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separatist-apologist · 1 year

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A Tight Little Skirt

Summary: If Feyre wants to graduate on time she can't fail her algebra class- again. What do artists need to know math for, anyway?

Her professor intends to explain just how important a thorough education is.

For the college/university AU of Feysand month @unofficialfeysandmonth2022

Teacher/student romance. All adults but know your limits

Feyre Archeron was never going to be a math person.

Case in point—she was in Dr. Rhysand Moreno’s class again, surrounded by baby-faced freshmen despite her status as a junior. When was she ever going to need to know algebraic formulas with an art degree?

She’d failed his class once already. It wasn’t her professor's fault, though she would have liked to blame him. Dr. Moreno had sent several emails offering help after class, and had recommended tutors and math games she could play that might help bring up her grades. Back then, Feyre had ignored them all. She didn’t want to spend her free time learning to solve for x when she could be in the studio painting.

If she failed again, Feyre was in danger of losing her scholarship. This go around, she had to take his class seriously, an impossible task for two wholly different reasons. The first, of course, was that math was made-up bullshit and everyone who was good at it was entirely too smug.

And the second was Dr. Moreno’s stupid, ridiculous, utterly ethereal good looks. He was distractingly hot, and everyone was aware of it. Every day he strolled in dressed in tight pants and a crisp buttoned-up shirt. He’d roll the sleeves up his elbows, letting everyone see the corded muscle of his golden brown arms.

His dark, blue-black hair was perfectly styled off his face though when he got excited a lock of it would flop into his violet eyes. Every inch of his muscular body was on display, despite his professional clothes. He made derivatives sexy somehow—Feyre often caught herself staring at the sensual curve of his lips or the impressive cut of his jaw.

Sometimes her eyes drifted between his legs and she wondered if he was lovely there, too.

Feyre had tried so hard to take anyone else's class. The problem was the exact same as it had been when she was a freshman—Dr. Moreno taught at night, and during the day Feyre liked to sleep late and paint in the afternoon.

She kept to the back of the class, ignoring Dr. Moreno’s cheerful emails, and refusing to participate. She’d done her best to study, and yet when he called her up to pick up her first test, and Feyre saw her grade—a pathetic 27, he stopped her from retreating back to her desk.

“Let’s talk after class,” he murmured in his rich, dark voice. Feyre suppressed the shiver threatening to overtake her. He was only her professor—he wanted to help, and it was her with the problem.

Everyone knew he was hot. Even as she walked to her chair, Feyre saw the way the majority of the female eyes were on him, sliding down his broad body like a lover's caress. How many of them offered to get on their knees for a little extra credit? Feyre shook her head, pulled out her iPad, and began doodling even as Dr. Moreno started teaching.

This was why she was failing. She knew it, and judging by the disapproving stare on his handsome face when she looked up, he knew it, too. Feyre hung back while the rest of the room filed out. It took forever. Half the class lined up to giggle and talk to him, leaving Feyre to watch the spectacle. It was embarrassing, though she couldn’t explain why.

If it bothered him, he didn’t say. He smiled and answered questions politely, all the while directing particularly flirtatious students to the tutoring center on campus or his office hours. She supposed he didn’t trust her to do either—or he meant to lecture her for the next ten minutes about the importance of math.

“Do you have somewhere to be anytime soon, Ms. Archeron?” he asked, half sitting against the table at the front of the room.

“No,” she admitted. Just her bed, where she’d lay and pretend it wasn’t his face she was thinking about as she pulled the vibrating toy from her bedside table.

“Good. Let's take this to my office.”

“Professor—” he raised a hand, effectively silencing her as he stood. Feyre sighed, gathering up her bag and following him out into the sanitized, gray-tiled hall of the university.

“I’m upstairs,” he explained, pulling open the stairwell door and gesturing for her to go up. Feyre didn’t dare look at him, though the height difference between them was making her feel a little light-headed. Did he need to be so tall? Couldn’t he have pursued a career in modeling or acting instead of harassing her with his good looks while she was trying to skate through math?

Dr. Moreno led her down a narrow hall that looked distinctly older than the one they just left. Wooden doors with the names of professors lined the wall in golden plaques. Down, down, down, until he pulled a key from his pocket and opened his own door for her.

It was exactly what she might have expected from him. A large, dark mahogany desk was the focal point of the room. Positioned in front of a shaded window and overlooking a wall of shelves covered in books—mainly about math—, Feyre thought it was the sort of office a professor ought to have. He even had a little globe of the world that she spun with her fingers as she made her way to one of the leather chairs on the opposite end of his own.

He perched himself atop his desk, legs slightly spread as he looked down at her. She couldn’t help but notice that he’d closed the door behind him.

“Do you intend to fail my class twice?” he asked her, folding his hands in his lap.

Feyre sighed. “I’m doing my best.”

His smirk was infuriating. “Oh? Is drawing during my lecture your best attempt at learning?”

Embarrassment and shame flooded her cheeks. Looking down at her paint-splattered shoes, Feyre mumbled, “I don’t get math.”

“What don’t you get?” he asked, his tone reasonable. “Let's drag a whiteboard in here and sort out your misunderstanding.”

“I don’t get any of it,” Feyre explained desperately, daring to look back up at him. That was a mistake—the excited intensity in his gaze made her heart race. He liked math and she liked him.

How was she supposed to learn what integers were from someone with his face? “Maybe I should go to the tutoring center.”

At least there she’d get someone her own age. Someone who didn’t look like he belonged on the cover of a magazine.

He rubbed his fingers over his lips. “You won’t. Why don’t we cover the basics today, and build from there in weekly sessions? You don’t have to be an expert…you’re an art major, correct?”

“How did you know?” she asked, hating how breathless she sounded.

“There’s paint on your cheek,” he told her, reaching out one of his large, strong hands to touch her skin. “I wish I could say this is the first time I’ve seen it…but it’s not.”

Oh, God. Feyre swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m an art major.”

“Well, c’s get art degrees,” he told her, dropping his hand back to his lap. “Now. Let’s start with derivatives.”

It was a miserable hour of sitting across from Dr. Moreno as he explained the concept of derivatives. Feyre did her best, but it was clear by the time they’d hit the forty-five minute mark that she’d only absorbed about a third of what he’d told her. His face was closer, watching her write out the formula with disapproving eyes. Even if she memorized the formula, that didn’t mean Feyre could magically solve the equations he kept offering up.

It was obvious that this, at least to him, was simple. Frustrated, Feyre rose from her chair, tossing his pad of paper back to his desk.

“This is a waste of time,” she told him dismissively. “Just fail me.”

“Sit back down,” he ordered, his voice devoid of the warmth from earlier. Feyre froze, looking over her shoulder as he stood. “I’m not done with you.”

“I…”

“You’re not sufficiently motivated,” he continued, watching with unamused eyes as she sat back in her chair.

“I’m not good at math,” Feyre squeaked, clenching her fists in her lap while he came ever closer. Dr. Moreno bracketed her body, his hands bracing the arm of her chair as his legs straddled her waist. He brought his face closer, dragging the rich, masculine scent of sea salt and citrus with him.

“You’re not being a good girl, Feyre.” T

he sound that erupted from her throat betrayed her.

A smile curled over his mouth. “That’s what I thought. You need a reward for all your hard work, don’t you, Feyre darling?”

“I…”

He straightened, leaning for the pad she’d tossed on his desk. Feyre’s eyes slid to his legs and the noticeable bulge just between. He handed it back to her, daring her to tell him no. Feyre didn’t, not when some strange fantasy was playing out in his little office. She was committed if only so she had a coherent story for the title nine office.

“Solve this correctly,” he murmured, handing her a pen. “And I’ll give my good girl a reward.”

“What kind of reward?”

“Find out.”

She could guess, from the way he was angling his hips away from her, that his idea of a reward involved bending her over his desk. Feyre was shrewd enough to recognize that maybe he’d been hoping for this for a while. All those offers to tutor her two years ago seemed less benevolent and more calculated given his closed office door and the fact that he seemed six seconds from bending her over his knee and spanking her.

She was going to let him fuck her—but she was going to get something out of it, too.

And so, Feyre solved it purposefully wrong. She didn’t know if she would have gotten it right had she tried, but she knew he recognized that she’d rushed through it, coming to the wrong answer before offering up his pen with a saccharine smile.

“How’s that, professor?”

His sigh was long-suffering. “You didn’t even try.” “How am I supposed to focus?” Feyre asked, sliding to the very edge of her chair so she could drag a finger over his muscular thigh. “When my teacher looks like a fucking god?”

He sucked in a soft breath and Feyre almost laughed. She sank to her knees between his still-parted thighs and reached for the buckle of his belt.

“I’m trying to pay attention,” she lied, pulling the black leather from the loops and tossing it loudly to the floor. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe as she worked. “But all I can think about is what you look like naked.”

Their eyes met. “Is that so?” he asked, arching one of his well-groomed brows.

She undid the button of his pants with her teeth. He had to be in his early thirties, while Feyre was twenty-two—how many other women just like her had gotten on their knees in his office for a passing grade?

And why was she so jealous?

Feyre reached into his pants, unprepared for what she’d find. If there was a god, he surely played favorites. Dr. Moreno, with his beautiful face, had an equally beautiful cock. Thick enough she just barely got her hand around it, and so long there was no way she’d be able to impress him by taking all of it. Not without giving herself an injury, though, for a passing grade in his class, she thought she’d try.

“I knew it,” she lied, letting her breath fan against the hard, swollen skin of his erection. He gripped the edge of his desk, watching her hold him in her hand. For one moment, Feyre’s panic replaced her lust. What the fuck was she doing? He was her teacher. She could get in trouble and could fuck up her entire academic career.

“Feyre,” he whispered, drawing her thoughts back to the present. White knuckling his desk, her professor looked like he was just barely keeping himself together.

“Yes, Dr—”

“Rhys,” he panted, gathering up her hair to hold off her face. “My name is Rhys.”

She held his gaze. “What do you need, Rhys?”

“Suck me,” he whispered, his eyes rolling upwards when she dragged just her lips over the underside of his cock. “Please.”

“I want a passing grade on my next test,” she said quickly, catching the way his expression darkened. Feyre punctuated her request by doing exactly as he asked. She swallowed as much of him into her throat as she could manage, using her tongue over every inch of his bruisingly hard skin.

He groaned softly, fingers tightening in her hair. Feyre was good with her mouth, had always had a talent for sucking men. Her professor might have a Ph.D. in math and might have been respected in his field, and yet Feyre could bring him low like he was no better than some half-drunk frat boy getting a blowjob in the bathroom.

Feyre used her hand to make up the difference, sliding up and down his skin in time with her aching jaw. Above her, Rhys was mostly silent, though his jerking hips betrayed his need. She was pulling out all the stops—if she was going to suck him off for a passing grade, she might as well make it memorable. She wanted him to think about it every time one of her tests came across his desk.

Feyre hollowed out her cheeks, sucking him deeper into her throat. He gripped her hair roughly, pulling her off him with a wet pop. Strings of saliva hung between them, wiped on the back of her hand as he dragged her to her feet.

“If you want a passing grade in my class, you’re gonna have to do a lot more than choke down my cock,” he growled, yanking her closer for a bruising kiss. Rough hands pulled at her shirt while his tongue explored her mouth, filling her with the dark, intoxicating taste of whatever alcohol he’d been drinking. Feyre could only cling to his muscular shoulders, remembering at the very last minute that his cock was still pressed against her hip.

She stroked, rubbing her thumb over the tip to tease at the moisture beaded over his slit. Rhys groaned softly, hips bucking in her hand even as he removed her bra with one very skilled hand. It was impossible to say who had the upper hand at that moment—Rhys was letting her pump him like a horny high school boy, but Feyre was so wet she could feel it dripping into her panties.

“You and those fucking skirts,” he groaned, teeth grazing her neck as he pushed her shirt from her shoulders. “Sometimes I imagine you spreading your legs under your desk, and I get to see what’s between.”

She moaned softly. “Would you like me to sit in the front row next week?” she asked, arching her back when his lips sucked against the slope of her collarbone. His cock jumped in her hand, answering even when he did not.

She hadn’t realized his hand was on the clasp of her bra until it fell to the floor. He took a second to admire her even as she pumped him through his pants. She took a step towards him to free of him his own clothes but Rhys put his hands on her shoulders and pushed her back into the chair.

“Another equation, Ferye,” he said, as if his dick wasn’t jutting against the teeth of his zipper. “Only good girls get rewarded.”

She sighed loudly, reaching for one of her nipples. Rhys swatted at her hand and wrote yet another equation for her to solve. “Solve it correctly and I’ll give you something you want.”

“You’ll take all your clothes off?” she asked. Surprise flashed over his features and she wondered if he’d thought she wanted him to fuck her. Which, to be fair, Feyre very much wanted. If he was going to torment her, why shouldn’t she? Feyre stood with enough force her tits bounced. Rhys watched with parted lips, even as he offered her up the marker.

“An artist doesn’t need to know math,” she reminded him.

“If you want to keep touching my cock, you need to be able to solve for x,” was his infuriating response.

Feyre did try that time, though, from the way he watched, she could see it was still wrong.

“You forgot to isolate the variable,” he murmured, rising from where he’d been leaning to show her the missed step. One hand slid over her bare shoulders while the other plucked the marker from her hands and drew an arrow, showing how she ought to have done it.

“Well,” she retorted defensively, “I tried.”

“Yes, darling. You did so well,” he praised, eyes bright. Feyre was surprised by how much she liked that look of pleasure—and how much she wanted to try in order to keep it from slipping into disappointment.

“And my reward?” She tried to tease, but Feyre was far too breathless.

“I am a man of my word,” he agreed, already working the buttons on his shirt. Feyre was antsy with anticipation as inch after inch of his golden skin was revealed. Dark whorls of ink covered his shoulders and biceps, begging her to trace each line with her tongue. She wondered what they meant, but found herself far too distracted by the cut of his abdomen and the enticing trail of dark hair that slipped into his pants.

He remedied that quickly, pushing his dark pants over his muscular hips. “Jesus,” she whispered at the sight of his powerful body.

“I like to work out,” he told her, flexing his bicep ever so slightly. Standing, Feyre tried to run a hand over the vein trailing the side of his stomach but Rhys caught her wrist.

“What about my reward?”

“What do you want?” she asked, unsure what he’d done to earn a reward. Perhaps his mere existence was enough to earn anything he wanted. She sure felt compelled to give it to him, especially when he turned her around and hefted her up on his desk.

“What’s under your skirt?” he asked, eyes wholly focused on her.

“Find out.”

“Fuck, Feyre,” he whispered, though he did exactly as she told him to. His fingers were callused, catching over the smooth skin of her thigh as he went up, up, up. She arched when they brushed over the damp fabric of her underwear. He sucked a breath through his teeth, the proof of her arousal clinging to his fingers.

“Take off that fucking skirt,” he whispered, his eyes burning with heat. “Before I rip it to pieces.”

Feyre hooked her fingers against the hem, sliding them back and forth with idle strokes. Her gaze never left his face, drowning in his own unguarded arousal. She felt powerful—seen, even—to have a man like him want her the way he did.

“Feyre,” he growled. She lifted her hips and shimmied out of the fabric, adding it to their ever-growing pile. She wondered what would happen if someone walked in, if they saw their clothes strewn about, Rhys naked with an utterly erect cock and Feyre splayed out in a chair wearing nothing but a pair of blue boyshort underwear.

“Do you study art or are you the art?” he whispered with appreciation. Feyre squirmed beneath his gaze, suddenly embarrassed. Rhys was on his knees in a flash, one hand gripping his cock while the other pushed her legs further apart so they draped over the arms of the chair.

“Pretty, pretty Feyre,” he whispered, kissing her inner thigh. “I was so excited to see you on my roster again.”

“Yeah?” Feyre’s lashes fluttered when his lips kissed her through her panties.

“I was going to bide my time,” he said, tongue tracing the outline of her. The combination of his hot breath and the fabric dragging over her sensitive folds was making Feyre needy. Desperate, even. “Wait until you graduate. But at this rate, you’re never going to finish, and I want to take you out.”

“Take me out?” she questioned as his finger hooked against the strip of fabric still covering her pussy. “Or eat me out?”

“Who says those two things are mutually exclusive?” he replied, eyes flicking to her face. “I treat you to dinner…you provide dessert…I believe that is what is called going dutch–”

“You know that’s not true!”

He slid his finger up the center of her, coating his skin in her sticky arousal. “There are a lot of things I don’t know. Like how you taste.”

Rhys dipped his finger into his mouth while she watched, sucking himself clean. Feyre was losing her mind. She was tired of his game, of his teasing—he wanted to taste her? Then he should put his literal mouth where his money was. Feyre leaned forward, threading her fingers through the thick strands of his dark hair, and pulled him against her. His eyes sparkled with delight, though the only sound he made was a heady groan. Feyre wondered why he hadn’t taken her underwear off until he bunched them in his hand, using the fabric to rub against her aching skin while his tongue found her clit.

Feyre arched out of the chair, held steady by one of his broad hands against her hips. Rhys moaned, punctuating his earlier desire to eat her for dessert nicely. Feyre was used to college-aged men—boys, she supposed. She got on her knees and they sent her home to a vibrating wand. If they did go down, it was short and often lazy.

Rhys was an expert. She was tempted to ask if his Ph.D. was also in pleasuring, given how well he worked his tongue in tandem with her own clothes. And when he tired of the teasing, Rhys yanked them roughly off her, tossing them to his desk like they were his little trophy.

“Don’t let me catch you wearing those to my class again,” he warned, putting his mouth back against her before she could argue. She fully intended to bring his fantasy to life next week, if only to see how smooth he was when she had her pussy out in class.

“Rhys,” she pleaded, still gripping his hair. Feyre’s hips rolled against his face, grinding desperately as she pulsed upwards. He groaned again, pushing a long, strong finger into her body. Feyre was desperate for anything to hold, and the added friction against her sensitive walls only drove her closer, faster.

Release gathered along her spine, making her mindless. She didn’t want to be done and couldn’t stop herself from chasing how good the wet glide of his tongue was. It was the first orgasm she’d had without her own help in ages. She wondered if he knew. Vowing she’d tell him later, Feyre let go of her remaining restraint just in time for Rhys to clap his hand over her mouth, silencing her as she came. Feyre couldn’t breathe and didn’t care, chasing the incandescent pleasure that rolled through her like a mindless creature. Rhys rode her through it, withdrawing his hand long enough to stand and grip his own cock.

“Holy shit,” he whispered reverently, eyes burning. It was Rhys’s turn to fist his hand in her hair. Feyre lifted up on her elbows, expecting to be put back on her knees. Instead, Rhys offered her a messy kiss that tasted like her own arousal while he notched the head of his cock against her.

Feyre couldn’t say a word, not when her tongue was just behind his teeth, drinking in the heady, masculine taste of him. Instead, Feyre wrapped her legs around his waist and dug her heels into his ass, forcing him to thrust himself fully into her.

She hadn’t been prepared—not like she thought she was. Rhys was big, stretching her far beyond regular capacity. She realized, when he grunted with surprise, that he’d meant to ease his way into her and let her adjust inch by inch. Now Feyre had to remind herself to breathe, the walls of her still convulsing pussy clenching tight around him.

“Feyre,” he gasped, kissing her again and again, each time whispering her name. Like he was coming undone, like he, too, had been robbed of every last inch of air from his lungs. “My pretty Feyre.”

She didn’t know who was panting harder. All she knew was her nails digging against his muscled shoulder blades, tongue sliding over each inky whorl of his tattoo. Rhys began to shift, pulling himself out with small strokes while Feyre adjusted to the fullness. In one fluid motion, Rhys had managed to ruin her for all other men. How was she supposed to move on, knowing sex could feel like this?

“More,” she pleaded, tired of their games. He nodded, nipping at the crease of her neck and shoulder. Rhys held her tightly, smushing her breasts against his firm chest as he dragged himself all the way out of her body. Feyre whined, turning to kiss him as an incentive to return.

Rhys thrust roughly, just like that first time. She arched against him, the walls of her cunt tightening.

“You take my cock so well,” he praised, repeating the motion again and again, like he was trying to recapture that first moment. “You were born to hold my cock.”

How he managed to remain coherent, Feyre couldn’t say. All she had were her soft, whimpering moans of agreement and the new onslaught of arousal threatening to wash her away.

“Are you going to stay very quiet for me?” he whispered, lips pressed to her jaw. When had he wrapped his hand around her throat, she wondered. Feyre nodded, looking up into his eyes. Rhys was wild, his pupils blown, his cheeks flushed. He looked like a dark god, like some fantasy creature released from its mortal bindings.

“No one gets to hear you come but me, do they?” he continued, his hips working her harder. Rhys had some kind of otherworldly skill, dragging the silken head of his cock over just the right spot until her pussy was drenched and her orgasm was building again. Twice in the same day had once been a fever dream to her.

“I want to feel you come on my cock, Feyre. Darling, come for me,” he whispered, fingers tightening against her throat. “Come for me so I can fuck you again.”

Whatever magic he’d cast around them seemed to converge right then. Feyre, who’d never liked when men bossed her around during sex, did exactly as she was told. His free hand was once against covering her lips, keeping her from screaming like she wanted to. She felt his bruising pace stutter, like he’d lost control of himself. Rhys groaned into her hair, eyes squeezed shut. He thrust deeper, like he was trying to physically connect them in an unbreakable way. It was instinct, to want to drive as much of himself into her as he could, and the sensation only heightened Feyre’s own arousal.

He panted, spending himself inside her until there was nothing left of either of them. Only the shared breath between them once he pulled his hands from her mouth and throat.

“Take me out of here,” she whispered, brushing a piece of hair from his face. “I want to be loud.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, clearly dazed. “Yeah. My bed is…we could…fuck, maybe the couch or—”

“Let's start by getting dressed,” she suggested, gently pushing the pleasant weight of his heavy body off of her. Rhys ran a hand through his hair, wincing when he pulled his cock out of her body. A flood of their shared release slid to the floor, proof they’d done something. He watched with wide eyes and she wondered if regret was seeping in. If he wasn’t suddenly realizing what he’d done and that he shouldn’t have.

“On second thought,” he murmured, sliding back to the floor to push her legs open again. “Maybe we’ll stay here a little longer. Hm, Feyre darling?”

“You can’t be—” his mouth was back against her clit, fingers pushing into her body without preamble. Rhys was very serious.

And Feyre was happy to let him do whatever he liked.

#feysand month #feysand month 2022 #feysand #feyre archeron x rhysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #shameless smut

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artinelysian · 1 year

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𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘛𝘳𝘪𝘶𝘮𝘱𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘚𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘴 𝘌𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘯𝘢𝘭

First Feysand Month piece! @unofficialfeysandmonth2022

Repost with credit is allowed

Total time: 3 hr 4 min

Character belongs to @therealsjmaas

#feysand #feysand art #pro feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #pro feyre archeron #pro rhysand #digital art #procreate #digital illustration #digital painting #acotar art #artist illustration #acotar fanart #artist #acotar #a court of thorns and roses #digital artwork #feysand month

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fawnandshadows · 1 year

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You’re So Vain

Pairing: Feysand

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: Smut, cuck!tamlin, karaoke

Word Count: 6k

Gifting this one to my darling @impossiblescissorspeachpaper !! Thank you so much for helping me work through this idea 🥹🫶🏻. Hope you have a marvelous December ♥️. This is the first Feysand fic I have ever written!! My humble offering to @feysand-month 🤍.

“What is he doing here?” Feyre asked, glaring at the back of her ex-boyfriend. Tall — the only two people taller than him at the party were his brothers — and she could see his lean muscles underneath his white button down. God, who wears a well pressed shirt to a karaoke party?

He ran a tan hand through his perfectly tousled hair which caused Feyre to narrow her eyes. She knew exactly how much time and effort he put into his hair. How many products he used, how much he spent on imported hair care products from France. How the little movement he just did was actually pre-determined and done to make him look nonchalant.

She hated how much she remembered about him when they broke up 8 months ago.

She hated how much she learned about him when they only dated for a month. Four weeks. 30 days. 730 hours.

She hated that she still thought about him when she fucked her current boyfriend — Tamlin. But it was the only way she could feel pleasure when she laid underneath him and he grunted on top of her. Most days she didn’t even like Tamlin. But it was better than being alone.

“He’s my cousin,” Mor explained, running a hand over her slinky red dress. Style ran in the family, apparently. Feyre adjusted her own simple black dress. “I couldn’t just not invite him.”

Her smile was too innocent.

“What were your words? ‘He would never degrade himself with a karaoke party?’” Ferye asked sarcastically, giving her friend a bland look and shifting all of her golden brown hair to one shoulder. It was absurdly hot in their apartment, but she guessed that’s what happened when you crammed too many bodies into an apartment like sardines. Even if it was the middle of December, and it wasn’t as if their apartment was small by any means. But Feyre felt her blood start to simmer the second Rhysand walked into the room.

“Evidently I was wrong.” Mor said brightly, pouring herself and Feyre large portions of her homemade margaritas. She handed Feyre a red plastic cup rimmed with salt.

“He broke up with me, Mor,” Feyre said softly, proud of herself for hiding the hitch in her voice. “Just because you put us in the same room doesn’t mean he’s going to magically fall in love with me. Plus I have a boyfriend.”

Mor rolled her brown eyes and took a sip of her Margarita.

“Sadly.” Mor muttered, not hiding her hatred for Feyre’s boyfriend.

“If Amarantha comes, then I’m leaving.” Feyre said seriously. She had no wish to see the red head clinging to Rhys — the thought alone had her seeing red. She’d rather scratch her eyes out than see those two going at it in real life. They were all over social media — it didn’t matter that she had Amarantha blocked on all platforms, but she couldn’t go on tiktok without seeing edits of them on her FYP. And if she saw one more picture of them on her Pinterest she was going to blow a gasket.

It didn’t matter than Amarantha was married to somebody else, some high ranking government official — Rhysand was still more powerful than her husband. With his old money and family connections.

Feyre wanted to vomit just thinking about them together.

She could only go on Instagram in small bursts, and every time she fought the urge to check his Instagram to see if he was posting about them. She didn’t go on Instagram often, since it was almost always a battle she lost.

“No way that bitch is getting past our door.” Mor said viciously. It was a toss up between who she hated more: Amarantha or Tamlin.

Feyre’s blue eyes traveled back to her ex-boyfriend and her world stopped for a bit to see that he was looking at her. His violet eyes intense as they stared at her.

Rage simmered through her veins as he smirked at her.

Feyre glared at him as she took a large gulp of her margarita.

“You can’t leave me tonight.” Feyre told Mor, who looked at her mischievously.

— —

Mor was a horrible friend.

30 minutes later Rhysand approached them and Mor just had to double check the karaoke machine.

“There you are,” Rhysand said in a voice that was practically a purr. “I’ve been looking for you, Feyre Darling.”

Her stomach dipped as he said her nickname. His British accent just as lovely and attractive as ever.

“Don’t,” Feyre said in a cold voice, jamming her finger into his chest. “Call me that.”

His smirk grew, and the cocky expression on his handsome face irked her as much as it unraveled her. She wondered what the hell he saw in her face. She was never as good at masking her emotions as he was.

“You’ve always loved it when I called you that,” He dipped his head close to her — close enough that she could feel his damp breath on her cheek. “If I recall correctly,” Warmth flooded her veins. “You especially liked when I said it as you were coming all over my cock—”

“Stop—”

“Tell me, Feyre Darling, has anyone else been able to reach the spot deep inside of you?”

“Yes.” Feyre lied through her teeth.

“Liar.” Rhsyand said softly, his lips still upturned.

“Tamlin does,” Feyre continued with her lie, not breaking eye contact as she took another large sip of her drink. “He makes me forget your name. All the time.” I can only come if I imagine he’s you.

She thought a hint of fury passed through his eyes.

He licked his lips and Feyre hated how her eyes were drawn to the action.

“You’re with Tamlin?” Rhsyand asked in a flat, cold voice. He was close enough that Feyre could feel the tension radiating from his body.

“Yes.” Feyre replied, tilting her chin up to glare at him.

Rhys stole the plastic cup from her hand and finished it in one drink. Her eyes glassed a little as she looked at the way his throat worked. Fuck, she had a thing for necks. And she recalled so vividly how Rhys liked it when she bit him right next to his pulse — the first time she did it was on a whim, but it pushed him over the edge and caused him to come inside of her.

They were on his fucking yacht and had sex the entire weekend.

How the hell was she with a guy who had his own yacht?

“I bet he doesn’t even touch your clit,” Rhys said, taking a step towards her until her back was pressed into the counter, his arms caging her in. “Or go down on you at all. He’s a prick.”

True. Everything he said was true.

And yet she felt the need to defend her boyfriend.

“His cock is bigger than yours.”

Another lie.

His gaze darkened and his smirk fell.

“You’re a horrible liar, Feyre Darling.”

“Then why do you look like someone kicked your puppy?”

“Because the thought of him sticking his tiny prick inside of you makes me want to flay the skin from his bones.”

Feyre bit her lip.

“Why do you care so much?” Feyre asked, her face pulling towards his.

“Because I remember how fucking wet you were coming on my cock over and over again, Feyre Darling, and your sweet little pants as you stretched around me. And how fucking insatiable you were riding me all night long,” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, causing her to shiver. “I’m the best you’ve ever had.”

True.

“How the hell did we have room for your ego in our relationship?”

Feyre glared as his lips fell back into a smirk.

“I bet you’re wet right now.” Rhys said, and Feyre felt her cheeks burn.

She opened her mouth to respond, but Mor’s boisterous voice echoed through the microphone.

Feyre recognized the music and lyrics instantly.

Mariah Carey’s Fantasy.

Feyre felt herself smiling, the song fit her friend perfectly.

With two hands, she pushed Rhysand away from her and muttered, “I need another margarita.”

The sound of Rhys’s laughter grated on her nerves and set her on edge — especially because she could feel how wet her panties were.

She was grateful Mor only knew how to make strong margaritas. And she was also incredibly grateful that Mor thrived in the spotlight because it meant that no one could see her skulking in the corner.

Mor crooned the words, “But it's just a sweet, sweet fantasy, baby - When I close my eyes, you come and take me - On and on and on, it's so deep in my daydreams,” and twisted her body to the music in a way that captured everyone’s attention. And there was one brunette that Mor was making eyes at, and Feyre knew Mor was going to go back with her tonight.

Leaving her their apartment.

Feyre took another swig of her drink and grimaced when she found it was empty, so she filled it up again. By the time Mor finished her song, Feyre was half way done with her third margarita when her blonde friend pointed to her.

“Feyre,” Mor sung her name into the microphone. “It’s your turn.”

Feyre was ready to shake her head and run out the door, but she saw Rhysand smirking at her and raising his eyebrows in a challenge, Feyre quickly finished her drink and walked to where Mor stood on a makeshift stage. She didn’t even know how her roommate got it into their apartment without her knowing, and the sparkling disco ball that hung over the stage came close to smacking her in the head.

She took the mic from her friend and slowly scrolled through the songs until she found the perfect one.

The opening notes sounded through the room and her eyes clashed with violet ones as she sang, “You walked into the party like you were walking onto a yacht,” She hated the fact that he had an actual fucking yacht. “Your hat strategically dipped below one eye - Your scarf it was apricot,” She gestured to the imaginary clothes dramatically and rolled her eyes as she moved. “You had one eye in the mirror, as you watched yourself gavotte,”

She noted the exact moment that recognition dawned on his face — it was accompanied by his brothers laughing and playfully punching him in the arms.

Her hips moved with the beat of the song, popping to the side as she sang, “And all the girls dreamed that they'd be your partner - They'd be your partner and,” A smirk stretched across his face as she danced like she was Kate Hudson from How To Lose A Guy in Ten Days. “You're so vain - You probably think this song is about you - You're so vain (you're so vain) - I bet you think this song is about you - Don't you don't you?”

The bastard brought his hands up and brought them together — he was slow clapping at her. Douche, Feyre cursed silently, hating that he was enjoying this.

“You had me several months,” She intentionally changed the lyric, but the venom that laced her voice was unplanned. “Ago when I was still quite naive - Well you said that we made such a pretty pair and that you would never leave,” If it wasn’t for the copious amounts of tequila, then she would have moderated her voice. “But you gave away the things you loved - And one of them was me,” She placed her hand on her chest and bowed dramatically, showing off her cleavage just slightly and she watched as Rhys’s violet eyes followed. His jaw clenched. “I had some dreams they were clouds in my coffee clouds in my coffee and,” Her hips popped with the song, and she grinned hearing everyone singing along. Everyone but Rhys. “You're so vain- You probably think this song is about you - You're so vain,” Even Azriel and Cassian were singing along — Cassian cupping his hands and sang with the booming voice. Azriel may have just been mouthing the words, but a win was a win.

Feyre continued to sing, loving how the tequila made her bold and brash even though she was certain she would be cringing with regret in the morning.

Her eyes narrowed as she spit out the lines, “Well you're where you should be all the time - And when you're not, you're with some underworld spy - Or the wife of a close friend wife of a close friend,” An image of him and Amarantha tangled in sheets flashed through her mind, fueling her anger.

Like a spark in an engine, the mental image of that old crone with her hands on Rhys sent her spiraling as she sang the last few lines of the song. “Probably think this song is about you - You're so vain.”

She didn’t call on someone else, she just set the mic down and marched into her room, avoiding eye contact with everyone in her path.

Feyre was vaguely aware of Cassian climbing onto the stage and making a show of selecting whatever song he was going to sing.

She closed the door behind her, but her neck whipped around when it opened two seconds later.

Rhys slid into her room and leaned against the closed door. His white shirt tight over his chest as he crossed his arms. The muscles on his arms straining against the fabric — the bastard probably did it on purpose.

He crossed one ankle over the other as he gazed at her.

“Feyre Darling,” He said in his lilting accent. “Did you really think I would let you get away with that?”

Feyre lifted a hand, pointing towards the door, and said, “Get out.”

He locked the door behind his back and pushed off of the frame, taking a step towards her.

She could hear Cassian begin his song through the door. It sounded suspiciously like Meat Loaf.

“I have a boyfriend.” Feyre said, dropping her hand as Rhys walked closer to her.

“And yet you sang to me tonight.”

Feyre rolled her eyes and placed her hands on her hips.

“I think you missed the point of the fucking song.”

“And I think you missed me.” Rhys said and he swooped his head down to her, but Feyre pushed him away.

“What the fuck are you doing,Rhys? You,” She poked his peck roughly, hating how his white upper teeth sank into his bottom lip to hide a smile. “Broke up,” She punctuated every word with her fingers on his chest. “With me.”

His violet eyes darkened.

“Because I had to, not because I wanted to.” His voice was unbearably soft.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“You’ve gotten a potty mouth since we were together,” Rhys observed, and before Feyre could stop him he brought his hand to her face and brushed his thumb over her lips. “Your mouth is much too pretty for such dirty words.”

“I must have picked it up from Tamlin.” Feyre said, pouting as his thumb stilled on her lips.

“Then I’m going to fuck it out of your system.” Rhys growled, fury lining his face at the mention of her boyfriend.

“Oh, so it’s ok for you to say fuck?” Feyre narrowed her eyes, drawing out the word and putting extra emphasis on the k.

“Your mouth is going to be the first thing I fuck tonight.”

Feyre gasped as his hand moved from her mouth and tangled in her hair, tugging it sharply to angle her mouth directly under his.

She shivered, remembering how much he loved it when she took his cock into her mouth. He loved coming down her throat as Feyre looked up at him with wide blue eyes, especially with smeared makeup. And she knew it drove him crazy to watch her swallow.

“And your girlfriend?” Feyre said spitefully, unable to not throw it in his face.

His grip on her hair tightened.

“One day, love, I’ll tell you everything.” He said, his breath fanning over her face.

Agitation stung under the surface of her skin.

“You can tell me now,” Feyre said between her clenched teeth. “Or you can get out.”

“You don’t want me to leave,” Rhys placed his lips against her cheek and Feyre’s breath came faltering out of her lips, and he slowly moved down to her neck. His kisses burning a trail over her sensitive skin. “Or you would have kicked me out by now.” He said into her neck.

His tongue traced over her fluttering pulse.

“I tried.”

“That little fit? That’s our foreplay, Feyre Darling, you should remember that.” Rhys said as he moved his lips up her neck.

He was right.

He loved to heat her up and cool her down.

She was about to respond, but his lips dropped to hers.

Hot and needy.

Feyre felt her knees give out, but Rhysand’s free arm wrapped around her and brought their fronts together.

His tongue grazed the seam of her lips and Feyre parted her mouth, moaning as his tongue slid past her lips.

Breathlessly he pulled away from her and said, “I knew you missed me.”

Feyre rolled her eyes at his arrogance.

“There is one thing that I missed.” Feyre admitted and placed her palm against his hard cock over his black slacks.

Rhys chuckled lightly and said, “A rather large thing, really, darling, but then again you were always greedy when it came to my cock. You could never get enough.”

A rush of applause sounded through the door — Cassian must have finished his song.

“Did anyone see you follow me?” Feyre asked, finally registering the fact that there was still a party going on without them.

Rhysand gave her a bland, regal look.

“Do you really think this is my first time sneaking away for a tryst, love?”

Feyre glowered at him.

“It is with me.” She growled and roughly unbuttoned his shirt — a few of his buttons popping off and clanking as they landed. Feyre didn’t want to imagine how much they cost. They were probably made of platinum.

“Darling, don’t take your jealousy out on my Armani.” Rhysand said, laughter lacing his voice as he shrugged out of his shirt. He walked over to the side of her room where her desk laid and hung his shirt on the back of her chair so it wouldn’t wrinkle.

He stepped out of his shoes, and then the clicking of his belt unbuckling filled the room, followed by the swishing of his pants.

And then he was naked in front of her and it became a little harder for Feyre to breathe.

Her mouth watered a bit at the sight of his erection — a little bead of liquid pooling at the tip.

He looked so fucking confident as he walked over to her, as if they were in his room.

“You know,” Feyre said, looking up at him. “My lock is broken. It only works like 50% of the time.”

Rhys placed two hands on her exposed arms and turned her around, his hand leaving her skin to remove her dress.

“I was never one to shy away from a little exhibitionism,” Rhys whispered into her ear as he unzipped her dress slowly. “Love, why the fuck are you wearing this rag? We break up and you lose all sense of fashion?”

Feyre rolled her eyes.

“I have more important things to spend my money on, like rent.”

She shivered as he nudged the sleeves of her shoulders and the dress pooled by her feet. Feyre stood in only her heels and little black lace thong — goose bumps pebbled her skin, but soon Rhysands large, warm hands covered her breasts. He pulled her back into his chest and Feyre bit her lip at the contact — his hardened chest hot against her back. She could feel his muscles straining against her. His thick dick pressing into the round globes of her ass.

“Feyre Darling,” He said, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, and he moved his hips against hers. “I can put you up in a lovely little townhouse. Apartment. Penthouse. Whatever you want. I can give you the loveliest clothes and jewels. All of your needs will be met,” He grasped her earlobe between his teeth and tugged sharply. “All the orgasms you want.”

Hurt pricked at her heart and the next words were out of her mouth before she could stop them.

“As your whore?”

Rhysand tensed as he processed her words — an arrow aimed straight for his heart, and a little worm of regret wiggled inside of her. Probably from the tequila.

“Of course not.”

“If you can give me all that, then why can’t we be together?” Feyre asked, looking over her shoulder at him to find his violet eyes burning brightly.

“We will be — one day. You need to trust me,” Rhys said in a harsh whisper as his fingers dug deeper into her flesh. “Fuck, I missed having you in my arms.”

“I missed your touch.” Feyre admitted in a whisper and reached to claim his lips.

As they kissed one of his hands reached down to clasp between her thighs. He groaned against her lips and he muttered, “I fucking knew you were wet for me. I remember your needy little pussy. How my tongue and fingers were just never enough — you craved my cock. And you would get into such a cute little frenzy, coming over and over on my tongue and still desperate for more. My insatiable little love.”

“I love the way you feel in me.” Feyre said, leaning her head back on his shoulder as he worked her over her lacy thong. His other hand teasing her pink nipple.

Rhys dipped his head to kiss her neck.

“The first time we were together you came from my cock alone. All you had to do was take my entire cock and you drenched the bed from your orgasm.”

A gush of liquid seeped out of her and onto his hand — Feyre could feel him smirking against her neck.

“And now all you need are my words to come. Feyre Darling, don’t tell me my voice alone does it for you.”

“Your voice only does it for yourself, darling.” Feyre replied mockingly, and she delighted in the little chuckle that pulled from his lips.

“To be determined, my love.”

Feyre was about to respond, but the tearing of fabric and the friction of her panties being pulled against her clit caused a small scream to sound from her lips.

“I’ll buy you a new pair,” Rhys grasped her earlobe between his teeth and tugged. “Made of silk.”

“Sounds impractical.”

“I like the sound of silk when it tears, darling.”

His fingers were hot as they slid through her wet folds, teasing her bud.

“I can’t wait to be inside of your sweet pussy,” Rhys said hotly into her ear. “But first I want you on your knees.”

He twisted and maneuvered her body until she was kneeling in front of him, dressed in only her strappy black heels.

She remembered that he had a thing for them. For a brief moment she was stunned by how much she remembered about him, but soon became enamored by his erection bobbing in front of her eyes.

She hated that her mouth watered just by looking at it.

It bobbed in front of her long and thick and she longed to have it between her thighs, filling her up as he took her at a brutal pace.

Feyre roughly grabbed the base of his cock and used her tongue to trace the vein that ran the length of him. All the way until she got to the weeping head and swirled her tongue, collecting all the liquid that beaded at his tip.

His fingers pulled at her hair, enough for Feyre to feel slight stings on her scalp.

Her pussy clenched in response.

She looked up at him with wide eyes as her mouth wrapped around his head, her cheeks already hollowing out.

His sharp features were ridden with lust, and his eyes were burning bright as he gazed down at her and Feyre felt so fucking desireable.

Their eyes locked as Feyre slowly took more of him, and Rhys gathered her hair into his hand like a ponytail.

“Your mouth is so pretty wrapped around me,” Rhysand said, slowly starting to move his hips. “Isn’t this a better use of your mouth, darling? Rather than saying all those filthy words?”

Feyre narrowed her eyes at him and scraped over his skin with her teeth, delighting in the way he shivered at the contact.

“That wasn’t very nice, Feyre Darling. I’m going to show you the proper use of your mouth.” His voice was heavy with lust and he snapped his hips into her face, her nose nudging his pelvis.

Drool pooled down her chin as she choked on his cock, which was moving furiously in and out of her mouth. His balls slapping against her chin

Feyre was so turned on and drenched that liquid coated the insides of her thighs, loving how Rhys was slowly losing control and that it was because of her. He was always so annoyingly in control of how he appeared to others — always in a mask, showing people the arrogant prick he pretended to be. Well, mostly pretended to be. She saw the depth of him when they were together and it completely captured her heart. He was still an arrogant prick, but there was more.

She moaned around his hot cock, slippery from her mouth, and he held her mouth to the base of his cock as he shot down her throat — Feyre swallowed most of it, some of it falling down her chin as he pulled out of her mouth.

A line of spit connecting her lips to the head of his dick.

Her tongue collecting the smear of semen on her lips. She used the back of her hand to wipe away the drool on her chin.

Feyre panted with her hands on her knees, staring up at Rhysand and wondering what it was about him that drove her wild with lust. The thought of doing what they just did with anyone else made her want to shrivel up.

“Stop thinking.” Rhys said, helping her to her feet. Her knees wobbly like jelly and his lips claimed hers, his tongue sweeping through her mouth.

Feyre moaned knowing he could taste himself.

When he pulled away Feyre said, “Tamlin makes me brush my teeth and rinse with Listerine before kissing me after—”

A hard slap cracked against her ass, and Feyre screamed in shock and pleasure. His hand roughly massaging her cheek to ease her stinging flesh.

“Don’t,” Rhys growled through clenched teeth. “Talk about him.”

“Jealous?” Feyre asked, wanting to provoke him.

“He doesn’t fucking deserve you.”

“And you do?”

“No,” Rhysand said, kissing her again. “But I’m fucking taking you anyway.”

He picked her up and tossed her on the bed — Feyre felt dizzy for a second before spreading her legs for him, her knees high as her heels dug into her quilt.

She didn’t care that he was seeing how soaking wet and ready she was for him. Didn’t care that it was probably stroking his ego in a way she would probably never hear the end of.

“Then fucking take me and make me forget about him.”

Rhys leaned over and placed one hand on the outside of her hip and he traced the fingers of his free hand over her exposed sex, playing with her and making a show of her wetness.

His lips turned up into a self-satisfied smirk as he plunged a long finger inside of her, and Feyre could feel herself desperately clenching at the contact. Wanting to tighten around something much bigger than his finger.

A strangled scream got caught in her throat as he curved his finger to hit the spot within her that only he knew about.

“They’re going to hear you, love.” Rhys said, preening at the fact that he was causing her restraint to slip.

“I can’t,” Feyre panted as he pulled out and slid two fingers inside of her, hitting her sensitive spot again. “Help it,” She tried to glare at him. “You know that.”

He always teased her about how vocal she was during sex, but the sounds went right to his cock and his ego. He loved her sounds, and he loved making her scream.

His smirk split his face as her hips ground against his hands, fruitlessly trying to take control of her own pleasure.

Rhys took pity on her and pressed his thumb into her swollen clit. His hand and her hips moving together as Feyre rode out her wave of pleasure.

As soon as she fell limp and sweaty against her bed Rhys slid up her body and aligned his hard cock against her dripping, glistening cunt. One arm propped next to her head and one hand gripping her plush thigh.

The round head of his cock slipped through the puffy lips of her pussy and nudged at her entrance.

Feyre watched as his teeth bit his lip as he slowly sunk into her, her hands came up to grip his tight ass, pushing him further into her stretching cunt.

“Yes.” Feyre said in a breathy moan, feeling deliciously full as his cock filled her to the hilt, her eyes falling shut.

She waited for him to move, to start thrusting in and out of her in the way that she liked, to lift her hips in the way that altered her universe.

He stayed still.

Feyre opened her eyes to see Rhysand gazing down at her.

“I want you to remember this Feyre,” He said in a dark, full voice. “How fucking perfectly I fit inside of you. Feel that no other man’s cock can have you squirming with need and satisfy you at the same time.”

He pulled out and pushed back in, tilting her hips in the way she desired.

“This is the only cock that belongs between your legs, Feyre Darling.”

One of her hands reached up and slid into his hair, gripping it tightly in a way that made him grin.

“Mine is the only pussy for you.” Feyre muttered as she lifted her hips to meet his thrusts — urging him to go faster. Harder.

“Possessive, love?” Rhys smirked, quickening his pace as her hips bucked against his.

“Yes,” Feyre admitted, tightening her grip in his locks. She loved making a mess of his hair. “I hate thinking about you and her. Together.”

Rhys growled and adjusted his position, gaining more leverage on the bed and thrusting harder.

Feyre gasped at the movement and opened her legs wider.

He grabbed one of her legs and bent it to her chest before placing it over his shoulder. Her heel sticking up in the air.

She cried out as he hit deeper inside of her — his hips creating a delicious friction as they ground against hers. “I pretend she’s you,” Rhys whispered harshly into her ear. “It’s the only way I can do it.”

Feyre gasped and clenched around his cock as he drove into her.

Their flesh coming together sounded through her room, wet and sharp and frantic.

His sweat slicked chest leaned closer to hers, pulling her leg back further and causing him to go deeper.

“Harder.” Feyre gasped, overwhelmed with how tight and full she felt — her nails unintentionally digging into his skin which caused him to grunt, his hips faltered as he drilled into her harder.

“I’m gonna come.” Rhys grunted, his hips pumping faster. He looked at her with a question in his eyes and Feyre said, “Come inside of me. I want to feel you,” Feyre brought his head down so that their foreheads were touching and stared him in the eyes as she tightly, intentionally clenched around him. “I need to feel you.”

Feyre turned her head so that her lips were on his neck. Her teeth right next to his pulse as she bit down.

Rhys shuddered as he pushed forward again, the walls of her pussy clenching his cock as he came deep inside of her — shallowly rocking against her. He brought his hand between their hips and pressed his thumb against her aching clit, so that both of them were coming at the same time.

He pulled back, and fell onto the bed next to her, breathless.

Their sweaty bodies pressed against each other, and their heavy, humid pants were loud in the air

“Feyre Darling,” Rhys said, and Feyre turned her head to find him already gazing at her. “I hope you didn’t think that was it for tonight.”

— —

They didn’t sleep.

Rhysand took her two more times before the early morning sun started to stream through her windows — and it wasn’t until Rhysand pushed off the bed that Feyre realized she was drifting off.

“You’re leaving.” Feyre said, her eyes gliding along the length of his bronze body. Tucking away the mental image so she wouldn’t forget — She took note of every mark she left on him. The claw marks down his back. The half-moon indents on his ass cheeks. The purple love bite on his throat.

“Believe me,” Rhys said, walking over to her desk and picking up his pants from the night before. “I would rather stay in bed with you all day.”

“You can.” Feyre blurted out as she sat up, clutching her quilt and sheets to her chest. Suddenly feeling shy.

Rhys turned to face her fully, his cock shamelessly on full display. His abs well defined and tight and Feyre found herself wanting to lick them.

She quickly looked away and accidentally caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and cringed.

Rats nest. She could hear her mothers voice in her ear venomously whispering about her hair, tangled and messy from the friction of her pillow. Her full smoky makeup smeared black around her eyes, and lipstick stained on her lips and chin.

She cursed herself for letting Mor do her makeup.

“You look beautiful, Feyre Darling.” Rhysand said as he stepped into his pants.

“I look—”

“Well and truly fucked,” Rhys smirked as he shrugged into his shirt. “By me.”

Feyre fought the urge to roll her eyes.

Her nails nervously picking at a stitch on her quilt.

“What happens now?” Feyre asked, gazing at him and tucking her chin onto her bent knees.

He stared at her for a moment, tucking his shirt into his pants before finding his belt.

He looked absurdly good on no sleep — his black hair deliciously tousled, and a heady warmth spread through her knowing she was the one who tousled his hair. And his skin perfectly tan and even, not even purple smudges under his eyes.

Rhys looked like a fucking cologne ad.

Feyre could see him on the page of a magazine modeling for some overpriced scent that smelled like sex and citrus. He did always smell good. But he didn’t need the money.

He took a step closer to her after putting his shoes on, and as he approached her he lifted her face to look up at him. His fingers touching her chin delicately.

“What happens now is that you trust me, Feyre Darling. Even though you shouldn’t.”

Rhys brought their mouths together and Feyre felt a bit of her anxiety melt away.

“When will I see you again?” She asked.

“You still have my number?” Rhys asked and Feyre nodded in confirmation. “I’ll call you, but there is something I need you to know, love,” Rhys laid his forehead against hers, and Feyre felt her heart stop and tumble into her stomach at the intensity of his gaze. “I’ll be thinking about you the entire time we are apart.”

——

Tagging: @sakurakittypeach @nikethestatue @tswaney17 @impossiblescissorspeachpaper @feyredarlinq @alwayssara @nyxreads @rinadragomir @secretpuppyflower @captainbrucebanner @ultadverb @irisesforelain @shedoessoshedoes @magnolia-blossom87 @sheena-beene @nivem565 @casuallivi @rhysiedarling @elain99 @athena-85 @swankii-art-teacher @reverie-tales @jujugirlfrombookstore @shadowflorecita @shy-violet-soul

#feysand #feysand month #feysandmonth22 #feysand month 2022 #feysand fic #feysand fanfiction #feyre archeron #rhysand #fawnandshadows writing #fawnandshadows fanfic #I listened to you’re so vain 48 hours straight as I wrote this😀#which isn’t a bad thing #I love feysand so much #I want to write more of them 🥹#this was my first time writing feysand so please be nice 🫶🏻#feysand month 22 #feyre x rhysand #Feyre x rhys

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the-lonelybarricade · 1 year

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Ten Past Five - Feysand NYE

It's six days late, but it's finally here. My Feysand New Years Eve fic, delayed because this mofo is a whopping 12k words. This is my very late contribution to @unofficialfeysandmonth2022 Day 31: Holiday. Please enjoy!!

Read on AO3 • Feysand Month Masterlist

Ladies and gentlemen, please note that due to extended strike action, train services will be ending early this evening. If you are leaving this station for London Marylebone, please check your returning train times. The last train leaving from London Marylebone will be at ten past five.

“Great,” Feyre sighed under her breath. She rolled up the soaked sleeves of her coat to glimpse her wrist watch.

Noon already.

She’d woken up late.

Well. Actually, she’d woken up with plenty of time to get to the station. But she’d turned her bleary eyes towards her bathroom door, and the distance between the bed and the shower had felt unconquerable. It had taken her so long to convince herself to get out of bed that she’d needed to brush her teeth in the shower to leave the house on time. Then it hadn’t even occurred to Feyre that she’d rushed out the door without her umbrella—not until she’d taken the elevator to the ground floor and walked out her building's front steps. There was no reminder quite like being assaulted by a winter downpour. If she’d turned back around to grab it, she would have missed her train.

So there Feyre was, shivering on the platform, waiting for her train to arrive, praying she could handle things in central London quickly enough to be back at Marylebone by ten past five.

She hated Tamlin for insisting they meet in person to do this.

She hated him more for insisting it be in central London on New Year’s Eve.

She hated him the most for using this as an excuse to hatch some braindead plan to win her back.

Feyre wondered if he thought she was stupid. He’d probably suspected she’d have no plans, since all of her New Years plans had been with him and his friends. Perhaps he’d expected to find her sad and lonely and willing to forgive him. She could already hear his pitch to come home with him to celebrate. We could start over, Feyre. New Year, new us. A fresh start. As long as she didn’t let him talk, she could just give him back his house key and get home in time to snuggle on the sofa with a glass of wine. Tamlin was too vain to believe it, but Feyre was actually relieved she wouldn’t need to be spending another New Year with his stuck up friends, watching Ianthe hang herself all over him.

Good riddance.

The trains were, thankfully, not very busy, nor was the Underground. And Feyre used the idle travel time to rehearse everything she would say to Tamlin.

No, I don’t want a coffee. No, I don’t want anything to eat. I just want to give you this house key, and I want you to give me mine, and I never want to see you again.

Firm. Direct. Unwavering.

“Hey, Feyre.”

It all fell apart when she saw him standing in the cafe, smile nervous. Charming. He was wearing the cream knit jumper she’d gotten for him last year. The one he never wore, despite how Feyre expressed her fondness for the look. It softened his demeanor.

“Hi Tamlin.” She forced a smile, trying not to look at his eyes, or his loose, shoulder length hair. Things that were easy to miss.

“I got you a coffee,” he said, holding up the cup with that stupid bashful smile. It was the same one he’d flashed her the day they’d first met, when he’d come up to her at her art gallery and admitted he had only attended because he thought she was pretty. “Two pumps of vanilla, one pump of hazelnut. Whipped cream. Just how you like it.”

Feyre stiffly accepted the drink. There was the first part of her plan up in flames. A drink kept her in his proximity, forced them to sit down. She knew that was his plan—he’d never bothered with gestures like this before. She hadn’t even realized he knew her favorite order, and she wasn’t suddenly touched to find out he did know it.

It meant that ignorance wasn’t the reason he’d never bothered, he just hadn’t cared.

The paper cup stung her palms as she followed him to a table in the corner. She could at least take the drink with her when she left. She didn’t need to stay and drink it.

“Here,” Feyre said, placing the cup on the table so she could dig into her purse and withdraw the small jewelry bag she’d placed his key into. She dangled it by the strings towards him. “Your house key.”

Tamlin stared at the small velvet bag. He started to reach for it, then paused. “Feyre…”

“Take it, Tam. And give me back mine.”

“Don’t you want to talk about this?” He asked, leaned back in his seat. Leaving her holding that key in the air, cheeks burning the longer she held onto it.

“No,” she snapped, flinging the bag at him. The weighted metal inside slapped against his chest, any satisfying thunk she imagined in her head blanketed by the soft, thick sweater. He was frowning as he caught it in his hands. “There’s nothing to talk about,” she added. “We’re broken up, Tamlin.”

She watched his hands curl around the bag. She scooched back in her seat.

“It was one drunken—”

“Don’t,” she interrupted. “Don’t you dare make excuses. Just give me back my house key, and we’ll go our separate ways.”

The bag was now smothered in his fist. She watched him clench his jaw, then look back at the bag. He took a deep breath, intentionally relaxing the tension in his posture on the exhale. He tried another smile, but it was poisoned by the irritation in his eyes. “Come on. It’s New Year, Feyre.” He tilted his head, both brows raised high. “Remember all the plans we made? I know Lucien and Alis will miss you tonight.”

“I have plans,” she said flatly. Tamlin jerked his head up, eyebrows bunching into a tight knot. Feyre stared him down, channeling her best impression of Nesta’s cold, cruel indifference. She reached carefully for the coffee cup, hoping that moving her body would help conceal her shaking hands. “So if you could give me back my house key, I can be on my way.”

“Who are your plans with?” He asked.

She remembered watching Tamlin shave his face in the mornings, gliding his sharp razor carefully over his cheek, applying just the right of pressure so that he didn’t nick his skin. She could feel him, pressing that edge into his voice. Not too much—not enough to wound, not yet. But she could feel the razor on her skin, a warning that she was entering dangerous territory.

“You don’t know them.” She made a point to pull up her sleeve, check her watch. Nearly three already. She needed an hour to get back to Marylebone, but she was fine. She wouldn’t be here longer than two hours.

“A man?” He pressed, words gritted. “Is there someone else?”

Feyre sighed. “Tamlin. Just give me back my key.”

“Maybe I’ll hold onto it,” he said. “You’ll never know what will happen if you’re inviting strange men around, Feyre. If anything happens, I’ll be able to help—”

“Tamlin. Let me make this clear. If you show up to my house and let yourself in, I will have you arrested. Do you understand?” She stared at him. Levelly. “Give me my fucking key back.”

“I’m just trying to look out for you, Feyre,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

“You know what?” Feyre stood up from the table, coffee cup in hand. She momentarily debated dumping it on top of his head. “It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee. I’ll be staying with a friend until I get my locks changed.”

A bluff, but he didn’t need to know that.

Tamlin scrambled to his feet. “Feyre.”

She was already striding to the door.

“Feyre, let me at least walk you to the station. ”

She ignored him entirely, keeping her head fixed on the cafe doors. People were likely turning their heads at the commotion—the British public always knew how to act scandalized by an outburst. But she didn’t dare acknowledge the cutting looks. They could think what they wanted. She wasn’t going to indulge him any longer, he wasn’t worth the headache.

“I have an umbrella—”

He was cut off by the door slamming shut. Once she was out, Feyre turned abruptly, the opposite way of the station. Knowing Tamlin, he wouldn’t be far behind, and she was at least going to ensure she wasn’t easy to follow. She took a sharp corner so that she’d be out of sight when he came out of the cafe, rationalizing that it was better to waste time walking in a big circle than risk him catching up to her.

And perhaps he wasn’t even trying to chase her down, but that didn’t stop her from ducking into the first Underground Station she saw. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t on the right line. She had plenty of time, and Tamlin certainly wouldn’t be looking for her on the District Line—not when walking a block to a station on the Central line would have saved her half the time.

Worth it. Worth it to avoid that angry knit of his eyebrows and delay the onslaught of texts that would come through once she was above ground.

Three thirty.

It was fine. She had plenty of time. She’d get to Embankment by four, Marylebone by four thirty, and would be halfway home before the final train even left Marylebone.

She fished out her phone once she was in the train carriage, juggling her coat and the coffee cup in her other hand, so that she could pull up a picture of the tube map to ensure she’d mentally mapped out her journey correctly. It calmed her to have a plan, and to know that there was no rush. Though, in the Underground, it was hard not to rush, with the rapid flow of traffic. When she stepped off the train at Embankment, she couldn’t help falling into the familiar habit of long, quick strides, staring up at the signs to direct her towards the Northern Bakerloo line.

Feyre promptly turned in that direction, glancing at her phone to double check the time. Five past four, just as she’d guessed. The status board said everything was running on time. It was all going to be—

“Shit!”

Her phone clattered to the ground as she smacked into the shoulder of someone who had cut in front of her. The impact jolted his arm so that his phone went flying, too, as did her coffee.

All over his expensive looking shirt.

“Oh my god,” she squeaked, pulling to a halt in the middle of the busy tunnel, earning nasty glances from the passersby. “I am so sorry.”

He grimaced as he looked at his shirt, then lifted his head to look at Feyre.

To her horror, the man she had just assaulted with coffee was utterly gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous she would ordinarily be mortified to even make eye contact with—And, oh, he was making eye contact. Unblinking, soul-bearing eye contact. It felt like magnets clashing, the pull so strong it would have been impossible to look anywhere else. She probably should have been saying more, but she was too fascinated by the array of colors in his eyes, some hues so deep they were nearly purple.

She could feel herself forgetting how to speak as he smiled, lifting a hand to wave away the apology. “It’s fine. I hated this shirt anyway.”

God, what did she even say?

He reached down, risking his hand against the foot traffic to retrieve both of their phones. He stood back up in one fluid, graceful movement. “It’s my fault, anyway. I shouldn’t have cut in front of you like that.” Raven-black hair fell across his forehead as he gazed down at the pair of black screens in his hand—both remarkably unscathed, considering neither of them had phone cases.

Their phones were an identical make, she noticed. Feyre supposed that meant she and the handsome stranger had similar tastes. As if it wasn’t the most popular phone brand. It was nice to delude herself that this was some clandestine meeting, as fleeting as it would be.

“Here you are,” he said, deep blue eyes sparkling as he extended the phone towards her. Their fingers brushed as she accepted it and oh no his hands were so big. She didn’t want to notice—she hated that she did. She hated that she couldn’t stop noticing. Long, elegant fingers, with a large vein running over the back of his hand.

“Sorry again,” Feyre said. She told herself she was only breathless because she had been rushing through the station. Her face was so hot, and she dreaded to think about how obvious her blush probably was.

It was normal to be flustered after spilling coffee on someone.

“Don’t be.” He winked. “Running into you was worth a ruined shirt, any day.”

Feyre turned her face to hide her blush. “I should, um..”

He laughed. “Happy New Years, darling,” he said, offering her a small wave before he took off, swallowed back into the flow of the crowd before she could even ask him his name. Not that she would have been brave enough to. Feyre was certain if she learned anything else about him, it would ruin her life, burning inside her mind along with the knowledge that she would never see him again.

It was better to keep the beautiful man nameless.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Feyre assimilated back into the crowd. She clicked the power button on her phone to glance at the time, only to stop abruptly at the picture on the lock screen. Feyre recognized those smiling violet eyes immediately, sandwiched between two grinning men with equally dark, rugged features.

This wasn’t her phone.

Feyre turned, searching for that dark of hair in the crowd, but he had already disappeared toward the Westbound Circle Line. Heart pounding in her chest, Feyre doubled back, elbowing her way through the crowd to chase after him. She didn’t even have a name to call out, not that it would have been heard over the roaring tunnels and the screeching wheels against the track.

The train now approaching is to Edgware Road. Please stand back from the platform edge.

She broke onto the platform where a train was already waiting, doors open as passengers filtered inside. She scanned left and right, but there was no tall, charming stranger in sight.

Doors closing.

BeepBeepBeepBeepBeep

Fuck. Feyre panicked. Her train ticket home was on that phone.

She jumped on.

And as the doors closed, she immediately felt foolish. He wasn’t in this carriage, and she had no idea if he had even gotten on this train. At least the carriages on the Circle Line were all connected. It gave her a chance of finding him as she carefully navigated to the next carriage, then the next. No purple eyes. No coffee stained shirts.

The next station is Westminster. Change for the Jubilee Line. Exit for Westminster Abbey, Houses of Parliament and Riverboat Services from Westminster Pier.

Mind the gap between the train and the platform.

Had he gotten off? Feyre had no idea, but she’d resolved to follow this carriage all the way to the back of the train.

The next station is St. James Park…

The next station is Victoria…

The next station is Stone Square…

The next station is South Kensington…

God, what was she doing? He could have gotten off at any of the stops. The final train home was leaving in thirty minutes, and she still needed to get to Marylebone. It wasn’t like the man had stolen her phone on purpose—no thief would offer their own phone as collateral. Once she was off the Underground, she could call her number, and they could meet each other another time to exchange phones.

Resigned, Feyre got off at South Kensington. It would be cutting it close. She would need to switch lines and double back, then up, but she might make it if she hurried. With an exasperated huff, she followed the signs towards the Piccadilly line, trying to forget the handsome stranger for the time being.

This is South Kensington. Change for the Piccadilly Line. Exit for the Museums and Royal Albert Hall. This is a Circle Line train via High Street Kensington and Paddington.

Rhysand stepped off the train, relieved to be almost home so that he could change out of his sticky shirt. Not that he particularly minded. Not when blue eyes lingered in the back of his mind, so wide he could mistake them for the sea. They reminded him of staring out at St. Ives Bay as a child, when their family would go on holiday in the summer. Warm and beautiful and dangerous.

Mor would laugh when he told her the story. He had run into Feyre Archeron, of all people, on the Underground. She clearly hadn’t recognized him, or she simply didn’t know who he was. If he was bolder he would have said something.

But he’d looked into those eyes and he’d felt like he couldn’t breathe, let alone say anything articulate. Feyre fucking Archeron, red-cheeked and just as devastatingly beautiful as he remembered. He wondered where she’d been going, if he should have pretended he was going that direction, too. Hell, he would have followed her to the other end of London just to listen to her talk. He was endlessly curious to know what she’d been doing. Why was she in a rush? What did it sound like, when her lips shaped his name?

Rhys wasn’t certain they’d ever actually spoken a word to each other. Tamlin seemed to very intentionally avoid him at any work functions, and Rhysand had always been content to do the same. He’d gotten used to pretending Tamlin didn’t exist outside of when it was strictly necessary. That was, until Tamlin had started showing up to parties with Feyre Archeron on his arm. Then he became harder to ignore. Rhys had last seen her only a few weeks ago, at their work Christmas party. She’d been wearing a red velvet, long-sleeved dress, which in itself could have been a living commentary on how men were first driven to sin. It hugged her hips the way Tamlin should have been doing—adoringly. Like it wanted to worship every inch of her.

Where did someone like Tamlin even find someone like her?

Rhys had been wondering that question for almost a year now, and he supposed he had his answer. In the Underground, apparently. He’d been paying so much attention to his phone that he hadn’t even seen her until they crashed into each other.

What had he even been looking at, again?

Rhys tapped his card on the reader, following the gates out of the station before he pulled his phone from his pocket to remind himself what he’d even been in the middle of doing before his mind had become tangled up in Feyre Archeron.

There she was again. Smiling at him.

He blinked, half expecting the image was some strange mental projection because he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

But—no. That was a picture of Feyre on the lock screen, her arm thrown around Lucien Vanserra’s shoulder. Interesting that it wasn’t Tamlin. And more interesting, that he seemed to have ended up with her phone in their collision.

That was when the Whatsapp messages started coming in.

Tamlin: Feyre.

Tamlin: Where did you go?

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: Come back. Let’s talk about this.

Tamlin: If you don’t want to come to New Years, I can come to yours. Just the two of us.

Tamlin: Feyre???

Tamlin: I’m sorry. Tell me where you are and I’ll bring you your key.

Tamlin: Who are your plans with?

Tamlin: Are you with them right now?

Tamlin: Is there someone else already? Did our relationship really mean that little to you?

Jesus Christ. Rhysand could venture a guess as to why Feyre was in such a rush when he ran into her. Knowing he was likely overstepping, Rhys held down the most recent text so he could type out the reply: Hey buddy. Ten messages is a little overkill, don’t you think? Maybe you should leave Feyre alone.

The response was immediate.

Tamlin: Who is this???

Rhys stared, wondering how far he could take this before he crossed a line that Feyre wouldn’t let him come back from. When the phone began ringing, he couldn’t resist answering.

“Hello,” He greeted smoothly. “Feyre Archeron’s phone, how may I be of assistance?”

“Who the fuck is this?”

“I was about to ask the same,” he said. “This number isn’t saved in Feyre’s phone.”

“Put Feyre on.”

“Feyre darling is a bit occupied at the moment. I would be happy to take a message, though.”

“... Is this fucking Rhysand?”

“Ah, so she’s told you about me? I’m flattered to know I’m not the only one who’s been telling all my friends about her.”

“Rhysand, I swear to—”

“Oh, what’s that? You’re ready to go darling? I’ll be right there. Hate to cut this call short, but I’m needed elsewhere. Hope you have a happy new year.”

He quickly clicked the end button, marveling at what he’d just done. Knowing he shouldn’t—knowing he’d already invaded too much of her life already—Rhysand clicked on the home button, just to see what would happen.

It unlocked immediately. Rhys could guess why.

No secrets between us, right Fey?

He’d overheard Tamlin say that to her once at a party. He’d missed the context, but the tone with which he’d said it, the condescension, had immediately curdled his stomach.

Rhys shouldn’t. But fuck, did he want to. It was right there. Everything he could possibly wish to learn about the girl he’d been dreaming about, literally at his fingertips.

Okay. Wait. There were some things that he did need to do—like adding himself on Whatsapp so he could send her a message.

Hey! This is Rhysand. Looks like we accidentally swapped phones in the Underground. When you get this, please call this number. We can meet up and switch them back.

Her conversation with Tamlin was right there below his own name. Maybe he could tell himself that his thumb had slipped.

And—oops. The conversation opened. There was the slew of texts that had just come through, but if he scrolled up, he could see more.

Feyre: I am stopping by the post office today to send your house key. Please return mine.

Tamlin: Post office? Why? Let’s meet in person.

Feyre: No. Send it in the mail.

Tamlin: I don’t trust the mail. I don’t want you to lose my house key.

Feyre: If it gets lost, I’ll pay for a replacement.

Tamlin: Let’s meet tomorrow. That cafe by Mile End?

Feyre: Tomorrow’s New Years Eve, Tamlin. Let’s at least meet next week.

Tamlin: You know what? Why don’t I come swing by your place and drop the key off.

Feyre: Mile End is fine. I’ll meet you at 2.

Bastard. Rhys felt less guilty about involving himself.

And maybe he could admit that he himself wasn’t much better than Tamlin, with the way he kept scrolling through their conversations. He wanted to know more about her, what she was like when she was in love, the things that made her happy.

There wasn’t a lot of substance to her conversations with Tamlin. Feyre was clever—and funny. Rhysand found himself laughing under his breath at the dry humor she often used to combat Tamlin’s abrasiveness. She was a treasure, and each of Tamlin’s low effort responses left a bitter taste in his mouth.

The jealousy burning in Rhysand’s chest was ugly. He knew that.

But god it wounded Rhys, in his soul, to know that the bastard hadn’t even appreciated what he’d had. Tamlin didn’t ask after her very often, and when he did it was always demanding. Where are you?? Show me. Rhys was fairly certain he’d blow Feyre’s mind with just a simple Good morning, beautiful.

The bright side is it meant there were many pictures of Feyre out and about, usually holding a random number of fingers at his request. A “peace sign” selfie in front of St. James Street. A wide-eyed mirror shot when she was brushing her teeth, toothpaste foaming at the corner of her mouth. Feyre beaming in front of a canvas, paint splattered on her cheeks like a smattering of freckles.

And when she was in bed. Naked.

Rhys had to sit down when he came across that conversation.

It was a picture of Feyre sprawled in her bed, wearing the tiniest pair of sleeping shorts he had ever seen.The angle was downturned, focused mostly on her breasts, emphasized by the way she beautifully arched her back. Rhys was losing his mind imagining precisely what she would look like melting underneath his touch, sliding his hands along her spine while he sampled every inch of the skin on display.

And—fuck.

He was glad he was sitting, or the next one would have taken him to his knees. Feyre sat in a chair, her legs spread open to show off her glistening pussy. Her fingers were posed at her clit, and her mouth was tilted into a taunting smirk that could have convinced him to do anything she asked. Anything to taste those perfect pink lips—either of them. He would have traded his entire life away, just to have been in that room to see her in person.

His throat went dry. Did she even know how much power she had?

She was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and she was owed someone who would crawl through broken glass if it meant earning a smile.

Tamlin had never deserved her. No one would ever deserve her.

God, he wanted to try to.

Rhysand called his phone.

This is Marylebone. Change here for National Rail Services.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

It was 5:05, and she had only just stepped onto the Underground platform.

Feyre ran, even knowing there was no way she was going to make her train in time. Not when she still needed to buy a ticket. She pushed to the left on the escalator, taking them two at a time. When she burst out of the gates, her eyes darted immediately to the departure board.

5:08.

Please say it’s delayed, please say it’s delayed, please say it’s…

Platform A. On time.

Fuck. Feyre barrelled to the ticket kiosk, frantically stamping in her destination with the pad of her finger.

5:09.

The train was at the other end of the station. She knew, even as she continued to the payment screen, that she wouldn’t make it in time. There was no way.

Her phone started ringing.

No—it wasn’t her phone. But that was her number on the screen.

“Hello?”

“Is this Feyre?”

Oh god. He knew her name. It only just occurred to her that her phone wasn’t password protected because of Tamlin’s rule about not hiding secrets from each other. What do you have on your phone that you don’t want me to see?

Nothing. But she had plenty that she didn’t want a complete stranger to see. Especially one that looked like him.

“Um, yes. This is Feyre. And you are…?”

“Rhysand,” he said with a small laugh. “It appears we swapped phones when we ran into one another.”

“Yeah,” she breathed, watching the LED clock switch to 5:10. In the distance, a whistle blew, and her train pulled out of the station. “I, uh… I’m sorry that I spilled coffee on you then stole your phone. I promise I’m usually better behaved.”

“... Are you okay?” She could hear the frown in his voice

“No, I…” she pinched her nose, holding back tears. “Sorry. You called at a bad time. I just missed my train.”

“Oh.”

Fuck, she probably sounded so dramatic. She could practically hear what he was thinking: So what, Feyre? Wait for the next one.

“It’s the last one of the day,” she explained. “I… need to figure out where I’m going to stay tonight. And I can’t call any of my friends because….”

“I have your phone?”

“Right,” she said on a soft sigh.

“Where are you?”

Feyre hesitated to answer. This man was still a stranger, and she had just admitted that she was in a vulnerable position.

Please note that due to extended strike action, train services from London Marylebone will be running on a restricted schedule. Please check your journey before travelling.

“London Marylebone?” He guessed. Feyre’s face felt hot. “Feyre, stay where you are. Please. I’ll be there in, fuck. Thirty minutes, max. Just… don’t go anywhere. Okay? If you’re bored, my passcode is 1221. I’m on my way.”

“Rhys—”

The phone call abruptly ended.

Feyre stared at the lock screen, at the man sat in the center who now had a name. Rhysand. He looked so familiar to her, but she couldn’t quite place why.

With a shaky breath, she slid the screen over and typed in the numbers.

1 - 2 - 2 - 1.

To her surprise, the phone actually unlocked.

A stranger had given her full access to his life, just like that? If you’re bored, he’d said. What was off limits? She scrolled aimlessly through his apps, but he didn’t exactly have any mindless games she could play.

Curious, she went to his photos. What kind of person was he? She could only imagine that someone that handsome had to be a major asshole. She was picturing a homage to the material. Fancy cars and Rolex watches. Pictures of beautiful women traipsing his house in lingerie. He probably collected them like Christmas wrapping paper—pretty, until they’d served their purpose.

She hadn’t expected all the pictures of the stars. Real stars. Some of them she recognized, like the picture of deep space that the Hubble Telescope had recently come out with. She only knew about it because Hank Green had talked about it on her For You Page. But Feyre got the feeling, as she continued scrolling through his camera roll, that he hadn’t gotten his news from Tiktok.

He was an astronomy nerd.

Feyre couldn’t help smiling at the revelation. And the fact that there were no pictures of naked women, just Rhysand and the same two men from his lock screen. On a skiing trip, at the gym, midair at a trampoline park. She might have wavered on those last two photos, zooming in to get a closer glimpse at Rhys in a loose black tank top. Covered in sweat that glazed over his toned chest and broad biceps.

She didn’t think the sight of someone upside down in midair would ever be sexually arousing, but Rhysand certainly challenged that prospect. Gravity pulled at his shirt gratuitously, exposing a tightly corded abdomen that she wanted to run her fingers over. And her tongue, if Feyre was being honest with herself.

Though, to her dismay, there was one woman who appeared quite regularly in his photos. Long blonde locks and big I-know-you-want-to-fuck-me brown eyes. She was exactly the kind of beautiful she imagined would be suitable for someone like Rhysand. There were plenty of pictures of them together, hugging and laughing and pulling silly faces. They looked happy.

She’d never properly met this man, but she could admit she was burning with jealousy.

Especially when she scrolled far back enough to find a picture of Rhysand fresh out of the shower. He’d taken a picture in the foggy glass, one hand sliding through his wet hair, eyebrows quirked in a way that begged, should I drop the towel?

Please drop it, please drop it, please—

Feyre swiped to the next photo and quickly locked the screen, letting it go black before anyone could walk behind the bench to see what she’d just been staring at. Even if it was gone, the picture burned in her mind.

She’d thought romance novels had been exaggerated.

It was wrong to compare. It was wrong to even look. But…

Feyre unlocked the phone again.

Dear God.

He was fisting his erection at the base. From using that single fist as a size reference, it looked like a second fist wouldn’t have been enough to cover the rest. Ferye had seen his hands, she knew that they dwarfed her own. Would she even be able to wrap her hand around it? Or her—

No. She couldn’t let herself fantasize about being on her knees for a man who hadn’t even consented to being seen naked. Who probably had a very lovely blonde girlfriend. Oh my god, what was she doing? Why was she like this?

She locked the phone again, pushing it into her pocket to curb the urge to keep looking at that photo. It was far too tempting to zoom in on that flushed head and imagine…

Feyre walked stiffly towards the toilets. She needed to splash cold water in her face and get a grip. One stunning man with vibrant eyes, and she’d suddenly lost touch of all her sensibilities.

Meeting her own eyes in the mirror was an effort, how was she going to manage when it was Rhysand? Her cheeks were stained with the evidence of what she’d just been doing, and she took more than a few minutes to press cold water on them, willing the flush away. Unfortunately the water couldn’t wash away the image that had imprinted in her brain.

Rhysand’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

I’m here. Please tell me you haven’t left.

Her feet felt heavier than they’d been when she came into the bathroom. Feyre had to drag them out the door, back into the station center. There were no more trains running, so it was practically empty save for the man who stood beneath the departure board, craning his neck in every direction as he searched for her.

No—his phone.

Feyre was just an inconvenience to him.

He turned at her approach, and she watched his expression melt from concern to relief.

“Thank god,” he said, closing the distance between them much faster than Feyre would have liked. There was still a coffee stain over the entire front of his shirt, not that he seemed to notice or care. “I was so worried you’d left.”

“There was nowhere to leave to,” was her response. She couldn’t help cringing at the complaint in her voice. It was meant to be a light hearted comment.

He laughed softly. “Right—sorry about your train,” he said, sounding as if he didn’t mean it at all. She supposed it was more convenient for him this way.

Feyre couldn’t help feeling annoyed at the growing smile on his face at the expense of her misfortune, even when it made her heart flutter to see that smile up close. It helped to know he was at least a little bit of an asshole. It made it easier to find peace with his absurdly attractive face and his obscenely large—

“Anyway.” Feyre reached into her pocket, holding his phone out to him. “I believe this is yours.”

“Ah, yes.” He responded in kind, retrieving her phone from his front pocket. It was torture, watching the way his fingers curled around the plastic, sending her mind elsewhere as he clicked the power button. A picture of herself and Lucien lit up the once black screen. “Lucien Vanserra?”

Feyre blinked in surprise. “You know him?”

“I work with him,” Rhysand said. There was a note to his voice that made it unclear how he felt about that statement. “Are you and he…?”

Oh. Oh. “No!” She said quickly. “No, not at all, Lucien’s just a…” Friend, she almost said. But she wanted to make sure he believed her. So she said, “He’s my brother-in-law.”

Lucien was the reason she’d ever met Tamlin to begin with. He’d invited his work colleagues to her art gallery as a favor, assuring at least a few of them would make for wealthy clientele. She wondered if that meant Rhysand had been invited, too, and she hadn’t even noticed. If he worked with Lucien, he also worked with Tamlin. How many times had they come so close to meeting and simply passed right by?

The tragedy of her life was that if he had come up to her at the art gallery, she would have forgotten all about the cute blonde man who’d been flirting with her. Tamlin who? She wouldn’t have even kept his business card.

“I see,” Rhys said. Did she imagine the relief in his voice?

In any case, Rhysand must not know Lucien particularly well, if he was unaware that Lucien was married to Elain. Feyre swore every other sentence that came out of his mouth began with, Elain and I… They were the kind of lovesick that always made Feyre wonder what was broken between herself and Tamlin. So many things, it turned out.

For someone who was so eager to get his phone back, he tucked into his pocket with remarkably little attention. For all he knew, she could have wiped the entire thing clean, or used his virtual wallet to buy herself something lavish or—anything. And he put it away without even looking, staring at her like it didn’t matter to him at all.

“Seeing as you’ve missed your train home, would you like to come celebrate New Years with me? And my friends, that is. The five of us are just getting together for some drinks at my place. It’s very casual.”

“Oh,” Feyre reeled back, trying to process this change of direction. “Uh…”

“I know. I know. We’re strangers. You don’t really know me. But I know Lucien—call him up. I’m certain he’d vouch for me.”

She hesitated. Yes, she wanted to say. But… going to his house? Meeting his friends? It was too much, even if she was attracted to him. “I don’t know Rhysand…”

“Rhys,” He said. “Call me Rhys, please.”

“Rhys,” she corrected, not missing the way his gaze flickered to her mouth.

“Do you have anywhere you can stay?” He pressed.

Feyre bit her lip. The only person she could think to stay with would be Tamlin. Either that or risk an extortionate hotel room.

“Okay.” It was quiet. Resigned. But she wouldn’t have thought so from Rhysand’s triumphant grin.

“Good.” She could tell he meant it. Rhysand extended his hand towards her. “Come on. It’s not far, but we’ll have to go back through the Underground.”

She took it, not really knowing why. His fingers curled around hers and didn’t let go. Instead he smiled, lifted his arm over her head, and spun her, like it was a dance as he guided her back toward the Underground gate.

Smooth. Feyre could give him that much. But she hadn’t forgotten the blonde girl she’d seen in his phone.

“Tell me Feyre,” he purred once they stepped onto the right hand side of the escalator. He turned so that he was facing her, still taller despite being on the lower step. “Anything about yourself. Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Um. I’m an artist?”

“I know,” he said, something unreadable in his eyes. “Lucien invited me to your first gallery show. I have one of your pieces hanging in my living room.”

Feyre gasped. She’d sold all of five pieces that evening. Three to extended family, one to Tamlin, and one to… “That was you?”

She’d never met the anonymous buyer, and she’d always assumed it was another one of her family members trying to encourage her.

If she didn’t know better, she would have said that was a blush growing on Rhysand’s cheeks. “It’s one of my favorite pieces,” he admitted.

Feyre could remember it well. She’d painted the night sky—stars and the moon and clouds and just endless, dark sky. She’d never really known why, just that she’d been staring out her window one night and something had seemed to call to her. She supposed, as an astronomy nerd, the image had called to him, too.

“Your turn,” she said.

Rhys cocked his head, searching her face. “Pardon?”

“I told you something about myself.” They stepped off the escalator and descended back into the winding tunnels. “Now it’s your turn to tell me something about you.”

He seemed to think for a long moment. “I’m an older brother,” he said. “I technically only have one sibling.”

“Technically?”

“Well…” Rhys stared ahead as they turned onto the platform, eyes flush with warmth. “I have one little sister. She’s in Year 11. But I also have two friends that I consider brothers. And a cousin who might as well count, too.”

“So many people to look after,” Feyre teased. “You must be very responsible.”

“I believe you are the first to hold that opinion of me, Feyre darling.” Rhysand leaned close, so that his breath tickled her ear as he whispered, “Your turn.”

And so it went, back and forth trading little facts about themselves, until they stepped off the train at South Kensington. There was no way. Had he gotten off at this station when she’d been trying to chase him down?

“Not too far from here,” he murmured. “Though it does look like it’s coming down pretty hard.”

Rhysand withdrew an umbrella from his jacket pocket, pausing like he was waiting for Feyre to do the same.

“I…” She didn’t want to explain that she’d been in such a rush not to miss her train that she’d left it at home. How dysfunctional must she look to him?

He shrugged. “All the better. Come share with me.”

No, certainly not all the better. Rhys opened his arm, encouraging Feyre to tuck herself against his body so they could both fit beneath the umbrella that was really only big enough for one person.

They stepped into the rain and we’re immediately embraced by the sound of water droplets thudding against the plastic. Rhys used the arm around her shoulder to protectively tug her closer, practically shoving her face into his neck.

“You smell like coffee,” she blurted before she could help herself.

His chest shook beneath his laugh. “That’s my cologne, Eau de Feyre. It’s limited edition, unless you’re feeling up to making this a regular occasion.”

“What, spilling my coffee on you in the Underground?”

He hummed. “Something like that.”

They took a turn onto a gated road. It was lit intermittently by streetlights that had been reduced to a fuzzy glow in the rain. Rhys pulled them to a stop in front of a white terraced house and while Feyre was marveling at the size of it, he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “Could you grab my keys for me, darling? They’re in the front pocket of my trousers.”

With one hand holding the umbrella and the other wrapped securely around her, Feyre supposed there was no other way to retrieve the keys unless they broke apart. But Rhysand clearly didn’t want to risk either of them getting wet.

And maybe… maybe he was flirting with her. It was too dark to gauge his expression, but she heard his breath hitch when she slid her hands against his leg. She’d seen in the photos that he was toned, though it hadn’t truly prepared her for the feeling of dragging her palm over the hard, powerful muscles.

Rhysand had gone stiff. When her fingertips skimmed his inner thigh, he made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a groan. Feyre knew the second they stepped inside, he would be able to see that her face was bright red. Why did they make men’s pockets so much deeper than women’s?

At last, her fingers slipped around the keyring. She withdrew quickly, stumbling out of his grip. Rain droplets splattered on the back of her neck and the icy cold that lurched down her spine was a welcome reprieve from his touch.

Rhys extended the umbrella towards her, trading it for his keys. Feyre watched, numbly, as he quickly ducked into the rain to unlock his front door. He glanced over his shoulder as the door pushed open, somehow unbothered by the rain pressing into his skin, its weight dragging inky wisps of hair across his forehead. The heavy downpour turned the rest of the world to static, narrowing her entire world down until it was just Rhysand and the stupid smile on his face as light flooded from inside, haloing his back.

“Welcome home, Feyre darling.”

She swallowed past a lump forming in her throat. Nerves. Butterfly shaped nerves that were beating furiously to escape.

It was warm inside. Her fingers tingled at the sudden change in temperature, and she struggled with the mechanism of the umbrella until Rhys laughed softly and took it from her, easing it back into its compact form with a click of a button. Sly.

“Can I take your coat?”

His house was big for central London. But the entryway was too small for the heat in his gaze as Feyre breathed, “Yes please.”

Rhys stepped behind her, fingers brushing against her collarbone as he grasped the collar of her coat. As smoothly as he had twirled her in the station, Rhys glided the coat off her shoulders and hung it on a nearby hook.

“I should probably text my cousin,” he said. “Ask her to bring some spare clothes.”

Feyre turned, prepared to tell him that wasn’t necessary, but he had already opened his phone. His mouth fell open at what lay on the screen and—too late—Feyre remembered the picture she’d been staring at when his phone had last been unlocked.

“Rhys…”

Fuck, what did she even say?

He clicked his phone shut, jaw working. With anger? It was hard to read the darkness in his expression.

Feyre tried to steady herself for the tension she could see coiling in his body, preparing for an outburst as Rhys pocketed his phone and prowled forward. She instinctively took a step back, only for her shoulders to meet the unforgiving wood of his front door.

“Curious about me, Feyre?” He braced a hand on either side of her, gripping the door frame. “Did you find anything interesting when you went looking through my phone?”

“You gave me the passcode,” she whispered. “You never said…”

“No,” Rhys agreed. He was staring at her mouth. “I wanted you to do whatever you pleased.” The butterfly was back, a pulse in her throat that she couldn’t escape. Rhys met her eyes. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I wasn’t looking for anything!” She insisted. “I just…”

A sly smile quirked at his lips, close enough that his breath caressed her lips. “You just found it?”

“Yes,” she said, aware of every inch between them, the distance smaller and smaller.

“Did you like what you found?”

Feyre hesitated. It was an admission she couldn’t come back from.

Just then, the door at her back creaked open.

“Hello?” said a voice tinged with confusion at the unexpected resistance.

Feyre and Rhysand stumbled backwards, clearing room for the blonde woman on the other side. She beamed when she saw them and Feyre’s butterflies turned to stone, dropping into a pit deep inside her chest.

“Rhys!” The blonde greeted pleasantly. “Who’s this?”

“Ah…” Rhys touched a hand to the back of his neck. “Mor, this is Feyre. Feyre, this is Mor.”

“So nice to meet you Feyre!” The blonde threw her arms around Feyre’s shoulders like they’d been friends all their lives. “Are you going to be celebrating with us?”

“Yes,” Rhys answered before Feyre could make up an excuse and book it out of there.

Sleeping on a park bench sounded really nice, suddenly.

“Oh good! The boys are just behind me. We raided everyone’s liquor cabinet.” She turned towards Feyre and grinned conspiratorially. “I hope you like drinking.”

“Oy!” A deep, masculine voice called. “Get the door!”

Mor turned on her heel, pulling the door open to two bulking men that Feyre instantly recognized from Rhysand’s lockscreen. They were carrying a storage crate filled with bottles of alcohol. The one at the front, with wavy hair that fell to his shoulder, paused when he saw Feyre. He raised a slit eyebrow. “Who’s this?”

Rhysand placed a hand on her shoulder. “This is Feyre. My guest for the evening. Feyre, these are the brothers I told you about. Cassian and Azriel.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you.”

They were both flickering their eyes to Rhys, then back to Feyre, in some silent communication between friends. Rhysand’s eyes had gone wide, practically pleading. Whatever that look meant, Cassian cut her a toothy grin.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said. “The artist herself.”

Mor’s hands flew to cover her mouth. “I forgot! You made that painting!”

“What happened to your shirt?” That was the one at the back, the darker one. Broodier in expression, his eyes narrowed on the coffee stain.

“Collision on the Underground,” Rhys answered noncommittally. His hand, still clasped on Feyre’s shoulder, squeezed lightly. “Why don’t you guys set up while I show Feyre to the guest bedroom, hmm?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Cassian muttered.

Rhys ignored them as he led Feyre down the hall, then up the stairs. The voice of that blonde woman—the trill of her laughter—followed them. Rhysand gripped the banister so tightly Feyre could see the whites of his knuckles.

What was Ferye even doing there?

He paused in front of a white door, sliding his hands into his pockets as he braced himself against the door frame. “This one's yours.” He nodded his head. “I’m the one across. I’m just going to change into a new shirt, but take your time if you want to freshen up. Hell, take a bath if you want.”

“I’m—”

“I’ll get you a towel. There should be some shampoo in the ensuite—”

“Rhys, I’m fine. Thank you.”

He looked sheepish. “Let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Um…” He’d already started to turn, but whirled immediately at the sound. Feyre stared at the soaked sleeves of her jumper. Rain and sweat had made the fabric unbearably itchy. “Would I be able to borrow a top? If it’s too invasive, don’t worry—”

“No,” he interrupted. “No, not at all. Here, come with me.”

She followed him across the hall, faltering when he pushed his bedroom open and gestured her in. Rhyand leaned in so he could shut the door behind her. They paused, too close, and she watched his Adam's apple bob as he studied her, then pushed off the door.

Feyre stayed where she was, safe from the thrall of his proximity, as he strode across the room and opened a drawer. “What do you like? Jumpers, t-shirts, hoodies? The heating’s on, but still it’s a bit…” He glanced over his shoulder at her, and Feyre finally noticed the flush crawling up the golden brown column of his throat. “It’s a bit chilly.”

“Um.” Feyre shifted weight on her feet. “Just a hoodie or a jumper is fine.”

Rhysand nodded towards the drawer. “Take your pick. I’ll change in the bathroom.”

Once he was gone, it was like a weight cut loose. Feyre ventured forward without worrying about that violet gaze assessing her as she ran her hand over the various soft fabrics. They were all so neatly folded. Her fingers snagged on a navy knit jumper.

“Rhys? Wouldn’t Mor mind that I’m wearing your clothes?”

“What?” Even muffled through the door, she could hear the frown in his voice. “No. Why would Mor care?”

“Well…” Feyre hesitated, absently thumbing the soft cable pattern. “Mor seems lovely, but personally I would be bothered by some random girl wearing my boyfriend's clothes.”

Something clattered to the floor in the bathroom.

Then the door tore open, and Rhys was standing there with wide eyes. “What?”

The entire front of his shirt was unbuttoned, falling open to expose his muscular chest and stomach. Her hands fell away from the drawer. “Maybe it’s just a girl thing,” she said defensively.

“Mor and I…” Rhys wavered as he ran both hands through his hair. Feyre tried not to pay attention to the way his muscles flexed in response. “We’re cousins.”

That stunned her into silence. Rhys had mentioned his cousin on the train, but he hadn’t assigned a name to her, she’d just assumed that the woman in his phone was his girlfriend.

“So you’re not…?”

“I’m single, for the record.” he said. Holding her eyes in a way that made her mouth go dry.

“Right.” She hastily turned back to the drawer, busying herself with unfolding the jumper. “Well. Good to know.”

“Feyre.”

The floorboards creaked behind her. She didn’t turn around.

He said behind her, so close the skin on the back of her neck tingled, “A thought for a though, darling?”

“What?”

“Tell me something that you’re thinking.” His voice was a soft seduction at her ear. “In exchange, I’ll do the same.”

He still wasn’t touching her. Feyre was too afraid to turn around to see just how close he was—certainly close enough that his body heat warmed her back. “I’m thinking… that this jumper must have been expensive.”

Rhysand’s laugh scraped against the thin space between them. “I’m thinking that it would look exquisite on you.”

“I’m thinking that it would feel like wearing a cloud.”

“I’m thinking that I would prefer you didn’t wear it.”

She dropped the fabric back into the drawer. “Oh—”

“I would prefer you didn’t wear anything at all.”

Oh. Thank god his back was to her. Feyre had never had much of a poker face, and she was certain her expression would have given everything away. “I think that doesn’t sound like very appropriate attire for a New Years party.”

“It’s appropriate attire for my bedroom.” He leaned closer, lips a phantom touch on her neck. “Don’t you think?”

Feyre bit her lip at the invitation. Rhysand had braced a large hand along the curve of her hip, ever-so-polite considering the proposition he’d just made. She believed if she told him no, he’d drop it and take them back downstairs like nothing had happened.

She needed to know that.

“I think that your friends are waiting for us.”

His hand fell away. Feyre turned, unsurprised to see Rhys had taken a step away from her, and now wore an easy smile as he slid his hands into his pockets. “Best not keep them waiting then, hmm?”

Feyre buried her nails into her palm. It didn’t sting nearly as much as the immediate, burning regret. Oblivious, Rhys disappeared back into the bathroom—presumably to give her privacy to change into his sweater.

What was she doing?

In the midst of some divine intervention, she was at an absurdly attractive man’s house, in his bedroom, and she turned him down because… why? Because she wanted to ensure he understood the word no, even when all she’d wanted to say was yes. Yes, yes, yes. And so what, if that was all that he wanted? It was normal for people to have one night stands on New Years. As a newly single woman, she should be having fun.

Feyre peeled off her jumper with a small huff. Maybe it was for the better. This whole ordeal was so unexpected, she wasn’t exactly prepared for it. Her underwear was mismatched and not exactly interesting. Not to mention it was the middle of winter, so she hadn’t bothered shaving regularly since the breakup.

Midway through pulling Rhysand’s jumper over her head, Feyre faltered, and instead she pressed her face against the fabric to smother a groan of frustration. At least she was right—It was like a cloud. A soft, Rhysand-scented cloud that only reminded her what an idiot she was. And a coward.

There was a small knock on the bathroom door. “Feyre? Am I good to come out?”

Right. Time to pull herself together.

“Yeah.”

Rhys emerged. Just like before, his eyes went wide as he looked at her. He stumbled to such a clumsy stop that he had to catch himself against the doorframe.

“Thought for a thought, Rhys?” She asked. Feyre watched him work his throat, like words were suddenly an effort for him. Steeling her nerves, she said, “I’ll go first.”

That first step towards him was the most difficult. It became easier after she saw the way he was watching—like a man who’d seen God. The muscles in his arms strained as his grip tightened on the wood. It gave her confidence to keep going.

“I’m thinking that actually, you were right about the appropriate bedroom attire. And…” her voice shook, she hoped under the guise of raspiness. She came to a stop in front of him, quietly impressed by the way he held her gaze as she whispered, “I think you’re overdressed.”

As if it was permission, his eyes finally flickered downwards, surveying the swell of her breasts held up by a simple black bra.

He spoke slowly, voice like gravel. “I think you should get on my bed.”

“Or what?”

Rhys shifted his weight—the only warning she had before he lunged forward, hooking his arm around her waist to pull her against his body. He said roughly, “Or I won’t be able to make it that far.”

If he intended to let her try, he didn’t do a very good job of it. His grip was iron tight, and there was no going anywhere from him but closer. Not that she wanted to. Feyre tangled her hands in his hair, still damp from the rain, and tugged him down until their lips touched.

It was gentle—softer than she expected, given the way his body was trembling. She could feel in the way he was holding her, that careful control not to come on too hard, too fast. But she had slammed into him on the Underground, she’d seen him naked before she knew his name, she’d missed her train chasing after him. There was nothing about this that had been controlled. What was the point in being reckless, in going home with a stranger and standing topless in his bedroom, if they weren’t going to throw their whole selves at each other?

Feyre wound her fingers through his hair until she wore the locks like rings, creating the perfect handle for her to tug, saying, give me more. Give me you. With their bodies flush, she could feel Rhysand harden against her, and she groaned into his mouth.

That sound snapped whatever leash he held on himself. Rhys surged forward until Feyre’s back hit the bedroom wall. The next second, he dropped to his knees, keeping her captive in his arms so he could lay praise with his lips over her bare stomach. She squeaked in surprise, earning a wicked laugh in the back of his throat.

“I warned you,” he murmured as he nuzzled a path from her navel to the waistband of her leggings. “I wasn’t going to make it to the bed.”

Calluses scraped her skin as Rhysand’s hands trailed over the shape of her waist with the same measure of reverence she’d seen sculpters use to meld clay. They stopped at the top of her leggings, fingers curling beneath the fabric, tugging to create enough space so he could taste her hip bone.

From the way he passionately sucked and bit and licked at her skin, Feyre knew she was going to be covered in lovebites. Tamlin had always left bruises, too, but… these felt different. She’d never been undressed like this. On his knees in front of her, peeling her leggings down slowly so he could savor every inch of skin, Rhysand’s mouth felt less like a claiming and more like a devout man paying his oblation.

He stopped at her knees, perhaps sensing she was losing her balance, and tugged the rest of the way down. Feyre had never felt so exposed, standing bare before a man on his knees. It didn’t help that she couldn’t see his face—his eyes were downturned as his hands folded delicately behind each of her ankles. He slid them up, slowly, over her calves, behind her knees, raising until they fell just below her bum.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, staring at her with what could only be described as awe. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Feyre.”

Suddenly her throat felt tight. “Rhys.”

Her hands tangled back into his hair, trying to urge him up so she could kiss him again.

Rhys resisted in favor of nuzzling the junction between her hip and thigh. “I want to taste you,” he whispered—pleaded. She hesitated, thinking about how little she had prepared, but Rhysand’s fingers were digging into her backside, and he was mouth at her inner thigh with a hunger she had never seen in anyone.

She dropped her hands, a silent concession that gave Rhys all the permission he needed. Her hands scrambled against the wall for balance, something to hold herself above water, as all the coiled tension finally snapped. Rhys sprung forward, hands guiding her hips to meet him halfway as he buried his face into her cunt.

Rhysand’s nose touched her first, guiding unhurried through the seam of her lips as the flat of his tongue followed. He held her eyes as he licked her—for as long as he could, anyway, until his eyes fluttered shut, and he licked her again. And again. Slow, broad licks that curled warmth up her spine.

She wasn’t used to this. Tamlin had been willing to go down on her, but it had always been a part of quid-pro-quo. He had never been particularly enthusiastic about it—certainly not Rhys, grunting against her skin, utterly lost in what he was doing. He was kissing her with open mouthed passion, savoring her on his tongue, and when he moaned—a wet, garbled sound—it offered just enough friction that her hips bucked forward of her own accord, grinding against his tongue.

Rhys moaned again, this time in encouragement. She rolled her hips experimentally, and his hands pushed her forward, desperate, practically begging Feyre to keep going. To fuck herself on his tongue. Rhysand groaned when she did it again, craning his head back to cover a better surface area as his mouth and tongue worked feverishly against her canting hips.

His grip tightened when her legs started to shake, weakened by the frenzied heat growing in her stomach, twining up her chest, spinning her heartbeat into overdrive. Could he hear that roaring drumbeat in her ear?

She didn’t think so, not over his own slurping, debauched sounds as he sucked her clit into his mouth and lashed his tongue mercilessly, flicking upwards against her sensitive bud, until her legs threatened to collapse.

“Rhys,” she gasped, pulling on his hair. Feyre tried to pull her hips away and he growled, tugging her closer. “Rhys, I’m gonna—”

Fall, she was going to say. But Rhysand had grabbed her hips and pulled her downwards, refusing to let go or detach his mouth until her knees hit the floor. His grip on her hips guided her forwards, and the next thing she knew she was hovering over his face.

She hesitated for a moment. And Rhys, in his frustration, broke away to gasp, raggedly, “Fuck me, Feyre.”

It was those eyes—wide and dilated—that encouraged her to put her weight on him and move again with abandon. He was such a mess. Hair ruffled from her fingers, full lips swollen and glistening with arousal that coated his cheeks, his chin, his neck. And the second she started grinding against him, he groaned in veneration, used his grip on her hips to help her go faster, harder, while he buried his tongue inside her.

Feyre covered her mouth to smother the scream building in her throat, knowing Rhysand’s friends were just a floor below. But Rhysand released her hip to grab her arm, pulling it away with a wild glint in his eye. The message was clear: I want to hear to you.

Oh god. Oh god, she was coming and—”Rhys,” she gasped as her entire body shuddered, tightening and releasing like a phantom fist around her chest. She whimpered from the force of it, her vision went spotty, and for a moment all she could see were those violet eyes through the soul-bearing pleasure that crested white-hot through her body.

He continued licking her, slower now. Easing her down until he gently guided her off his face.

“Beautiful,” he repeated, rolling them until he was hovering over her. “Fuck, Feyre. You’re incredible. Look at what a mess you made of me.”

Rhys pushed his hips so she could feel the erection tenting his trouser. God, he was still clothed.

“You have a choice to make now,” he murmured, wet mouth close enough that she could smell her own arousal. “I can fuck you right here, on the floor, or you can get on my bed and I can fuck you there.”

He pressed a hot, open mouthed kiss to her lips before he climbed off her body. “I’ll be right back.”

Feyre laid on the floor, stunned, as Rhys quickly disappeared into the bathroom. She heard a drawer open, followed by the sound of a wrapper and—oh. She scrambled to her feet, shaky as they were, and quickly sat on the bed.

Rhysand came out of the bathroom naked, condom ready, smirking at her with those violet eyes as he surveyed the way she’d spread herself on his bed. “Good choice.”

She tried—and failed—not to stare too long at his bobbing erection as he stalked towards her. Feyre had assumed the picture had been an exaggeration, a manipulation of angles. And it was, to some degree, but…

“My eyes are up here, darling,” he teased, pulling her gaze up with a gentle finger beneath her chin. His lips found hers again, and he took his time savoring the taste just as he had done between her legs. When he broke away, they were both panting. “Lay back for me, Feyre.”

Rhysand followed her retreat, pressing a knee to the bed, then the other. Feyre watched, breathless, as crawl over her body, taking his time to drag his eyes—and sometimes his lips—over every inch of skin. “You are devastating,” he said once their faces were level. “How are you even real?”

“How am I real?” His face was still coated in her arousal. He hadn’t even bothered to wash it off his face and as he kissed her again, slow enough that she could taste herself, she had the feeling he didn’t want to.

The head of his cocked nudged her entrance, and Feyre’s gasp was quickly smothered by another kiss as Rhys pushed in, and in, and in. Careful not to hurt her. He grunted into her mouth as he seated himself all the way and ground his hips, nudging the dull head against a cluster of nerves that had Feyre gasping again. He used the sound as an invitation for his tongue and a light thrust, directly into that same spot.

Feyre keened, burying her fingers into scalp, another set into his shoulder blade. He liked it rough, she gathered, as she scraped her nails along his back, she earned herself another thrust. Harder, enough for stars to flood her vision.

He broke this kiss to gasp, “Fuck.” Then, on choked air, “Where did you come from?”

“Marylebone,” she whispered. He laughed. A wonderful breath against her collarbone.

“Thank god for Marylebone.” He kissed her again. “Thank god you missed your train.”

“Thank god I-ah—”

She watched his eyes darken at the sound. “What was that, darling?”

Smug prick.

“Thank god I spilled—”

Feyre cut herself off again, this time in a squeak of surprise as Rhys slipped a hand between their bodies and rubbed his fingers, tauntingly, against her still sensitive clit. “Sorry, fuck. The sounds you make, Feyre.” He nipped her pulse, grinding relentlessly into that single spot. “You have no idea what they’re doing to me.”

She had some idea, if it was anything close to what he was doing to her. She scrambled her nails at his back, uncertain if she was begging for more or less, just something as her mind slipped away from coherency.

“Pretty like this,” he was saying, still driving his hips forward. “So fucking pretty coming undone on my cock, Feyre.”

The sound in the back of her throat was embarrassingly close to a whimper.

“Are you going to come for me?” He whispered, nuzzling her jaw.

Downstairs, she heard Rhysand’s friends begin shouting, Ten… Nine…

Rhys groaned, speeding up the small, tight circles around her clit. “I know exactly how I want to start the New Year,” he said roughly.

The heat was building again, near unbearably this time. “Rhys,” she panted.

Five… four…

“That’s it, Feyre.” His hips had sped up, too, and she could feel his heart hammering against her own as her fingers tangled in his hair.

Three… two…

Rhysand’s mouth surged forward, claiming her lips in one final, breathless kiss as that hot wave of pressure crested and light bursted into fractals behind Feyre’s eyes. She felt herself clench tightly around him, and Rhys groaned into her mouth as he slammed into the hilt and stilled, holding Feyre flush against him.

For a moment, all she could hear was the drumbeat of their pulses, the soft cymbal of their colliding breaths.

Rhys broke the kiss to whisper, “Happy New Year, Feyre darling.”

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

Feyre muttered some incoherent complaint at the vibrating sound, turning over to snuggle closer into the warm beneath the covers.

Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt. Brzzzzzt.

She groaned, which earned a soft, sleep-addled chuckle.

The bed shifted as Rhysand rolled over, and a moment later she heard his raspy voice purr, “Feyre Archeron’s phone.”

Feyre lifted her head at that, peeling her bleary eyes open to Rhysand’s handsome smile. He’d propped himself up on one elbow and her phone was braced leisurely against his ear with two fingers.

“Mmm. Feyre darling’s sleeping. She can’t come to the phone right now.”

“Rhys,” she said softly, swallowing her terror at the idea that he was talking to Tamlin. Who else would call her this early, on New Years Day? “Hang up, don’t indulge him.”

He raised a brow, likely at whatever hostile words Tamlin was lashing at him on the other side. “Feyre’s house key?” Rhys reached out an arm, ran his fingers slowly along Feyre’s shoulder, down her collarbone. “Well of course she wasn’t at her house. She was at mine. Post it through my letterbox.”

Rhys hung up, tossing the phone to the bed with an expression of distaste. He glanced up, and must have read the worry in Feyre’s expression because his face instantly softened. “Don’t worry, darling. If he comes by I’ll have Cass and Az answer the door. Have you seen them? They’ll get your house key back.”

Tamlin had gone to her house.

The smile Rhys offered her was gentle. His hand slipped around her shoulder, inviting her to rest her head against his naked chest. She could hear his steady heartbeat as his fingers wound into her hair, stroking soothingly over her scalp. “Thank goodness for the train strikes, hmm?”

“I hear the railways are closed today,” she said, quietly. A subtle way of asking if she could stay. Not just because Tamlin was apparently at her house and the thought of possibly being alone with him made her feel nauseous, but because… she liked it here. And she wanted to meet Rhysand’s friends.

The fingers in her hair paused.

Feyre lifted her head to gauge Rhysand’s expression.

She was met with a shameless grin as he said, “And tomorrow. Actually, I heard they’ll be closed all week.”

#Feysand month #Feysandmonth #Feysandmonth22 #Feysand #Feysand fic #Feysand fanfic #Feysand fanfiction #Rhys x Feyre #Feyre x Rhys #Ten Past Five

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