“Are you ever going to actually put that in your mouth, or are you just going to stare at it?” I asked, leaning back against the kitchen counter, crossing my arms over my chest. Liam looked up from the slice of pizza in his hand, a piece of pepperoni hanging precariously from the tip. He’d been holding it for a solid minute, lost in thought, or maybe just lost in the idea of eating it.
He blinked, startled. “Huh? Oh, yeah. Just… thinking.” He took a bite, chewing slowly, his eyes still a little glazed over. We’d been home for maybe thirty minutes after a long day of moving boxes into our new apartment. The pizza was cold, but it was food, and that was all that mattered right then. Except to me, apparently. I’d eaten my share already, fast and efficient, because I was starving and also because I knew lingering would lead to Liam’s spaced-out eating habits. Which, frankly, were irritating.
“Thinking about what? How many times I’ve told you to stop leaving your socks on the bathroom floor?” I nudged a stray sock with my foot, kicking it further under the sink. It was black, his, probably had been there since we toured the place last week. He’d dropped it, I’d bet money, and just left it. Typical.
He finally swallowed, setting the pizza down on the box. “No. I was thinking about how much work we still have to do. And how we’re going to get the couch up those stairs without scratching the paint.” He gestured vaguely towards the living room, where a large, flat-packed box for a modular sofa sat like a monument to our poor decision-making.
I snorted. “Easy. You do it. I’ll supervise.” I unfolded my arms, walking over to him. He was still sitting at the small kitchen table, slumped, looking defeated. He had flour smudged on his cheek from the pizza box, and his hair was sticking up in a few places. Even tired, he was annoyingly handsome. It was a problem, honestly, because it made it harder to stay mad at him. And right now, I wasn't mad, just… bored. Bored and a little antsy. Moving always got me like that.
I reached out, wiping the flour off his cheek with my thumb. His skin was warm. He leaned into the touch, closing his eyes for a second. “I’m exhausted, Wren. Can’t we just… order more pizza and watch something dumb?”
“No.” My voice was firm, almost a challenge. I liked pushing him. Liked seeing that little spark of annoyance, that flicker of exasperation in his eyes before he gave in. It was a game we played, a dance. I’d push, he’d resist, and eventually, one of us would yield, but never without a fight. Today, I wasn’t planning on yielding. “We have to finish this. It’s our first night in our new place. It has to be perfect.” I knew that was a lie. Nothing was ever perfect, and I didn’t actually care about the couch that much. I just wanted to see what he’d do.
He opened his eyes, looking up at me. He was tired, yes, but there was something else there, too. A shadow of a challenge, perhaps. “Perfect? Wren, the only thing perfect right now is the idea of sleep. You’ve been wound up all day.”
“And you’ve been dragging your feet all day,” I countered, a slight edge to my voice. I wanted to see him stand up, wanted him to match my energy. Wanted him to fight back a little harder. “Come on, let’s go tackle that monster. It’s just a couch.”
He sighed, a deep, put-upon sound. He ran a hand through his already messy hair. “Fine. But if I throw my back out, you’re carrying me to the hospital.” He finally pushed himself up from the table, stretching his arms over his head. His t-shirt, sweat-stained from the day’s labor, rode up, exposing a strip of his lower back. I watched the muscles in his arms flex, the slight ripple under his skin. He was strong, I knew that. Stronger than he let on sometimes. Stronger than he acted right now.
“Deal,” I said, a smile playing on my lips. I turned and walked into the living room, my hips swaying a little more than strictly necessary. I knew he was watching. He always watched. It was part of the game. I stopped in front of the enormous flat-pack box, hands on my hips, surveying it like a general planning a siege. “Alright, General. What’s the plan of attack?”
He walked up behind me, stopping close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off his body. He smelled faintly of sweat and something else, something uniquely Liam, a mix of his cologne and his own natural scent. It was comforting, familiar, and at the moment, also a little irritating in its familiarity. I wanted newness, something to shake things up. “The plan,” he said, his voice closer to my ear than I expected, making a little shiver run down my spine despite myself, “is to find the instructions, pray they’re in English, and then lift this behemoth.”
I turned, tilting my head back to look at him. His eyes were tired, but there was a spark there now, a hint of the man I knew. “Oh, I already found them. And they are. And they’re surprisingly simple. Just… heavy.” I reached out, tracing the outline of his jaw with my finger. His stubble rasped against my skin. “You’re strong, though. You can do it.” I knew I was being manipulative. I knew I was playing on his ego, on his desire to prove himself. And I didn’t care. I wanted to see him in action.
He caught my hand, holding it against his cheek. “You think so?” His voice was a low murmur. He was tired, but he was also starting to respond to the bait. The game was on. “Or are you just trying to get me to do all the heavy lifting?”
“Both,” I admitted, a mischievous grin spreading across my face. “Mostly the second one, if I’m honest. But you can handle it. I have faith in you.” I squeezed his hand, then pulled away, stepping back towards the couch box. “Now, let’s get this done so we can collapse into something that isn’t a cardboard box.” I picked up a small screwdriver that had fallen out of the box earlier, twirling it between my fingers. “I’ll be your trusty assistant.”
He sighed again, but this time it was more of a concession than a complaint. “Fine. My trusty, bossy assistant.” He bent down, grunting as he lifted one end of the box. It was indeed heavy. I watched him strain, his muscles cording under his shirt. It was a good look on him, the effort, the focused determination. He glanced up at me, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. “You could help, you know.”
“I am helping,” I said, feigning innocence. “I’m providing moral support. And I’m holding the screwdriver. Crucial.” I waved the screwdriver around for emphasis. He rolled his eyes, but a small smile touched his lips. He liked our banter, even when it frustrated him. He liked the push and pull. I knew that, too. It was part of why I did it.
We spent the next hour assembling the couch. It was exactly as tedious as I’d expected, but also a strange kind of intimacy. Him grunting, me handing him the wrong screw on purpose, him sighing dramatically, me laughing. We were a well-oiled machine, even if that machine was constantly on the verge of breaking down due to my deliberate incompetence. I kept finding ways to mess up, to slow him down, to make him do more work. I’d hold a piece upside down, or hand him a tool he didn’t need, then look at him with wide, innocent eyes when he glared at me.
“Wren, this piece goes this way,” he said, his voice strained, as he wrestled with a particularly stubborn backrest. I’d been holding it at an odd angle for a full minute, just to see how long it would take him to correct me. “And you’re holding the Allen wrench backwards.”
“Am I?” I looked at the wrench in my hand, then at him. “Oops. My bad.” I didn’t even try to sound apologetic. He just shook his head, a muscle twitching in his jaw. I could tell he was getting close to his limit. That’s where I wanted him. Right on the edge.
Finally, with a triumphant groan, he tightened the last bolt. The couch, a sturdy, dark grey monstrosity, stood proudly in the middle of our living room. It was done. He collapsed onto it, sprawling out, his chest rising and falling heavily. “Never again,” he mumbled into the cushions. “Never again will I buy flat-pack furniture.”
I walked over, surveying his prone form. He was covered in a fine layer of sawdust and sweat, his hair even messier than before. He looked utterly spent. “You did it, though,” I said, perching on the armrest next to his head. “See? I knew you could.”
He opened one eye, glaring at me. “You knew I could, or you knew you could torment me until I did?”
“A little of column A, a little of column B,” I admitted, smiling. I reached out, pulling a stray hair from his forehead. His skin was warm. “You’re cute when you’re annoyed.”
He sighed again, but this one was different. Less tired, more… resigned. Or maybe, just maybe, a little intrigued. He reached up, taking my hand and pulling it down to his lips. He kissed my palm, slowly, deliberately. His stubble scratched against my skin, sending a little jolt through me. “And you’re a menace,” he said, his voice low, his eyes still closed. “A beautiful, infuriating menace.”
I leaned down, pressing a light kiss to his temple. “That’s what you love about me.”
“Don’t you dare tell anyone I said that,” he mumbled, but there was a faint smile playing on his lips. He shifted on the couch, making a space next to him. “Come here. Let’s just… exist for a minute.”
I slid off the armrest and onto the couch next to him, curling up against his side. He wrapped an arm around me, pulling me close. His body was warm, solid. We lay there in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sound the quiet hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the distant city noise filtering through the windows. The apartment was still mostly empty, still smelled of fresh paint and cardboard. But with the couch assembled, it felt a little more like home. A little more like *our* home.
After a while, I stirred, my hand idly tracing patterns on his chest. “I’m still hungry,” I announced, breaking the quiet. It wasn’t entirely true, but I wanted to see his reaction. I wanted to see if he’d try to relax, or if he’d spring into action.
He groaned. “Wren. We just ate pizza. And you ate most of it.”
“That was hours ago,” I said, exaggerating wildly. “And it was cold. I need something warm. Something… savory.” I lifted my head, looking up at him. His eyes were still closed, but he was frowning slightly. “Don’t you want to make me a snack? Your exhausted, long-suffering girlfriend?”
He opened one eye again, a flicker of something, maybe exasperation, maybe amusement, passing through it. “You are neither exhausted nor long-suffering. You’re a bottomless pit who enjoys making me work.”
“True,” I conceded with a grin. “But it’s cute when you work. And I like your cooking.” I batted my eyelashes, knowing how much he hated it when I did that. He let out a long, suffering sigh, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t tell me no. That was the opening I needed.
“Fine,” he mumbled, pushing himself up. He stretched again, his muscles protesting with a soft groan. “What do you want, Princess?”
“Surprise me,” I said, leaning back against the cushions, a smug smile on my face. “But make it good. And quick.”
He shook his head, walking into the kitchen. I heard the clatter of pots and pans, the opening and closing of cupboard doors. He was going to make me something. Just as I’d planned. I lay back, listening to the sounds of him working, a satisfied warmth spreading through me. He always gave in eventually. But the fight, the back and forth, that was the fun part. That was the point.
Ten minutes later, he returned with two steaming bowls of ramen. Instant ramen, obviously, but he’d doctored it up with some leftover chicken, a soft-boiled egg, and a sprinkle of green onions. He set one bowl down on the coffee table in front of me, then sat back down, handing me a fork. “Here. Your highness. Hope it meets your demanding standards.”
I took a bite, savoring the salty broth, the tender chicken. “It’s perfect,” I said, genuinely this time. “Thank you.”
He grunted, already halfway through his own bowl. We ate in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the warmth of the ramen spreading through me. The day had been long, but it was ending on a good note. With Liam, it always did. Even when I pushed him, even when I tested his patience, he always came back. Always gave me what I wanted, eventually. It was a comforting thought.
When we finished, he took our bowls to the kitchen, rinsing them out. I stayed on the couch, stretching out, feeling the day’s fatigue finally settle in. I heard him moving around, the sound of the faucet, the clink of dishes. He came back a few minutes later, toweling off his hands. He stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, watching me.
“You really going to just lie there while I do all the cleaning?” he asked, a hint of challenge in his voice. I could tell he was fishing for a reaction. Fishing for me to rise to the bait, to start the game again.
I smiled, slowly, languidly. “Yep. You said I was your trusty assistant. My assistance for the day is over. Now, I’m the tired, long-suffering girlfriend you mentioned.” I patted the empty space next to me on the couch. “Come here. You can rub my feet.”
He narrowed his eyes, a small smile playing on his lips. He knew I was testing him again. He knew I was pushing for a reaction, for him to take charge, for him to do something more than just passively give in. I saw the spark in his eyes, the shift in his posture. He was done with being tired. He was done with letting me run the show.
He walked over to the couch, but instead of sitting, he leaned over me, placing his hands on either side of my head, trapping me against the cushions. His body was warm, close. His eyes, usually so soft and kind, were now dark, intense. “Oh, you want me to rub your feet, do you?” His voice was a low growl, a rumble that vibrated through my chest. The kind of growl that made my insides clench. This was it. This was what I’d been waiting for.
“Mmm-hmm,” I hummed, tilting my head back, meeting his gaze. My heart was starting to pound, a frantic drum against my ribs. “Unless you have a better idea.” I watched his eyes, watched the subtle shift in their expression. The amusement was gone, replaced by something darker, something possessive. He was no longer playing my game. He was playing his own.
He leaned closer, his breath warm against my cheek. “Oh, I have a much better idea,” he murmured, his lips brushing against mine. “You’ve been pushing me all day, haven’t you? Testing my patience. Seeing how far you can go.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry. “Maybe,” I whispered, a shiver running down my spine. The air around us felt thick, heavy with unspoken desire. He was so close, so dominant. It was heady. No, not heady. It was… thrilling. No. It was just damn good. It was exactly what I wanted. I wanted him to take charge. To stop letting me lead him around.
“You like to be in control, don’t you, Wren?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. His fingers tangled in my hair, pulling gently, tilting my head back further. “You like to call the shots.”
“Sometimes,” I admitted, my voice a little breathy. My eyes were fixed on his, unable to look away. He had me, completely. And I loved it. I loved being caught.
“Well,” he said, his lips finally capturing mine, a slow, deep kiss that stole the air from my lungs. His mouth was soft, then firm, demanding. He kissed me until my head swam, until I was breathless and aching. When he finally pulled back, he looked down at me, his eyes dark with desire. “Tonight, I’m calling the shots.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He leaned down again, kissing my neck, his lips hot against my skin. His hands moved from my hair to my waist, pulling me closer, until my body was pressed against his. I gasped, arching into his touch. He tasted of ramen and Liam, a sharp combination that made my senses reel. His stubble grazed my skin, a rough, sensual caress. My hands fisted in his t-shirt, pulling him closer still.
He lifted me easily, cradling me in his arms. I wrapped my legs around his waist, my head falling back against his shoulder. He carried me into the bedroom, the familiar scent of our old sheets, still unpacked, hitting me. He set me down gently on the bed, but before I could fully settle, he was over me again, his body covering mine. He was heavy, warm, dominant. And I wanted it. I wanted all of it.
“You’ve been a very bad girl today, Wren,” he murmured, his voice a low growl against my ear. His fingers traced the curve of my hip, sending shivers through me. “Pushing me, defying me, making me work.”
“Was I?” I asked, feigning innocence, even though my body was screaming for him to take control. My fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. “Maybe I just wanted to see what you’d do.”
He chuckled, a low, husky sound that vibrated through my chest. “Oh, I know exactly what you wanted to see. And now, you’re going to get it.” He kissed me again, fiercely, passionately, until my lips were bruised and swollen. His hands roamed over my body, tracing every curve, every dip. He was deliberate, slow, making me ache for more. He was taking his time, making me wait, making me crave it.
He pulled back, his eyes dark, unreadable. He reached for the hem of my t-shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up over my head. I lifted my arms, helping him, my heart pounding in anticipation. When the shirt was gone, he tossed it aside, his gaze raking over my body. I shivered, not from cold, but from the intensity of his stare. He made me feel seen, made me feel desired, made me feel completely, utterly exposed.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with desire. He leaned down, kissing my collarbone, then lower, over my breasts, teasing me, tormenting me. His touch was light, feather-light, but it left a trail of fire in its wake. I arched into him, a soft moan escaping my lips.
“Liam,” I whispered, my voice urgent. “Please.”
He chuckled again, a deep, satisfied sound. “Please what, Wren? Please take control? Please stop letting you walk all over me?” He looked up at me, his eyes burning. “Is that what you wanted all along?”
I nodded, unable to speak, my breath catching in my throat. Yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted. I wanted him to be strong, to be dominant, to take me. I wanted him to stop asking and just take.
He smiled, a slow, predatory smile that made my stomach clench. “Good. Because that’s what’s going to happen.” He leaned down, capturing my mouth again, his kiss deeper, more demanding than before. His hands found the waistband of my shorts, and with a swift, practiced motion, he peeled them down my legs, tossing them to the floor. I was naked beneath him, vulnerable, exposed. And I loved it. I loved the feeling of being completely at his mercy.
He moved over me, his body heavy and warm, pressing me into the mattress. His skin was hot against mine, his muscles hard and defined. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, desperate for the feel of him against me. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, and then he was kissing me again, his tongue tracing the inside of my mouth, exploring every curve. His hands were everywhere, stroking, caressing, igniting every nerve ending.
“You’re mine, Wren,” he whispered against my lips, his voice rough with desire. “Always mine.”
“Yours,” I breathed back, my voice almost too quiet to hear. It was a surrender, a complete and utter capitulation. And it felt incredible. It felt like coming home.
He shifted, settling between my legs, and I gasped as I felt the hard press of his erection against me. He was ready, and so was I. He looked into my eyes, his gaze intense, possessive. “Are you ready to stop being such a brat?” he asked, a hint of challenge still in his voice, even now. Even in this moment of raw desire, he was still playing our game. But this time, I knew he was going to win.
“No,” I whispered, a mischievous smile playing on my lips. “Never. But I’m ready for you to make me behave.”
He grinned, a genuine, unbridled grin that made my heart flutter. “That, I can do.” And then, with a slow, deliberate thrust, he entered me. I cried out, a mix of pleasure and surprise, my body arching into his. He filled me completely, stretching me, making me feel whole. He moved slowly at first, giving me time to adjust, to acclimate to his presence. His eyes were still fixed on mine, watching my reaction, savoring every moment.
I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. “Faster,” I whispered, my voice raw with desire. “Please, Liam, faster.”
He chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. “Oh, you want faster now, do you? After all that trouble you gave me today?” He leaned down, kissing my neck, his teeth gently nipping at my skin. “You’re going to earn it, brat.”
And he made me. He moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each thrust deep and powerful, bringing me closer and closer to the edge. I writhed beneath him, my body aching, my senses overloaded. I moaned his name, pleaded with him, begged him to take me over the edge. He just watched me, his eyes dark with pleasure, his face a mask of intense concentration. He was in control, completely and utterly, and it was the most thrilling feeling in the world.
Finally, when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, when my body was trembling on the verge of collapse, he let go. He pushed faster, harder, his thrusts becoming frantic, desperate. I cried out, my body convulsing around him, as a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washed over me. I clung to him, my nails digging into his back, as the climax shook me to my core. He followed soon after, groaning my name, his body tensing, his muscles flexing, as he spilled inside me. We lay there for a long time, entangled, breathless, our bodies slick with sweat, our hearts pounding in unison.
After a while, when our breathing had finally evened out, he shifted, pulling me closer, spooning me against his body. His arm was wrapped around me, his hand resting on my hip. I felt safe, cherished, completely adored. And completely satisfied. He had won. He had finally taken charge. And I loved him all the more for it.
“Still think I’m a menace?” I murmured, my voice a little hoarse, my head resting on his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady beneath my ear.
He kissed the top of my head. “Still think you’re a menace,” he agreed, his voice a low rumble. “But you’re my menace. And I wouldn’t have you any other way.” He squeezed my hip gently. “Now, are you going to behave tomorrow, or do I need to teach you another lesson?”
I smiled, a slow, contented smile. “We’ll see,” I whispered, already planning my next move. The game was never truly over. It was just getting started. And I wouldn’t have it any other way, either.