot him early into the evening—lights dim and music blaring, but the sight of him is no less blinding, no less enchanting to someone like you.
He looks like a white-collar fellow, shirt buttoned all the way up as he hangs a stuffy-looking coat across one arm. Vigilant eyes, neatly gelled hair, domineering presence—everything about the man screams ‘professional’ and ‘sophisticated’.
But what is an Adonis like him doing in a place like this?
You continue observing from a distance, nursing a drink you sweet-talked a college boy into buying for you. God knows where that guy went off, so you let yourself ogle the gorgeous newcomer a few minutes longer.
He’s no regular—this you’re completely sure of. Even if you didn’t spend as much time as you did in this bar, you can tell from the tension in his shoulders that he isn’t well-acquainted with Stellis City’s nightlife.
The man takes the laminated menu that the bartender slides over the counter, perusing its contents like he’s ordering at a family restaurant. When he’s made up his mind, you could almost hear how polite he probably sounds while ordering the mildest drink on the list. Sparkling water, maybe.
You don’t waste any time.
Mister tall, dark, and handsome becomes considerably wary the moment you slide into the stool next to his—complaining about your ghastly work life out loud. The bartender eases into his role as your wingman seamlessly, much to your amusement. He tells you how his new patron needed a break from the monotone of a nine-to-five biorhythm, too.
“No, it’s not that,” mystery man laughs softly, and God, if sex had a voice, he is most certainly the one behind it. “A friend recommended that I drop by when I have the time.”
“You’re not the type to get plastered alone, though, are you?” A tentative smile worms its way onto your face. “This your first time?”
You half-expect him to deny it, like every stingy salaryman you’ve tried to seduce in the past. But Adonis here seems more honest with himself than most.
“Kind of. And I do have my reasons,” he sighs, icy blue eyes piercing through yours as he holds out his hand. “I’m Artem. Artem Wing.”
Artem. Beautiful name befitting of a beautiful man, but thank the gods you aren’t cheesy enough to say that out loud.
You introduce yourself out of courtesy, yet you find yourself quite fond of how the syllables of your name roll across his tongue when he repeats it. There’s nothing even remotely erotic in the way he speaks, but something about this man just pulls you in. Like the polar ends of two magnets, you’re unable to resist the attraction.
The small talk is sparse. You learn he’s an attorney in one of the city’s big-shot law firms, and you tell him about your childhood dream of opening a flower shop in return. He already lives the same cycle of corporate slavery as you do so you doubt he’ll be interested in your trivial work stories.
But…he asks anyway. About your job, your boss, even the work environment. Artem seems like someone who likes to delve into the details—even if you’re no one but a complete stranger he just happened to meet tonight. He’s so catastrophically different from the idiots you settled with for a good time, and you’re afraid he might be setting the bar a little too high. No man looking for someone to warm his bed for the night can be this sincere.
Although, there is one thing that Artem and the unwitting men in this place have in common.
You know the look in his eyes a bit too well. Sadness. Dejection. Resignation?
Who did he lose? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? You have no means of making sure without asking him directly, but you’ve encountered enough heartbroken souls to pick them out of a crowd with ease.
A man as prolific as he is won’t purposely visit a shoddy establishment like this. That’s if he isn’t rearing to forget whatever—or whoever—is weighing on that pretty little head of his.
Artem patiently sips on a glass of bourbon (not sparkling water, thank God) as he listens to you drone about the flowers growing in your balcony. From the looks of it, he doesn’t seem like an ordinary ‘yes man’ either. He even asks for tips on growing aloe vera because he’s heard the natural gel is good for the skin. A handsome hunk that’s polite and gives a damn about skin care? You could marry him on the spot at this point.
“Do you have any favorite flowers?” you wonder.
He considers your words for a moment, and you watch the way he traces the rim of his glass with his finger. When Artem meets your gaze, you see it again. That hint of sadness carefully hidden beneath a kind smile.
“Roses,” he murmurs. “As cliché as the preference might sound.”
You shake your head. “Not at all. Roses are big in the market for a reason, but…”
“But?”
“You’re going to think I’m petty if I say it...”
Artem laughs, bringing the glass to his lips as he takes another sip. God, why does he look so unintentionally sexy in everything he does? It’s so unfair…
“I won’t question the expertise of a veteran gardener,” he reassures, and your heart warms at his blatant sincerity. “I take it that you’re not very fond of roses?”
You nod slowly. “Yeah. They’re kind of tricky to take care of. Once, I tried to grow a rosebush but I kept pricking myself on the thorns. Roses are pretty but they hurt.”
“Pretty but they hurt,” Artem repeats the words under his breath. “That’s one way of putting it.”
And then comes the silence.
For a moment, you’re seized by a twinge of panic. The atmosphere suddenly became stale the moment Artem uttered those last words, and you aren’t sure how you should respond. Bartender-wingman is serving someone else on the other side of the counter, so you can’t exactly rely on him for moral support. Oh, God. What if Artem thinks you’re just some pick-me person that makes growing plants a personality trait?
“It’s getting pretty late.”
You startle the moment he speaks again. Artem downs whatever’s left of his drink before flashing you another heart-wrenchingly genuine smile.
“Yeah. The night just passes by when you’re enjoying a conversation,” you laugh. “Do you really have to leave so soon, attorney?”
Artem shakes his head. “No, not really. It’s my day-off tomorrow. How about you? Didn’t you mention you’re from downtown Stellis? That’s a bit far from here.”
You wave away his inquiry. “Nah. I can just take a train back. I’m used to the commute.”
“But you’re under the influence.”
“But I’m not drunk.”
“My apartment is just a few blocks away,” he insists, clearing his throat. “I think it’s safer if you stay the night first. It was raining quite heavily when I got here.”
You stare at him with your lips slightly parted—the gears turning in your head when you finally realize what he was trying to do.
“Artem Wing,” you say, grinning from ear-to-ear, “are you saying you want me to go home with you?”
His face flushes so badly, even his ears turn red. “Our time together was actually enjoyable. I didn’t think I’d really meet anyone worthwhile when I decided to go here, so—?!”
“Good enough for me,” you sigh, getting up from your stool as you link your arm in Artem’s—tugging him along. He sputters a little before fishing out his wallet, and you don’t comment on how he drops a fat wad of cash onto the bar without counting it.
“Are you sure about this?” he asks, unfolding his coat to drape it across your shoulders. “I don’t want to be imposing.”
You scoff when he leads you to the parking lot. True enough, the rain still hasn’t pittered out when you got out of the bar. Maybe taking advantage of his offer isn’t so bad after all.
Grabbing Artem by the front of his shirt, you make him lean down to your level with a smile. He makes a grunting noise out of surprise, but doesn’t struggle. You take it as a positive sign. The coat on your shoulders smells like fresh detergent and expensive cologne. You’d be a fool to walk away now.
“Yes, attorney, I’m sure,” you tell him sweetly. “Now why don’t you show me where you plan on growing those aloe vera, hm?”
…
Spoiler alert: he does not get to show you at all.
Despite how demure he looks, Artem is surprisingly responsive when you jump him the moment the door to his apartment shuts. His lips are sinfully soft, molding his flesh against yours as he pushes his coat off your shoulders, onto the floor.
Though you’re very much liking the feel of his large hands slotting themselves on your hips, there's still a hint of hesitation in his touch. Like he’s unsure whether he wants to carry on with this or not. You pull away with a pout, fingers teasing the buttons on his iron-pressed shirt.
“We can just…hang out if you don’t want to,” you offer.
Artem laughs breathlessly, taking one of your hands in his. You shoot him a weird look before your heat starts to creep up your face as he plants a soft kiss on your knuckles.
“What makes you think I don’t?”
His hands travel south again, fitting the swell of your ass in those large palms. You sigh, slotting your lips together again as you jump—wrapping your thighs around his waist before you feel Artem pressing you up against the wall.
Even the way he kisses is enough to drive you over the edge. He doesn’t have the displaced ferocity that most of your old flings thought made make out sessions hotter. You’re not particularly fond of overeager men, and Artem’s pacing is tempered just the way you like it.
He licks into your mouth slowly, sensually, as if he wants you to embed the feel of him tonguing his way in your frazzled brain. You can’t help the moan that reverberates in your throat when he detaches himself from your mouth—taking the time to pepper your neck with little bruises.
But while he’s busy making his mark, your eyes end up focusing on the picture frames Artem hung on the walls of his doorway.
You thread your fingers in his dark hair to distract him as you study each picture. One depicted what you assumed is Artem with his colleagues at the law firm, smiling professionally for the camera. Artem himself looked like a million stellins—tailored suit, unwrinkled shirt, debonair visage. You wouldn’t have mistaken him for anyone else.
But you also notice how his right hand is entwined with someone else’s. A woman in a sleek red blazer, her brown hair styled with a pretty ribbon.
She’s present in the other frames, too. The first is a shot of her and Artem sitting on a park bench, the woman sleeping soundly with her head on his shoulder.
There’s another one with three other men in the picture. She’s grinning brightly with one arm draped around Artem’s neck, while the other holds a man with sandy brown hair in place. The two other guys stood in the background, seemingly amused by their antics. A man with snow white hair and—wait. Is that Marius von Hagen?
“Hey.”
You startle enough to lose your grip around Artem’s legs, and you end up barely balancing yourself on the carpeted floor. Artem laughs, and you shoot him a disgruntled look.
“You’re distracted,” he comments.
Well. Now that the cat’s out of the bag…
“Is she…your girlfriend?” you ask nervously, pointing at the woman in the picture frames. “I’m not committing adultery, am I?”
Artem manages a sad smile, undoing the top buttons of his dress shirt before casting a sidelong glance at the frames mounted on his wall.
“She was about three years ago,” he admits. “But she’s getting married soon. You don’t have to worry about being a third party.”
The house is silent as you observe Artem with keen eyes. It’s been three years, yet the grief in those beautiful baby blues is still so raw. You’ve been with enough people to know if they’re only doing this with you for a good time, or to forget about someone else.
And you’re more than willing to help him with the latter.
You hook your arms around Artem’s neck before bringing him down for another kiss—one with more fervor, more intensity than you would otherwise offer. He doesn’t reciprocate for a moment, seemingly astonished with your sudden vigor. But in time, he melts against your lips until one after the other, both your clothes start to litter the hall.
His mattress is soft when Artem gently lays you atop the sheets, worshipping every inch of skin you’ve willingly exposed. But after he rises back to meet you in a fleeting kiss, he presses two fingers on your bottom lip. You’re embarrassingly compliant, parting your lips at the same time, inching your thighs apart somewhat subconsciously.
You get his long, dextrous digits nice and wet—tongue swirling around his skin as you cover them in a sheen of saliva. Artem doesn’t say a word, but there’s an uncharacteristic glint in his eyes that you never would’ve associated with him earlier in the evening. A smolder in his usually composed gaze that makes you want to see just how far you can push him.
Artem embraces you with one arm when he slides those spit-slicked fingers along your entrance, preparing you with a delicious stretch that has you keening his name into the cold air of the bedroom. He remains silent still, but you can feel those eyes on you regardless. The heat of his gaze penetrates into your being as his fingers make good work between your legs. When he kisses you again, your lungs feel like they’d been set aflame.
“Artem,” you whisper, lips trembling as he rests his forehead against yours. “Please…”
He chuckles again, soft and reassuring as he lifts your thighs with strong hands, bracketing them across his hips. The cut of his abs from where you can see them look so well-defined, you wonder if he works out regularly. But once he maneuvers around to rid himself of his boxers, your thoughts drift to another impressive segment of his too-perfect-to-be-real body.
The familiar sound of a foil package being torn open snaps you out of your reverie. Artem sighs as he rolls the rubber around his length—face red with lust or embarrassment, you aren’t quite sure. But when he glides the tip of his cock along your swollen entrance, you nearly sob.
“Want you…so bad,” you whimper, grinding down against him. “Artem, please, please—!”
His initial preparation is all for naught, it seems. Because when the beautiful man above you finally buries himself to the hilt, you’re momentarily blinded by the pain of his entrance. You gasp out loud—tears welling in the corners of your eyes. But Artem swallows the noise with an open-mouthed kiss, framing an apology on your lips as he wipes away the tears.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, brushing your hair away from your face. “I got a little excited.”
He stays still inside you, watching you get used to the stretch. The patience is a little endearing, given that you’re accustomed to just getting fucked out of your wits. Artem even takes the time to trace comforting shapes along the skin of your thighs in an attempt to calm you down.
“You can move now,” you tell him shyly, turning your head to avoid his gaze.
Artem nods once, pulling his hips back slowly before easing inside you once more. You sigh, burying your face in your hands as he builds you from the ground up, stoking the flame he started inside you the moment you laid your eyes on him.
“I want to see you.”
You jolt when he pins your hips in place with one hand while seizing your wrist with the other. There’s a crease on his brow, like he’s disappointed with you hiding your face from him. But the look immediately morphs into something more captivating.
Then he makes a particularly rough thrust that coaxes a broken moan from your lips.
His sudden, unrelenting pace continues from then on out. Artem grips your thighs hard, but not enough to leave bruises. His discretion makes your heart flutter, but you can’t quite bask in the sentiment given that his cock is hitting all the spots that make stars dance in the seams of your vision. You clench your walls around his length, desperate to get a reaction out of him, and it works. Artem bites his lip like he doesn’t want to make any forthcoming noises, but you bring him back down again for a kiss before anything else.
“You don’t have to hold back so much,” you murmur. “I can take it.”
Those baby blue eyes widen with surprise, and you can almost feel his self-control snap.
But contrary to your expectations, Artem doesn’t start fucking you into the mattress like a wild animal. Instead, he hoists your hips even higher, holding your body at an odd angle. You’re about to ask what he’s trying to do, but when he plunges his cock back into your weeping hole, the words evaporate on your tongue.
Deep. He’s so impossibly deep that you fear it’ll take you days to sweat him out. A trail of saliva dribbles on your chin as Artem slowly guides you to the apex of an orgasm. Your toes clench, your fingers tangle themselves in his hair. His name sounds like an incantation on your lips, and you wonder if the gods would let you have this man forever.
But…
He loves with a passion that bleeds into his actions, never his words. You can see it in how he doesn’t make a sound. How he’s seemingly on the cusp, tethering dangerously on the knife’s edge. You’re nothing but a stranger to him and yet he looks at you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.
That woman is lucky, you think—to be loved by someone as devastatingly devoted as Artem Wing.
Artem comes down from his post-coital high a bit later than you do. But regardless, he takes it upon himself to carry you over to the bathroom despite your protests that you can do it yourself.
Even the way he washes the evidence of your sultry affair is equal parts firm and tender. He cleans you up patiently, doing the same for himself before handing you a fluffy white towel from the rack. You blush, noting how the fabric smells exactly like him as you dry yourself.
The two of you climb back into bed thereafter—not bothering with clothes, and instead choosing to bask in each other’s body heat. It feels nice, pressing yourself against his toned chest, and Artem doesn’t seem to have any complaints to raise either.
You don’t expect any pillow talk, nor does it come. After all, this is just one night. Though you’re curious about that old flame of his, you don’t really want to ruin the nighttime mirage you’ve weaved for yourself.
The rain continues to pour outside his windowpane, but the feel of your bodies slotted together can keep you warm for the night. It’s just you and Artem, legs tangled underneath his expensive sheets.
Nothing more, nothing less.
…
When morning comes, you’re alone on the queen-sized mattress.
Last night’s rainshower has long passed, and you’re forced to squint at the sunlight filtering through a crack in the blinds. You blink groggily, fumbling around Artem’s room for your clothes. You don’t know where he is, but you’re sure as hell going to see yourself out before he gives you a polite rendition of ‘please get out of my house’.
As softly as you can, you shut the door once you’ve dressed yourself—glancing around in the living room to check if the coast is clear. You remember leaving your bag somewhere on the couches last night, and it should be—
“Hmm? You’re leaving?”
You jolt like a cat thrown into a bathtub at the sound of Artem’s voice. When you turn around to meet his gaze, you see him at the entrance to the kitchen. Like you, he’s fully dressed now, albeit in more casual clothes compared to last night’s corporate uniform. But what baffles you the most is the teddy-bear printed apron he tied around his waist. The scent of frying pancake batter fills your senses, and your mouth immediately waters.
“Uhh, I figured you’d want to kick me out first thing in the morning,” you laugh nervously, scratching the back of your neck. “Didn’t want to overstay my welcome and all.”
Artem shoots you a confused look before laughing. “Kick you out? I’m not that terrible a person, you know. Come on, I’ve made breakfast.”
He marches back into the kitchen like you have no say in the matter. Like he actually expects you to follow and join him there. Your jaw drops into a semi-offended scowl…
But you stride after him anyways.