Nana stood at the back of the fan meeting venue, her heart swelling with pride as she watched her husband on stage. Rafayel looked absolutely stunning—like a prince from a fairy tale with his purple hair catching the lights, his artistic outfit making him look ethereal.
But her pride quickly turned to jealousy.
The fangirls were everywhere, pressing close during the photo session, touching his hands, giggling at everything he said. One even had the audacity to ask for a kiss on the cheek!
Those hands—the ones that held her every night, the ones that fed her macarons, the ones that traced her body in the darkness—were being touched by strangers!
Nana stomped her foot in frustration. She'd come to surprise him, but now she just wanted to leave.
Without even saying hello, she turned and marched out of the venue, her jealousy burning hot.
---
By the time she got home, she'd formulated a plan. A punishment.
If he wanted to be friendly with all those girls in their short dresses, then she'd show him exactly what he was missing at home.
She changed into the shortest dress she owned—a backless number that barely covered her bottom. No bra. Hair down. Then she sprawled on her stomach on their bed with a book and a box of macarons, waiting.
Hours later, she heard the front door open.
"Cutie? I'm home!" Rafayel's voice called out. "I thought I saw you at the venue, but you disappeared—"
He stopped dead in the bedroom doorway.
Nana was lying on her stomach, dress riding up to show her panties, her bare back exposed, casually reading and eating macarons like she wasn't the most tempting sight in the world.
"Cutie..." His voice had gone rough. "What are you wearing?"
"A dress." She didn't look up from her book. "Don't you like it? All those fangirls were wearing short dresses. I thought you might prefer it."
Ah. So that's what this was about.
A smirk curved his lips. He'd been hoping she'd gotten jealous. It was adorable when she pouted.
He walked toward her, reaching out to touch her perfect thigh—
"No touching," she said firmly, moving away.
"Why not, cutie? Are you angry?"
"No! Hmph!" She rolled onto her side, turning away from him. But the movement made her dress ride up even more.
Then she stood and pushed him to sit on the couch, her small hands surprisingly forceful. "You just sit there."
"Cutie—"
"And watch." She moved slowly, deliberately, reaching up to tie her hair in a ponytail. The motion made her dress lift, revealing more skin, and exposed the elegant curve of her neck and back.
Rafayel groaned. He was already hard from the moment he'd seen her on the bed, but this was torture. He wanted to grab her, throw her down, and claim her immediately.
But he could tell she had something planned. Some kind of punishment for his "crime" of being too friendly at the fan meeting.
"Now," she said, settling on the bed across from him with her box of macarons. "I want you to touch yourself."
His eyes widened. "What?"
"You heard me." She popped a macaron in her mouth, her pink tongue catching a crumb. "Touch yourself. Pleasure yourself. While I watch."
"Cutie, I'd rather touch you—"
"If you don't do it, I won't let you touch me at all tonight." Her voice was firm despite her blush. "I mean it."
Fuck. She was serious.
With a resigned sigh—though secretly thrilled by this game—he unzipped his pants and freed himself. He was already achingly hard, and wrapping his hand around himself felt like relief and torture at once.
"That's it," she encouraged softly, watching him with wide eyes as she ate another macaron. "Show me."
He started stroking slowly, his eyes locked on her. The sight of her in that tiny dress, legs crossed, watching him with innocent curiosity mixed with desire—it was the most erotic thing he'd ever experienced.
"Fuck—cutie—you're so beautiful—" The words tumbled out as his pace increased. "So perfect—so tempting in that dress—"
"Keep going," she whispered, her own face flushed now.
"Can't stop thinking about you—" His hand moved faster. "About being inside you—feeling you—tasting you—"
Her name fell from his lips like a prayer, mixed with curses and groans. He could see her squirming slightly, clearly affected by watching him.
"Nana—cutie—I'm going to—"
"Come for me," she breathed.
He did, his release spilling over his hand and stomach with a groan, more than he expected, dripping down to the base. But even after coming, he was still hard—the sight of her too arousing for his body to calm down.
"So much," she observed, her eyes wide. "And you're still hard..."
"Because you're still sitting there looking like temptation personified." He reached for her. "Now come here. It's my turn."
"What are you going to do?"
"Everything." He pulled her into his lap, positioning her over him. "Going to make you remember who you belong to."
He lowered her slowly onto his length, both of them groaning at the sensation. She was so wet—from watching him, from teasing him—that he slid in easily despite his size.
"So deep," she whimpered, clutching his shoulders.
"That's right." He began moving her, taking control, kissing her deeply. "So deep only I can reach. Only I can fill you like this."
His hands roamed her body, finally getting to touch all the skin that had been taunting him. He unzipped her dress completely, letting it fall away.
"This dress," he growled against her neck. "Backless. No bra. Did you wear this just to torture me?"
"Maybe," she gasped as he thrust up hard. "I was—ah!—jealous! Of those fangirls!"
"Jealous?" He nipped at her shoulder. "Of what?"
"They were touching you! And one asked for a kiss!"
He chuckled, the sound dark and possessive. "You know what I told her? I said my lips belong to my wife. Only my wife."
"Really?" Her eyes were teary now—from emotion and pleasure. "But you looked so happy there—"
"Because I was thinking about coming home to you." He flipped them so she was beneath him, driving deeper. "Every smile was for the fans, but every thought was for you."
"Rafayel—"
"You want to know what else?" He kissed away her tears. "Those fangirls can look all they want. Can dream all they want. But at the end of the day, I come home to you. I make love to you. I belong to you."
"I'm sorry for being jealous—"
"Don't be." He thrust harder, making her cry out. "I love when you're jealous. Love when you get possessive. It means you care."
"I do care—so much—"
"Then let me prove how much I love you." His hand slipped between them to circle her clit. "Let me show you that no one else exists for me. That you're the only one who gets my seed. The only one who'll ever carry my children."
Her eyes widened at the implication, but before she could respond, her orgasm crashed over her. She clenched around him, crying his name, and the sensation triggered his own release.
He buried himself as deep as possible and came with a groan, filling her completely. "Mine," he breathed. "My wife. My bride. My everything. And I'm going to keep filling you until you believe it."
They stayed locked together, breathing hard, covered in sweat and completely satisfied.
"I believe you," she whispered. "I believe you love me."
"Good." He kissed her softly. "Because I do. More than art. More than the ocean. More than anything in this world or the next."
"Even more than your fans?"
"There are no fans when you're in the room. There's only you." He nuzzled into her neck. "My jealous, beautiful, perfect cutie who punishes me by making me watch while she eats macarons."
She giggled despite her exhaustion. "Did you like your punishment?"
"It was torture." He pulled back to look at her, his dual-toned eyes soft. "But I'd endure it a thousand times if it means ending like this. In your arms. Inside you. Completely yours."
"I love you, Rafayel."
"I love you too, Nana. My bride. My muse. My only one."
As they drifted to sleep—still connected, still holding each other—Nana decided that maybe fan meetings weren't so bad.
As long as she got to remind him afterward exactly who he belonged to.
And he was more than happy to be reminded.
Every single time.
🐚🐚🐚