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New Year’s is a time for celebration—an occasion to usher in fresh beginnings and bountiful blessings. To reflect on things past and to look forward to the future.
You didn’t want to spend such a significant time alone.
So, naturally, you link up with a friend to herald in the new year over hotpot and cold beers.
The pair of you meander down the moon-laden street toward your apartment, arms linked together. You’re giggling and gossiping, tucked cozy in your coats, shielded from the wintry chill. Bags of ingredients crinkle in your hands, waiting to be cooked and consumed.
You’re indebted to her for sparing some time for you.
Sure, you could’ve easily watched the fireworks from your balcony by yourself. But you’re tired of being alone. You decided to make a change, shedding your reclusive shell. Just because you couldn’t get everything you wanted didn’t mean you had to shut yourself out from living.
Caught up in your thoughts, you hardly notice your friend slowing to a stop. You glance at her, your cheeks aching with a smile.
“What’s up?” you chuckle, studying her stunned expression.
Her lips quiver, eyes widening a fraction. You nudge her with your elbow, trying to draw her out of whatever trance she’s fallen into.
“That your man?” she teases once she’s broken free, a smirk spreading across her face.
“What are you talking about?”
Following her line of sight, you finally understand what has her so shell-shocked.
In the middle of the street, against the sleek outline of a car, sits a familiar shock of white. He commands attention without trying to, a towering presence with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets and a smile rounding his lips. His scarlet gaze is tuned to you. Mirthful as he takes you in, frost adorning his black turtleneck.
You’re rooted to the spot. It is your friend’s turn to chuckle. She gently pats your arm, slipping out of your grasp.
“Looks like you don’t need me anymore.”
With that, she eases out of frame, bidding you goodnight, a shit-eating grin plastered on her face as she walks past the focal point of your evening.
Left to your own devices, you strangle the bags of food in your hands. Gaze falls to the ground, and you awkwardly shift your weight between your feet.
He’s the last person you expected to see tonight. Figured he had more important matters to attend to instead of showing up on your doorstep on New Year’s Eve.
You wanted to spend the night with him more than anything. Hoped you could. But you knew that was wishful thinking. You knew where you stood in his life, knew your place. It was no longer by his side. You more so played the role of a supporting character these days, quietly watching him from the sidelines.
However, you’re pleasantly surprised when the tips of his shoes cut into frame. You peer up at him, your heart racing, your mouth slightly ajar, plumes of frosted breath forming between you. He’s wordless as he brushes your fingers with his, plucking the convenience store bags from your hands.
He motions to the entrance of your complex with a nod. Starts towards the door, not waiting for your response. And you toddle after him once your legs remember the art of movement.
—
Two glasses clink together in a celebratory fashion.
The contents for your hotpot sit unopened on the counter, your beers dripping with condensation alongside them.
Swathed in the moonlight pouring in from your balcony doors and the idle flicker of scented candles littered throughout your living space, you share a bottle of wine with your company. The red and viscous fluid sloshes about in your glass, reminiscent of the idle stir of his irises as he studies you.
“Sorry if I was interrupting,” he says after taking a swig. The rumble of his voice vibrates in your gut. It’s a pleasant feeling, stirring alongside the alcohol warming your veins. “Had I known you made plans, I would’ve made myself scarce.”
You wave your hand dismissively, a soft chuckle in your throat as you prop your cheek against your palm. “She’ll be alright. Pretty sure she was just hanging out with me out of pity, anyway.”
He hums into his wine glass before taking another sip. You watch with bated breath as his Adam’s apple bobs, your throat dry. He mirrors you with an unguarded smile, elbow settled on your couch’s headrest, temple resting on his knuckles.
Silence stretches between you. Comfortable where it was once tense. He sets his glass on your coffee table. Pats your thigh, his palm warm and possessive, moving along your quad.
“I honestly can’t think of a better way to spend my night than with you.” His confession catches you off guard.
You swallow, struggling to find your voice. When it returns to you, you jest to dispel the solemn atmosphere, “Trouble in paradise?”
It’s too easy to put up that playful front. To tuck the anxious little thing you truly are beneath years of built-up facades.
Sylus snorts, brow quirked, eyes shining with intrigue. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
You snicker, your glass poised at your lips. “Well, I don’t know. I figured you would have rather spent your time with…someone else.” That someone else, of course, being one pretty and polite Miss Hunter.
Something in his gaze shifts as your voice peters. He has a faraway look in his eyes before he leans in, the couch cushions squeaking beneath his weight.
Quietly, he plucks your glass from betwixt your fingers to set it down. Fixes you with a look that’s both fragile and intense, his breath fanning over your inflamed skin. Taking up your hand, he gently splays your fingers over his chest where his heart beats a war cadence.
His voice is barely above a whisper, lips quivering. “What will it take for me to convince you that this heart races solely for you?”
Your mouth falls slightly open, a delightful thrill shooting through you. You can’t look away, drawn into the crimson whirlpool of his stare. Unconsciously, you lean closer, his lashes bowing as he glances at your lips. If he means what he says, then—
You’re not thinking when you whisper it. Entwined in the spell that’s befallen you, the warmth he exudes, the sincerity in his tone.
“Kiss me.”
You’ve but a tender hand curving around the nape of your neck and fingers sneaking up into the delicate hairs that reside there as a warning before he acquiesces, luring you into a kiss that sets your chest aflame and siphons the air from your lungs.
His lips are as soft as the petals they resemble, pressing against yours. Warm and insistent, invoking the barest sound from your throat. He draws back slightly, scrutinizing your features. Searching for any signs of discomfort, quietly offering you an out. But you don’t deter him, your fingers tugging at the fabric of his sweater around his chest.
He chuckles something enamored. You kiss away his smirk, drunk off the feel of him. Off his taste, his scent. Wine tastes so much better when it comes from him.
He cautiously pries your mouth open with his tongue, pouring the grittiest sound into you when you grant him the entry he so politely requests.
The air shifts when his tongue finds yours. They ensnare themselves in a lazy, wet waltz. You pull him impossibly closer, the hard planes of his chest pressed against yours. Your arms intuitively twine around his neck. His palms splay on your hips, mooring you to the spot.
You trade quieted groans, greedily sucking down air between the dancing of your mouths. It’s all so much, and yet not enough. You want to burrow under his skin. Take up residence in his heart, living there for all eternity. He breaks away from the tempting suction of your mouth with a soft, sticky click. Your head falls back, lids shuttered, when his lips brand the column of your throat.
His kisses are honey-slow. Warm like a mug of hot cocoa on frigid nights. He tugs the neckline of your shirt to the side, mouth sealing around the slope where shoulder meets neck. You exhale shakily, your fingers sifting through his hair. He grazes your flesh with his teeth, companying it with a suck that’s sure to leave pretty petals of green and blue blooming there come morning.
His name falls from your lips whilst his hands make several expeditions up and down your sides. Map out the contours of your body, stroking over your full thighs. He kisses his way back up to your mouth. Amid the sticky grind of your lips, he rasps,
“You taste so sweet. I knew you would be.”
Your heart flutters. Something pinches in your gut at his praise. His thumbs ease over the outer swell of your breasts. He stokes the embers of desire within you to life, and he hasn’t even taken your clothes off.
Thumbs experimentally graze your pebbled nipples. You jolt, pleasant tingles cresting below the surface of your skin. He bites your lip. Tugs on it, pulling the neediest sound from the dredges of your chest.
“May I?” he husks, artful fingers at the hem of your sweater.
You nod drunkenly. Don’t think you could ever say no to him. Not when he’s looking at you like this. Touching you like this, his fingernails igniting a flurry of goosebumps across your skin as they slide over your stomach. He tears the offending garment from your shoulders. Your hair waterfalls around your neck, eyes shining with ardor, lips parted.
He weighs your breasts in his palms. Kneads them, trapping your nipples beneath the pads of his thumbs. The feeling is amplified through the frailty of your bra. He takes his time, wordlessly appraising you with his hands. Watches you with keen interest, drunk off the moment as well.
“Can I taste you?” he breathes against your lips. How could you deny him when he’s been so considerate thus far? So gentle, handling you like glass?
You nod, anticipation coagulating in your veins. Suck in a breath when the lace of your bra slides down your nipples. He bunches your bra beneath your bosom. And the crisp air that follows is short-lived, replaced by the hot suction of his mouth.
His name flows like the sweetest supplication. You throw your head back, bowing into him, fingers tugging at tufts of white. He fastens a hand to the ridges of your spine, keeping you in place. Plucks your other nipple whilst he feasts, a clever tongue fluttering over your peak. He breaks away with a sticky pop to pay your other breast the same homage. You feel like you could die, subjected to his terribly distracting mouth like this.
You burn hot. Need more. And you’re pulling at the bottom stitching of his turtleneck, trying to pry it off. He chuckles, hearty and full-blooded, leaning back to let you tear it from his shoulders. His mouth is back on your breasts, greedily licking your nipples into the hot cavity of his mouth.
You squirm. Pinch your thighs together to ward off the pleasant pulsing taking place between them. Sylus’ hands roost on your hips. He helps you stand, reluctantly releasing your tit from his mouth. Helps you shimmy out of jeans, snickering when you stumble to get them off.
Drawing you into his lap by the crooks of your knees, he kisses you anew. Your hands frame his cheeks, your legs bracketing his hips. Your nipples deliciously slide against the rigid pane of his chest. Your cunt drools, slowly staining your panties with arousal, pressed up against the seam of his trousers.
With an arm fastened to your waist and a hand cupping the apple of your ass, he encourages you to grind against him. He guides you into a rhythm. A tortuously slow dance that has you panting, mind reeling, sparkles of white invading your sight.
“Sylus,” you breathe, hips stuttering, panties sticking to your slit.
“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth hinged open, irises glazing over with lust. “Do you want me inside you?”
You nod eagerly, your hips moving of their own volition over his lap. You giggle when he suddenly hefts you into his arms one-handed, his effortless display of strength making you pine for him even more.
Your shadows dance along the walls of your hallway as he carries you to your bedroom. He tenderly deposits you onto your crisp comforter once inside, and you watch, propped on your elbows, as he unfastens his belt and trousers. Your tongue feels heavy in your mouth when you catch sight of him.
Even beneath the low light of your room, he is impressive. Hot and turgid, slapping intimidatingly against his abs. Your mouth waters as he nears you, to which he smirks, a laugh brewing in his chest.
“Careful, sweetheart,” he teases, notching himself between your legs, his forearms locked in the bends of your knees, splitting you nice and open. “You might stroke my ego a little too well, staring like that.”
You can’t help it. You’ve fantasized about him before, his image hijacking your mind when the ache between your legs became unbearable. But your imagination paled in comparison to the real thing. To his body, burning hot beneath the glide of your fingers. To his voice, smooth as whiskey, as he groans from your attention. To the predatory smolder of his eyes, hair falling from its once perfect coiffure into his face.
He rubs himself against your slit, coating his shaft in your nectar. You share an exhale, a gruff sound out, your thighs quaking. He feels so good when his cock head bumps your clit. Your eyes roll, toes curl.
“So pretty,” he whispers, thumb finding your clit and massaging it with meticulous arcs. “So good for me. Can’t wait to be inside you.”
You clench around nothing, swiveling your hips to chase the feel of his girth gliding along your nether region. To guide it inside you, your entrance puckering and drooling for him. Solely for him.
“Sylus, please. Fuck.”
“Do you want me to stop?” It seems he has no intention of doing so, his thumb still sifting through your sticky folds, hips still moving with delicious friction.
“N-no. Never. Fuck. Need you…inside.”
He takes up your cue, a smile canting his lips. Taps his weighted cock against your sticky cunt a few times before nestling the head into your entrance. And, oh.
“Fuck,” he strains, arms bracketing either side of your head. He slowly eases home, your greedy cunt drawing him in deeper. You cross your ankles at the small of his back, and he props himself on his elbows, watching your face for any signs of discomfort.
You don’t think you’ve ever felt so full. Stuffed to the brim, his hips notched up against your inner thighs. He pants from the effort of easing into you, from the effort of not losing himself to the hot suction of your body.
You pull him down into a kiss. Undulate your hips, spurring him to move. He thrusts into you, shallow at first, giving you time to adjust to his girth. Your fingernails bite into his shoulder blades, your pants of discomfort traded for pathetic whimpers for more more more.
He fucks you into the bed thereafter, your headboard cracking against the wall, the air punched from your lungs with each stroke. He folds you in half, your knees pressing into your breasts. This angle forces him deeper, where he unravels the pleasant tangle of nerves budding inside you.
“Unngh, you feel so fucking good,” he lauds, his hips creating a rhythm of their own. “Sucking me in like that. So fucking filthy.”
You clench around him, a sparkling feeling erupting in your gut. Tears scorch the sides of your face. A wail swells in your chest. He angles his head down to kiss them away, to stifle those pretty noises you make for him, swallowing them whole. You’re close, so close, your orgasm sinking its claws into the lining of your stomach and oozing down.
“I’m gonna—gonna cum,” you manage, peering into his eyes, and the amount of affection that resides in his gaze shoves you closer toward that slurry slope.
“Yeah? Gonna cum?” he dotes, the lowered pitch of his voice overwhelming. He fucks you harder, the bed squealing, your eyes screwing shut.
Your orgasm creeps through you, spilling like hot liquid. You grit your teeth against the rush. Spasm, a long, broken moan dragged from your body. With a few more thrusts, he staggers into the void with you, spurred by your tongue curling around his name and your cunt surrounding him like a warm embrace.
You both start when a series of explosions erupt outside your window. Peer outside, fireworks igniting across the night sky. He looks down at you. Chuckles, sweeping some errant hair from your face as you drift down. Your cheek gathered in his palm, he swoops in for a tender kiss, still nestled inside you, his thumb cruising over the apple of your cheek.
“Happy New Year,” he croons when he parts, eyes shining boyishly, smile affectionate.
You reach up to pull him down by his nape, his weight heavy yet reassuring atop you. “Happy New Year,” you return, equally as enamored.
As he rests his cheek against yours, the pair of you housed in the safety of each other’s arms, watching the fireworks scatter against the inky sky, you thank whatever higher being had chosen to bless you this New Year’s night.