The Tease

Chapter 1

He hears her before he sees her.

The front door clicks shut behind him, and in the dim evening light of their apartment, the sound reaches him first. Soft, lilting laughter, the shuffle of bare feet against tile, the faint clatter of something being set down on the counter. Then, the unmistakable sway of music, low and sultry, humming through the air.

And then, her voice.

“Ohh, look who finally decided to come home.”

He rounds the corner into the kitchen, and there she is. All of her.

The sight that greets him is deliberately ridiculous, indulgent, intoxicating. She stands by the fridge, a carton of cream held loosely in one hand, the other on her hip, posed like she’s caught in some cheeky pin-up photo, all thick curves and soft, dimpled skin. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts. At least, what’s left of it. It must have been loose once, baggy even, but on her, now? It’s a mockery of oversized.

The fabric stretches obscenely across her heavy chest, the neckline dipping low, clinging to the swell of her plump, rounded belly. It’s ridden up high, unable to contain the sheer expanse of her middle, leaving the full, soft curve of her lower stomach exposed. Her thighs are thick, luscious, pressing together, and her ass. God, her ass. Round, full, wide enough to strain the hem of the too-tight shirt, leaving him wondering how she hasn’t split the seams already.

She grins at him, slow and smug, and his fingers twitch at his sides.

“You’re staring.”

His gaze drags up from the heavy rolls stacking at her sides, the thick double chin framing her smirk, to the teasing, mischievous glint in her eye. She’s playing. And she’s playing hard.

He exhales, slow. “You’re putting on a show.”

She hums, stepping forward. The movement is deliberate, her body shifting, swaying, soft flesh bouncing with each step. She’s not just teasing him. She’s testing him.

“I dunno what you mean,” she purrs, her voice mock innocence. She lifts the cream carton to her lips and drinks straight from it, tipping her head back, throat working, her chubby cheeks hollowing slightly as she gulps down mouthfuls.

The sound of her swallowing is quiet, but he hears it, feels it, low in his stomach.

He watches her swallow. Watches her take.

The moment stretches, and when she finally pulls the carton away, she licks her lips, tongue flicking out to catch a stray drop at the corner of her mouth. She knows what she’s doing.

His jaw tightens.

“Messy,” he murmurs.

She giggles, the sound syrupy sweet, and presses a hand to her belly, jiggling it, shaking it, making an absolute display of herself.

“Oops.”

His patience is a thin, fraying wire.

He should walk away. He should turn on his heel, leave her to her games, not let her win. But that’s exactly what she wants. She wants him to break, to snap, to grab her, to put an end to her fun. And as much as he’s itching to, he won’t. Not yet.

So instead, he leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching. Waiting.

“Keep going,” he says, voice calm. “Let’s see how far you’ll take it.”

She falters.

It’s brief, a flicker, a flick of her lashes, but he catches it. That moment of uncertainty. She was expecting him to snap already, to catch her, grab her, end the game before she could push it too far. But instead, he’s handing her the rope, letting her tie the noose herself.

She recovers quickly, grinning, stepping closer. Too close.

Her belly brushes his stomach.

Her hands skim his chest, trailing lower.

“Fine.”

And then, she takes it further.

She shifts, deliberately brushing against him, her weight pressing into his frame just enough to make him feel it. Feel her. He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t so much as flinch.

Her smirk widens. “You’re so quiet.”

“I’m waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you to stop pretending you don’t want me to catch you.”

She pouts, tilting her head, chubby cheek pressing against her shoulder. “So serious.”

He shrugs. “You want me to play?”

She grins. “Maybe.”

Without breaking eye contact, she steps back, just enough to keep him guessing. The cream carton is still in her hand, forgotten for a moment. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, she lifts it again, not to drink, but to tilt it, spilling a thick, velvety ribbon of cream down her chest.

He exhales sharply. “Messy,” he says again, but his voice is different this time.

She gasps, mock scandalized, as the cool liquid trickles down, pooling between the heavy curves of her breasts, streaking down the curve of her belly. “Oops,” she giggles, licking a stray drop from her finger. “Guess I should clean up.”

She waits just long enough to see if he’ll break.

He doesn’t. He watches. Watches as she smears the cream against her skin, her fingers tracing slow, lazy paths down the swell of her stomach, teasing. Daring.

His patience is razor-thin.

And she knows it.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he murmurs, voice lower now.

She hums, stepping closer again, belly brushing him, her lips just inches from his ear. “I hope so.”

His fingers twitch.

One second more.

Then another.

And then, he moves.

Her breath catches the moment he moves.

One second, she’s in control. Teasing, provoking, pushing him just enough to test his limits. The next, she’s in his grasp, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, firm and unyielding.

She barely has time to react before he’s guiding her, forcing her backward, out of the kitchen. His grip isn’t painful, but it’s possessive. Commanding.

“Enough playing,” he growls, voice tight, vibrating with something dark and unrestrained.

Her back hits the hallway wall, breath coming faster. Not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of him.

She shivers.

He leans in, lips just ghosting over hers. “You wanted me to play?” His fingers curl into her waist, claiming. “Now we play my way.”