The leather sofa creaked under Axel's weight as he stretched out, one arm draped across the back, phone in his other hand. The screen was lit with a game he'd stopped playing ten minutes ago. His thumb hovered over the same tile, not moving. On the floor, Elena had arranged herself cross-legged across from Wilder, textbooks and notes fanned across the scarred oak coffee table like a surgical prep table. The single lamp cast her shadow long across the floor, catching the curve of her neck where her dark hair fell forward.
"The vagina has approximately eight thousand nerve endings," she said, her voice steady, clinical. She cupped her hands together, then opened them slowly, shaping the air in front of her chest. "Concentrated mostly in the clitoris and the first third of the vaginal canal. That's why penetration alone isn't always sufficient for—"
Axel's jaw tightened. His eyes dropped from her hands to the way her fingers moved, slow and deliberate, tracing invisible anatomy in the lamplight. Eight thousand nerve endings. He imagined those hands on his skin. On his chest. Lower. Her fingers mapping him the same way she mapped that diagram.
She was wearing a simple white blouse, buttoned to the second from the top, and the collar gaped just slightly when she leaned forward to point at something in Wilder's notes. Axel caught a glimpse of the hollow of her throat, the thin gold chain he'd given her last month resting against her collarbone. His pulse kicked.
"—and then the sperm swims through the cervix into the uterus," Elena continued, completely unaware—or pretending to be. She picked up a marker and drew something on the small whiteboard propped against the sofa leg. A circle. A tail. "Flagella propulsion, mostly. Only about a hundred make it to the fallopian tube."
His mind ran wild. Her mouth on him. Her tongue tracing that tail. His cock in her hand, her fingers counting nerve endings the way she counted textbook facts. He shifted on the couch, the leather groaning under his weight. She glanced up, her dark eyes sharp, and he quickly looked down at his phone.
"The egg, on the other hand, is the largest cell in the human body," she said, drawing an oval beside the sperm. "Visible to the naked eye. About the size of a grain of sand."
Wilder nodded, his big green eyes fixed on the whiteboard. He was sitting forward, elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. "So the sperm has to travel, like, centimeters relative to its size?"
"Exactly. It's like a marathon." Elena smiled, and something in Axel's chest tightened. He loved that smile. He also hated it when she smiled at his brother.
He cleared his throat. A short, sharp sound.
Elena's head snapped toward him. Her eyes narrowed. "Problem?"
"No," he said, his voice rough. He scratched the back of his neck, the silver rings on his fingers glinting. "Just clearing my throat."
She held his gaze a beat too long, then turned back to the whiteboard. "Anyway. The zona pellucida—that's the outer layer of the egg—has to be penetrated by the sperm's enzymes. Only one gets through."
Penetrated. His brain snagged on the word and wouldn't let go. He imagined himself penetrating Elena. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Her head thrown back, that clean, composed face breaking apart for him. He could almost hear the sound she made when he pushed deep—that caught breath, that whimper she tried to hide but never could. His dick hardened against his jeans. He adjusted himself subtly, hoping the leather creak covered the movement.
"After fertilization," Elena said, "the zygote travels down the fallopian tube and implants in the uterine lining." She drew a squiggly line from the egg to a small blob. "That's where it grows. For nine months."
Wilder asked something about the exact timeline, and Elena answered with the ease of someone reciting a favorite poem. Axel wasn't listening. He was watching the way her lips moved. How she bit the lower one when she was thinking. How her tongue darted out to wet them between sentences. Her hands went back to gesturing, this time cupping an invisible shape in front of her stomach. A uterus. His uterus. His baby.
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut. He wanted to put his baby in her. Wanted to see her belly round with his child, her breasts fuller, her body changed by him. He imagined her hand on his face, telling him. He groaned low in his throat.
Elena heard it. She stopped mid-sentence and stared at him. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat again, louder this time. "Dust."
"There's no dust," she said flatly. "I vacuumed this morning."
He shrugged, not trusting himself to speak. His mind was still on her stomach, on the curve of her hips under those tight jeans. He stared at her ass as she leaned over the table to grab a highlighter. The denim stretched. Her thighs pressed together when she straightened.
He cleared his throat a third time, a deliberate, grating sound.
Elena's eyes flashed. She snatched a notebook from the table and hurled it at his chest. It slapped against his leather jacket and fell to the floor with a dull thud. "Go make coffee for me and Wild, degenerate."
Her voice cracked on the last word. She was blushing—the red creeping up her neck, flooding her cheeks. She looked away, grabbing a pen and pretending to study her own notes.
Wilder pressed his lips together, his shoulders shaking. He ducked his head, hiding a grin behind his hand.
Axel sighed, long and heavy, and rolled his eyes. He unfolded himself from the couch, joints popping, and walked toward the kitchen. The doorway framed him for a moment in the dim light from the hallway, his silhouette broad against the yellow glow. He didn't look back.
His footsteps echoed on the tile floor. The refrigerator hummed. A tap turned on. Water hit metal.
In the living room, Elena took a breath, steadying herself. Wilder coughed, covering the last remnants of his laugh. She shot him a look, and he raised his hands in surrender.
"Okay," she said, her voice lower now, controlled again. "Where were we?"
"Implantation," Wilder said.
"Right." She turned back to the whiteboard, the marker clicking against the surface. But her hand trembled. Just slightly. She gripped the marker tighter, and drew a straight, careful line.
Axel emerged from the kitchen, two steaming mugs balanced in his callused hands. The coffee smelled rich and dark, cutting through the staleness of the living room. He set them down on the coffee table with a soft clink, the ceramic meeting wood, and straightened to his full height.
"You can't expect me to take you guys seriously when you're talking about babies, doll," he said, and his tongue dragged across his lower lip slow, deliberate. His hazel eyes found hers and held, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Elena's cheeks flushed a deep crimson. She gripped the marker tighter, knuckles whitening. Her gaze flicked to Wilder, then back to Axel. "Kick your brother for me when I leave, okay?" she said, her voice steadier than her burning face suggested.
Wilder gave her a thumbs up, his grin barely contained. "Yes ma'am!"
Axel just laughed, low and rough, and leaned against the wall beside the couch. His arms crossed over his broad chest, the leather of his jacket creaking. He watched her. Watched the way her fingers moved over the whiteboard, tracing the curve of a fallopian tube, the arch of a uterus. Her hands were small, precise, graceful. A surgeon's hands. A lover's hands.
Fuck. His jaw tightened. Those hands had been shaping vaginas and telling his brother about nerve endings and phalluses. If it were him sitting on that floor instead of Wilder, he wouldn't have learned a goddamn thing. He'd have been imagining her fingers wrapping around his cock, counting nerve endings on his skin, measuring him the way she measured textbook facts. His dick twitched against his jeans. He shifted his weight, adjusting himself subtly, and watched the clock on the wall instead of her ass.
For almost an hour, he stood there. Leaning. Watching. The lecture droned on—implantation, gestation, the stages of fetal development. Elena's voice, steady and musical, explaining every detail with the patience of someone who genuinely loved the material. Wilder asked questions, earnest and focused, and she answered them with that soft smile that made Axel's chest ache.
But his mind was elsewhere.
He was imagining her on the bike behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist, her thighs pressed against his. He was imagining coming home to her after a long ride, finding her in the kitchen in one of his old t-shirts, her hair messy, her feet bare. He was imagining her belly round and full, his child growing inside her, her hand on his face telling him the news.
His throat was dry. He uncrossed his arms.
"Okay," he said, pushing off the wall. His voice cut through the room, sharp and final. "Break time. I'm taking your sister-in-law."
Elena barely had time to look up before he crossed the space between them in three long strides. He bent down, hooked his arm under her knees, and lifted her off the floor like she weighed nothing. Her marker clattered against the whiteboard and rolled across the rug.
"Wha—where are you taking herrrr—" Wilder's voice cracked as he watched Elena dangle in the air, her legs kicking, her hands clutching Axel's leather jacket for balance.
Axel didn't look back. "We're making out, nerd."
The words landed like a bomb.
Elena froze in his arms. Her face went scarlet, the color flooding from her neck to her temples. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She twisted her head to look at Wilder, her eyes wide and pleading, mouthing help me with exaggerated desperation.
Wilder shrugged, his expression caught between shock and amusement. He raised his hands in surrender, then gave her a thumbs up.
Traitor.
Axel carried her down the hallway, his boots heavy on the worn floorboards. She squirmed in his grip, her fists pounding weakly against his chest. "Put me down, you caveman."
"No."
"Axel—"
"Shut up."
He pushed open the bathroom door with his shoulder and carried her inside. The room was small, tiled in pale blue, the mirror fogged from the shower he'd taken earlier that morning. A single bulb above the sink cast warm, yellow light across the counter. He set her down on the edge of the sink, the porcelain cool against her thighs through her jeans, and stepped between her legs.
His hands found her waist. His thumbs pressed into the soft curve of her hips.
She glared at him, her cheeks still blazing, her dark eyes sharp and defiant. "You're impossible."
He didn't answer. He just looked at her.
Looked at the way her chest rose and fell beneath that white blouse. The way her hair had come loose from its neat ponytail, dark waves falling across her forehead. The way her lower lip jutted out slightly, caught between a pout and a scowl. The thin gold chain at her throat glinted under the light, and he watched her pulse flutter at the base of her neck.
"The vagina has approximately eight thousand nerve endings," he said, his voice dropping into a low, mocking imitation of her lecture tone. He pressed his hips forward, just slightly, letting her feel the hard line of him through his jeans. "Concentrated mostly in the clitoris and the first third of the vaginal canal."
Her eyes widened. She slapped his chest, her palm connecting with a dull thud against the leather. "Stop it."
He didn't stop. "That's why penetration alone isn't always sufficient for—"
"Axel." Her voice cracked. She looked away, her hands pressing flat against his chest, pushing without force. "You're such a—"
"Degenerate?" He leaned closer, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "You said that already. In front of my brother. Real nice, baby."
She shivered. He felt it—the tremor that ran through her body, the way her breath hitched. Her fingers curled into the leather of his jacket, gripping, holding.
"I was trying to teach him," she said, her voice smaller now, less certain.
"You were." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. "And I was listening. Every word."
His hands slid from her waist to her thighs, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the denim. She wore tight jeans, the kind that hugged every curve, and he could feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. His mouth went dry.
"You talked about the sperm and the egg," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "About penetration. About fertilization. About the zygote traveling down the fallopian tube and implanting in the uterine lining." He leaned in again, his nose brushing her cheek. "About growing a baby for nine months."
Her breath caught. She turned her head, her lips centimeters from his. "Axel."
"You talked about all of it, Elena. Every detail. Every nerve ending." His hand moved from her thigh to her stomach, pressing flat against the soft fabric of her blouse. "And I just kept thinking—" He swallowed. "I kept thinking about putting my baby in you."
Her eyes went wide. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
"About watching your belly grow," he continued, his hand spreading across her abdomen, his thumb tracing the curve of her hip through her jeans. "About your tits getting fuller. About you carrying something I put inside you."
"Axel—" His name came out as a whisper, broken and trembling.
"About you telling me you're pregnant," he said, his voice cracking. "About your hand on my face, your eyes all wet, telling me you're having my kid."
Her hands slid up his chest to his shoulders, then to his neck. Her fingers found the chain at his throat, the silver rings on his fingers. She looked at him, her dark eyes searching his, her breath shallow and uneven.
"You're insane," she breathed.
"Yeah." He leaned his forehead against hers. "That's what loving you does to me."
She kissed him.
It was soft at first—a brush of her lips against his, testing, tentative. Then her fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her mouth opening against his. He groaned low in his throat, his hands tightening on her hips, yanking her to the edge of the counter until she was pressed flush against him.
She tasted like coffee and something sweeter. She always tasted sweet. He deepened the kiss, his tongue sliding against hers, greedy and desperate. Her legs wrapped around his waist, locking him in place, and he felt the heat of her through the thin fabric of her jeans, the press of her cunt against his cock.
He pulled back, breathless, his forehead still pressed to hers. His hand found her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone.
"You have no idea," he said, his voice rough, almost reverent, "what you do to me when you talk like that."
She bit her lower lip, her cheeks still flushed. "You're supposed to be making coffee."
"I made coffee."
"And then you dragged me to the bathroom."
"And now I'm going to make you forget about every nerve ending you've ever studied," he said, his hand sliding from her face to her throat, his thumb pressing gently against her pulse. "And then I'm going to teach you a few of my own."
Her breath hitched. Her hands gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into the leather.
"Wilder is still out there," she whispered.
"Wilder can wait." He leaned down, his mouth brushing her collarbone, the hollow of her throat, the thin gold chain at her neck. His tongue traced the metal, tasting salt and skin. "Let him study his textbook. I'm studying you."
His mouth closed over the hollow of her throat, lips parting to draw skin between his teeth. She gasped, her back arching against the counter, her fingers tightening in his hair. He sucked hard, tongue pressing flat, and she bit her lower lip so hard she tasted copper. The sound she swallowed came out as a strangled hum, her thighs squeezing his hips.
"Shh," he murmured against her skin, not letting go. His hand slid from her throat to her jaw, tilting her head back until the column of her neck was exposed, vulnerable. He pulled his mouth away just enough to look at the mark blooming on her collarbone—a dark crescent, already purple at the center. "Look at that. Pretty."
She trembled. "Axel—"
"Don't move." He dipped his head again, this time lower, his tongue tracing the swell of her breast above the neckline of her blouse. Then his teeth found her skin again, right where the fabric met her collarbone, and he bit down. She cried out—a sharp, helpless sound that bounced off the tiles—before clapping her hand over her own mouth.
He pulled back, grinning. "What was that? Sounded like a fact. Give me a fact, Doc."
"You're—" Her voice cracked. She dropped her hand, chest heaving. "You're an asshole."
"Wrong. Try again." He leaned in, his mouth hovering over the spot just below her ear, his breath hot. "What's the term for the bundle of nerves at the anterior aspect of the vulva?"
Her eyes flew wide. "How do you—"
"I was listening." His teeth grazed her earlobe. "The clitoris. Tell me you remember."
She swallowed. "The clitoris."
"Good girl." He kissed the corner of her mouth, then moved lower, his lips brushing down her sternum, between her breasts, his hand splaying flat on her stomach as he sank to his knees on the bathroom tile. The cold linoleum pressed through his jeans, but he didn't care. He looked up at her, her face flushed, her hands gripping the edge of the counter, her chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven waves.
"I still—" She panted, shaking her head. "I still have to finish the lecture. You can't just—" She punched his shoulder, a light, desperate blow. "You can't just drag me in here and—"
"And what?" He ran his hands up her thighs, over the denim of her jeans, until his thumbs hooked into the waistband. "You were teaching. I'm learning. Different subject."
"Axel—"
He popped the button on her jeans. The rasp of the zipper was loud in the small room. "You teach anatomy. I'm teaching desire. Fair trade."
She looked down at him, her eyes dark and wet, her lips parted. "Wilder is—"
"Heard you the first time. Wilder is outside. Wilder can wait." He tugged her jeans down her hips, slow, deliberate, pulling the denim over the curve of her ass, over her thighs, until they pooled at her ankles. She stepped out of them, one foot at a time, her hands braced on his shoulders. She wore black lace underwear, a thin strip of fabric that did nothing to hide the dark patch of hair beneath, already damp.
He exhaled, his mouth going dry. "Fuck."
She bit her lip again, her cheeks burning. "You're—"
"I know what I am." He hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled them down, slow, savoring every inch of skin revealed. She stepped out of those too, and then she was naked from the waist down, standing over him in her blouse and bra, her thighs pressed together, her hands covering nothing.
He leaned forward, pressing his mouth to the inside of her thigh. She gasped, her hand flying to his hair, gripping the disheveled strands. He kissed his way higher, his lips trailing over the sensitive skin, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of her. When he reached the crease where her thigh met her hip, he sucked, hard, and she cried out again, louder this time, her knees buckling.
He caught her, his arm wrapping around her waist, steadying her against the counter. "Easy."
"You're—" She panted, her voice breaking. "You're marking me everywhere. Someone's going to see."
"Good." He did it again, lower, on the inside of her other thigh, and she whimpered, her nails raking his scalp. "Let them see. Let them know you're mine."
She didn't argue. She couldn't. Her head fell back, her eyes closing, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts as he continued his slow, deliberate assault—another mark on her hip, another on the crease of her groin, each one sending a jolt of heat through her, until she was trembling, her thighs slick with her own arousal, her body a canvas of blooming bruises and bitten skin.
"Okay," she gasped, pushing at his shoulders. "Okay. Okay—Ngh. Don't—"
He stopped, looking up at her, a smirk playing on his lips. Her face was flushed, her hair a mess, her eyes glassy. The strict, composed medical student was gone. In her place was a girl begging him to stop, and that fact alone made his cock ache in his jeans.
"Don't what?"
"Don't—" She gulped, her chest heaving. "Don't make me—"
"Make you what?" He pressed a kiss to her stomach, just above her navel. Her muscles jumped. "Make you come? Make you forget every nerve ending you've ever studied?" He looked up at her, his eyes dark. "Too late. You already forgot. I can see it in your eyes."
She shook her head, but her hands were still in his hair, not pushing him away. "I still—I have to finish the lecture. You can't just—"
He leaned forward, pressing his mouth to the damp fabric of her bra, licking a wet stripe over her nipple through the lace. She gasped, her back arching, and he pulled the cup down with his teeth, freeing her breast. Her nipple was hard, pebbled, and he took it in his mouth, sucking hard, and she cried out again, her hand flying to her own mouth to stifle the sound.
He pulled back, breathing hard. "Don't hold it. I want to hear you."
She stared at him, her eyes wide and wet, her hand still pressed to her lips.
He dropped to the floor.
Not kneeling—sitting, on the cold tile, his legs stretched out, his hands on his knees. He looked up at her, standing over him, naked from the waist down, her blouse half-unbuttoned, her bra askew, her skin flushed and marked. He reached out, his hands finding her hips, and pulled her toward him.
"Come here."
She stepped forward, her legs straddling his chest, her cunt level with his mouth. He could smell her—musk and salt and sweetness—and his mouth watered. He pressed a kiss to her inner thigh, then another, then another, working his way closer, slower, savoring the anticipation.
"Axel," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please—" She couldn't finish. Her hands found the wall behind her, bracing herself.
He smiled against her skin. "Say it."
"Please, Axel."
"That's my girl." And he leaned in, pressing his mouth to her cunt.
The sound she made—a high, broken cry—echoed off the tiles. His tongue slid through her folds, tasting her, hot and wet and exactly as sweet as he remembered. He dragged it up, circling her clit, and her knees buckled, her weight falling onto his face. He caught her, his hands gripping her ass, holding her steady.
"You talked about the clitoris," he said, pulling back just enough to speak, his voice rough, his lips slick with her. "Eight thousand nerve endings. Did you know that, Lenochka?"
She whimpered, her fingers scratching at the wall.
"Eight thousand nerve endings," he repeated, and then he put his mouth on her again, his tongue pressing flat, licking her like he was starving, like she was the only thing that could keep him alive. She cried out, her hips bucking against his face, her hands finding his hair and gripping hard.
He pulled back again, breathless. "And the vagina—only a fraction of that. Did you know that?"
"Axel—" She was panting, her voice a ragged plea.
"Answer me."
"Yes—yes, I know."
"But the clit—" He kissed it, soft, a whisper of contact. "The clit has all of them. So why, Elena, are you making me wait?"
She sobbed, her head falling forward. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't be sorry." He dove back in, his tongue fucking into her, tasting her from the inside, and she screamed—a raw, unguarded sound that she couldn't swallow, couldn't hide. Her wrist flew to her mouth, her teeth sinking into her own skin, trying to stifle the noise.
He stopped. Grabbed both her wrists, pulling them away from her mouth, pressing them against his hair. "Don't hold it. Go on. Sing for me."
She looked down at him, her eyes full of tears, her lips parted, her chest heaving. "I can't—"
"You can." He kissed her wrists, one at a time, soft, reverent. Then he pressed them against his head, holding them there. "Let go, baby. I've got you."
She nodded, a single, trembling nod.
He lowered his mouth to her again, and this time when he licked her, she let herself fall apart. Her cry filled the small bathroom, loud and broken and beautiful, and he drank it in, his tongue working her clit in quick, brutal circles, his fingers digging into her ass, pulling her closer. He licked her wetness like a dog, dragging his tongue through her folds, tasting every drop, and then he fucked her with his mouth—his tongue sliding into her, curling, thrusting, his lips wrapped around her, sucking hard.
She threw her head back, her back bowing, her hands fisted in his hair. "Axel—Axel, I'm—"
"Come," he growled against her, his voice vibrating through her. "Come in my mouth."
And she did. Her body clenched, her cunt pulsing against his tongue, and she cried out his name—loud, clear, undeniable. The sound carried through the apartment, through the closed door, to where his brother sat on the living room floor, textbooks spread before him.
Wilder didn't look up. He just turned a page, a small, knowing smile on his lips.
In the bathroom, Elena slumped against the counter, her legs shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Axel pulled back, his chin slick, his eyes dark and hungry. He looked up at her, his hands still gripping her hips, his voice rough and low.
"Now," he said, standing slowly, his body pressing against hers, his cock straining against her thigh. "About that lecture."
"Ngh... Please don't..." She begged, her voice a broken whisper, her eyes dazed and unfocused, still swimming in the aftermath of her climax. Her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs hooking around his chest, her face buried against his shoulder. Her hair spilled over his back, dark and damp, clinging to his leather jacket.
He squeezed her ass, feeling her body limp and shaky against him, her thighs trembling where they pressed against his ribs. "About that sperm you were talking about..." He started, his voice low, rough, deliberate.
Her body tensed. He felt it—the sudden rigidity in her spine, the way her fingers dug into the back of his neck. She squirmed, trying to push away from him, but her legs were too weak, her arms too loose.
"Come on..." His voice dropped, a soft, almost pleading edge cutting through the gravel. "You made me hard as fuck for over an hour... Won't you at least let me pleasure myself?" He squeezed her body, pulling her closer, grinding her against his stomach. "Just a bit?"
She shook her head, desperate, her breath hitching. "Axel, I—"
He stood up. Her feet dangled, her toes brushing against his thighs, not reaching the floor. She whimpered, a small, helpless sound that made his cock throb.
"Just a bit?" He begged again, softer this time, his forehead pressing against hers, his breath hot on her lips. He lowered her between the wall and his body, her back sliding against the tiles until her legs wrapped around his waist, her cunt pressed against his jeans, wet and warm through the denim. She still couldn't reach the floor. He held her there, suspended, her weight in his hands.
He humped her. Slow. Deliberate. His hips rolling forward, grinding his cock against her through the layers of denim and wet cotton. The friction was maddening—not enough, never enough, but close. So fucking close.
He kneaded her breasts, his thumbs finding her nipples through the fabric of her shirt, pressing, circling, until they were hard peaks beneath his touch. Her breath caught, her head falling back against the tile, her eyes fluttering closed.
"Look at us," he murmured, his voice rough, almost reverent. "Look."
She opened her eyes. Across the small bathroom, the mirror reflected them—her back against the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, his hands on her breasts, his hips grinding into her. She saw herself. Her hair wild. Her cheeks flushed. Her lips parted. Her eyes dark and hungry and terrified.
Her cry filled the bathroom—loud, raw, broken. She couldn't stop it. She bit her lip, tried to swallow it, but it escaped anyway, echoing off the tiles, carrying through the closed door.
In the living room, Wilder sat on the floor, textbooks spread before him, his pen frozen over the page. He heard it. Of course he heard it. The sound was impossible to ignore—high and desperate and full of something he didn't want to name. He stared at the diagram of the female reproductive system, the words blurring, his face blank. Dead inside. He turned the page. Focused on the next chapter. Ignored the sound.
In the bathroom, Axel kept grinding, his rhythm steady, relentless, his breath hot against her neck. "You feel that?" He whispered. "Feel how hard I am? That's what you did, Lenochka. All those words. All those diagrams. That's what you did to me."
She whimpered, her fingers finding his hair, gripping hard. "Axel—"
"I know," he murmured, kissing her neck, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. "I know. Let it out. Let me hear you."
He shifted his angle, grinding his cock against her clit through the wet fabric, and she cried out again—louder, higher, a sound that was almost a sob. Her hips bucked against him, chasing the friction, chasing the heat, even as her mind screamed at her to stop.
"Please," she whispered, her voice cracking. "Please, Axel—"
"Please what?" He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark, hungry, searching.
She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't—I don't know—"
"Yes you do." He kissed her forehead, soft, tender, a stark contrast to the grinding of his hips. "Tell me."
She sobbed, her forehead falling against his. "I want—I want you to—" She couldn't finish. The words stuck in her throat, too heavy, too real.
"To what?" He pressed, his voice a whisper, his lips brushing against hers.
"To—" She swallowed. "To touch me."
"I am touching you."
"No." She shook her head, frustrated, desperate. "I mean—" She looked down, at where their bodies met, at the bulge straining against his jeans. "I mean—"
He kissed her. Soft. Slow. His tongue sliding into her mouth, tasting her, claiming her. She melted into it, her body going slack, her arms tightening around his neck. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers, his breath ragged.
"Later," he said, his voice rough, barely controlled. "Not now. Not yet."
She whimpered, a sound of pure frustration, her hips grinding against him harder, faster, chasing something she couldn't name. "Axel—"
"Shh." He kissed her again, softer this time, his hands sliding down her back, gripping her ass, pulling her closer. "Let me take care of you first. Let me—" He thrust against her, hard, the friction sending a jolt through both of them. "Let me finish what I started."
He shifted his hips, finding that perfect angle again, the ridge of his cock pressing against her clit through the wet fabric. She gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her back arching off the tile. "That's it," he murmured against her throat. "That's it, Lenochka. Let go."
She shattered against him—a raw, broken cry tearing from her throat as her body convulsed, her cunt clenching around nothing, soaking through her underwear and his jeans. He held her through it, his hips still grinding, slow and deliberate, drawing out every tremor, every shudder, until she went limp in his arms, boneless and shaking.
"Fuck," she whispered, her voice wrecked, her forehead falling against his. "Fuck, Axel—"
He kissed her. Soft. Slow. His tongue sliding into her mouth, tasting her, claiming the sounds she'd made. She melted into it, her arms slack around his neck, her legs trembling where they wrapped around his waist. When he pulled back, her eyes were glazed, her lips parted, her breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Do you like that?" He asked, his voice soft, almost tender.
She whimpered, nodding, her head falling against his shoulder. He hugged her tight, his arms wrapping around her plush body, pulling her flush against his chest. She was so small like this, so warm, her heart hammering against his ribs.
"Damn," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. "I didn't even do much. How are you already exhausted?"
She cried. Not loud—soft, broken sobs that shook her shoulders, her tears soaking into his shirt. She scratched at his back, her nails raking across his shoulders, leaving red lines on his skin. He held her through it, his hand stroking her hair, his lips pressing gentle kisses to her temple, her cheek, the corner of her mouth.
"Shh," he whispered. "I've got you. I've got you, baby."
She sobbed harder, her fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer. He let her. He held her until the crying subsided, until her breath evened out, until she was just leaning against him, heavy and warm and spent.
He lifted her easily, setting her on the edge of the marble counter. She slumped forward, her hands braced on his shoulders, her thighs spread wide, the mess between her legs slick and visible through the torn fabric of her underwear. He stepped back, his hands going to his belt, his eyes never leaving hers.
"What are you—"
"Stay."
He unbuttoned his jeans. Pulled down the zipper. Freed his cock—hard, aching, slick with precum, the head swollen and dark. He wrapped his hand around the base, stroking slowly, his eyes locked on hers.
She watched, her breath catching, her thighs pressing together. "Axel—"
"Watch," he said, his voice rough, commanding. "I want you to watch."
He fucked his fist. Slow, deliberate strokes, the sound wet and obscene in the small bathroom. His jaw tightened, his hips bucking into his hand, his eyes never leaving hers. She bit her lip, her fingers gripping the edge of the counter, her cunt aching, empty, desperate.
"Please," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Please, Axel—"
"Please what?"
"Fuck me."
He shook his head, a dark smile curling his lips. "This is revenge."
"What?"
"For talking about all that reproductive stuff with my brother." He stroked himself faster, his breath hitching. "For making me sit there for an hour, listening to you talk about sperm and eggs and—fuck—nerves and sensitivity, while I had to sit there and pretend I wasn't imagining this."
She whimpered, her hand sliding down her stomach, her fingers finding her clit through the torn fabric. He caught her wrist, stopping her.
"No," he said, his voice hard. "You don't get to touch yourself. You watch me."
She cried out, a sound of pure frustration, her hips grinding against the counter, slick pooling beneath her, dripping down the marble. "Axel, please—I need you—"
"I know." He stroked faster, his breath ragged, his abs tightening. "I know, baby. Almost there."
He came with a grunt, his cum spilling over his hand, hot and thick, dripping onto the floor. She watched, her eyes dark and hungry, her lips parted. Before he could catch his breath, she grabbed his hand—the one covered in his release—and brought it to her mouth.
Her tongue traced the veins on the back of his hand. Then she sucked his fingers, one by one, tasting him, her eyes never leaving his.
He froze. His breath caught. His cock twitched, already hardening again.
"You little—"
He didn't finish. He pushed her back onto the cool marble, her spine hitting the counter, her legs falling open. He positioned himself between them, his cock finding her entrance, slick and ready and so fucking tight.
He thrust inside her in one motion, burying himself to the hilt.
Her scream echoed off the tiles.
He fucked her. Hard. Fast. Deep. His hips slapping against her thighs, the counter rocking with each thrust, her cries filling the bathroom. She gripped the edges of the marble, her head thrown back, her mouth open, nothing but sounds escaping her now—no words, no pleas, just raw, broken moans.
"That's it," he growled, his hand finding her throat, squeezing just enough to make her gasp. "That's what you wanted, isn't it? That's what you needed."
She nodded frantically, her eyes rolling back, her body arching into each thrust. He leaned down, his mouth finding her ear, his breath hot against her skin.
"Say my name."
"Axel—"
"Again."
"Axel—Axel—"
He thrust deeper, harder, the counter squeaking against the wall, the mirror rattling. She came again—her cunt clenching around him, her body convulsing, a raw, broken scream tearing from her throat. He didn't stop. He fucked her through it, chasing his own release, his rhythm growing erratic, desperate.
He felt his own release building, his balls tightening, his rhythm growing ragged. He tried to pull out—his cock sliding halfway out of her slick heat—but her legs locked around his waist, her heels digging into his lower back, pinning him inside her.
"Please." Her voice broke, a raw, desperate whisper. "I'll be good… Just…" She panted, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed and pleading. "Fill me…"
He froze. His jaw clenched. His hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck, Elena—"
"Please, Axel. I need it. I need you inside me. Please—"
He groaned—a low, guttural sound torn from deep in his chest—and drove back into her, burying himself to the hilt. His hips slammed against hers, once, twice, and then he came, his cock pulsing, hot cum flooding her, filling her, leaking around the seal of their bodies. She gasped, her back arching, her cunt clenching around him, milking every drop. "Yes—yes—fuck—"
For a moment, they stayed like that. His forehead pressed against hers. His breath ragged in her ear. His cum dripping down her thighs, pooling on the marble beneath her. Their fingers intertwined on the counter's edge. She trembled, aftershocks rippling through her, and he kissed her forehead, soft and reverent.
"You're gonna be the death of me," he muttered, his voice hoarse.
She laughed—a broken, breathless sound—and opened her mouth to answer, but he didn't give her the chance. He pulled out, his cum spilling from her in a warm rush, and flipped her over before she could catch her breath. Her palms hit the cool mirror, her reflection staring back at her—flushed, wrecked, lips swollen, hair a tangled mess, cum smeared across her stomach where it had leaked onto the counter.
He grabbed her hips, lifted her, repositioned her. His cock found her entrance again—slick with his own release, slippery and wet—and he pushed inside her in one slow, deliberate thrust.
Her cry echoed off the tiles. Her hands slid against the mirror, leaving smeared prints on the glass.
"Look at yourself," he growled, his voice low in her ear, his chest pressing against her back. "Look at what you do to me. Look at what you are."
She opened her eyes. Her reflection stared back—wide-eyed, mouth open, a thin line of drool at the corner of her lips. She watched him move behind her, his hips slapping against her ass, his cock sliding in and out of her wet, pink cunt, glistening with their combined release.
"I can't—Axel—it's too much—"
"You can take it." He thrust deeper, harder, the counter rattling beneath them, the mirror shuddering with each impact. "You begged for it. You begged me to fill you. Now take it."
She whimpered, her forehead pressing against the cool glass, her eyes locked on the reflection of his body moving against hers. His hand slid from her hip to her stomach, his palm pressing flat against her lower belly, just above her womb.
"Feel that?" His voice was rough, almost cruel. "Feel me right there? Right where all those nerves and eggs and—what did you call it?—uterus walls are?"
She gasped. She could feel him. Deep. So deep she thought he might split her open. His cock pressed against her cervix with each thrust, a dull, aching pressure that made her vision blur at the edges.
"This what you talked about, yeah?" He thrust harder, his hand pressing down on her stomach, making her feel every inch of him inside her. "Sperms and eggs and uterus shit. All that scientific bullshit while I sat there imagining this."
She couldn't answer. Her tongue lolled out, her jaw slack, nothing but broken moans escaping her throat. Her hands slid down the mirror, her nails scraping against the glass, leaving trails in the condensation.
"Look at you," he said, his breath hot against her ear. "My little medical student. All those big words and diagrams and—fuck—you're nothing but a mess on my cock."
She moaned, a raw, guttural sound that didn't sound like her. Her hips pushed back against him, meeting each thrust, chasing more. Her reflection in the mirror was a stranger—dark eyes half-lidded, lips parted, a thin string of saliva connecting her mouth to the glass.
"That's it," he growled. "That's my girl. Take it. Take every drop."
His hand left her stomach, sliding up her chest, over her throat, his fingers finding her jaw and turning her face toward him. He kissed her—deep, hungry, his tongue sliding into her mouth in the same rhythm as his cock fucking her. She moaned into his mouth, her body convulsing, another orgasm building low and hot in her belly.
He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against hers, his breath ragged. "You gonna come for me again?"
She nodded, unable to speak, her body trembling, her cunt clenching around him.
"Then come." He thrust harder, faster, his hand sliding down her body, finding her clit, pressing and circling in time with his hips. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it."
She shattered. Her scream bounced off the tiles, her body arching, her cunt gripping him in pulsing waves, her reflection in the mirror a portrait of pure, wrecked ecstasy. He fucked her through it, his rhythm faltering, his breath hitching, his own release building again.
"Fuck—Elena—"
He pulled out just in time, his cum spilling across her lower back, hot and thick, dripping down the curve of her ass, pooling on the counter beneath them. She collapsed forward, her cheek pressing against the cool mirror, her body limp and trembling.
He stood behind her, chest heaving, his hand resting on her hip, his forehead pressed against her shoulder blade. The bathroom was silent except for their ragged breathing, the drip of water from the faucet, the distant hum of the apartment's old pipes.
Finally, he spoke, his voice soft, almost reverent. "You okay?"
She laughed—a weak, breathless sound—and turned her head just enough to meet his eyes in the mirror. "I think you broke me."
He smiled, a real smile, warm and tender, and kissed her shoulder. "Good."
Outside the bathroom door, the living room was silent. Wilder had left to the balcony a long time ago.
Elena tried to stand. Her legs buckled beneath her, knees giving out like they'd been replaced with wet paper, and she would've hit the tile if Axel hadn't caught her—one arm hooked around her waist, the other cradling her head before it could crack against the counter's edge.
"Whoa—easy, easy." His voice was soft now, the growl gone, replaced by something tender and rough around the edges. He pulled her against his chest, her back pressed to his damp skin, her ear against his heartbeat. "You with me?"
She nodded weakly, her cheek rubbing against his pectoral, her breath still coming in short, uneven gasps. "Mhm."
He laughed—a low, breathy sound—and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Fuck.... You're so cute..." He muttered it into her hair, almost to himself, like he hadn't meant to say it out loud. His arms tightened around her, and for a moment, he just held her, swaying slightly, letting her catch her breath against his chest.
She was a mess. Cum streaked across her stomach, her thighs, her lower back. Her hair was a tangled disaster, her makeup smeared, her lips swollen and raw. She looked wrecked. She looked perfect.
"Come on," he said, shifting his grip, one arm under her knees, the other around her back. He lifted her like she weighed nothing, cradling her against his chest, her head lolling against his shoulder. "Let's get you cleaned up."
He carried her out of the bathroom, past the mirror still fogged with their breath, past the counter still wet with his cum, past the scattered textbooks and notes on the living room floor. The balcony door was open, a cool breeze filtering in, and somewhere outside, Wilder's silhouette was visible against the city lights, his phone pressed to his ear, his back turned.
Axel didn't stop. He carried her down the narrow hallway, past the framed photos of their parents, past the cluttered shelves of engineering textbooks and motorcycle magazines, and into his bedroom.
The room was small and messy—bed unmade, clothes draped over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand. The curtains were drawn, casting everything in a dim, amber glow from the streetlamp outside. He laid her down on the bed, the sheets cool against her flushed skin, and she sighed, her body sinking into the mattress.
"Stay," he said, his voice soft, and he disappeared into the closet.
She heard him rummaging through drawers, muttering to himself, and then he was back, holding a worn black hoodie—his favorite, the one with the faded band logo on the chest and the frayed cuffs. He knelt beside the bed, his movements gentle as he helped her sit up, as he guided her arms through the sleeves, as he pulled the hoodie over her head and settled it around her shoulders.
It smelled like him. Leather and motor oil and something clean underneath, like soap and salt. She pulled the collar up to her nose and breathed in, her eyes fluttering closed.
"There," he said, adjusting the hem so it covered her thighs. "That's better."
He eased her back down, pulling the sheets up to her chin, tucking them around her like she was something precious, something breakable. Then he sat on the edge of the bed, his weight dipping the mattress, and looked at her—his dark hair still damp from the bathroom steam, his hazel eyes soft in the dim light, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.
He leaned down, his forehead pressing against hers, his nose nudging hers gently. "Hey," he whispered.
"Hi," she breathed back, her voice barely a whisper, slurred with exhaustion.
He nuzzled her nose, his lips brushing her cheek, her temple, her hairline. "You did so good, you know that?" His voice was low, reverent, meant only for her. "So good for me."
She tried to say something—maybe his name, maybe "I love you," maybe something about Wednesday's exam—but it came out as a mumbled, unintelligible string of syllables, her tongue too heavy, her mind too foggy.
He chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. "Yeah? Is that right?"
She nodded, her eyes already closing, her body sinking deeper into the mattress. The hoodie engulfed her, soft and warm and smelling like him, and she felt safe, felt cradled, felt like nothing could touch her here.
He watched her for a long moment, his thumb tracing a slow circle on her cheek. Then he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her forehead, soft and lingering. "Sleep, baby. I'll be right outside."
She was already gone, her breathing evening out, her face slack and peaceful.
He stood, his joints popping, and looked at her one last time—a small, tangled heap in his bed, wearing his hoodie, her dark hair spread across his pillow. He smiled, a real smile, warm and soft, and then he turned and walked out, pulling the door closed behind him until it was just barely cracked, a sliver of light spilling into the dim room.
The living room was quiet. The textbooks and notes were still scattered across the coffee table, the whiteboard still covered in Elena's neat diagrams and labels—Fallopian tube, ovary, endometrium. The balcony door was open, and Wilder was leaning against the railing, his phone in his hand, looking out at the city skyline.
Axel walked to the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot that had gone cold hours ago, and took a long sip. It was bitter and stale, but he didn't care. He leaned against the counter, his eyes drifting to the living room, to the scattered notes, to the whiteboard.
The balcony door slid open, and Wilder stepped inside, his hoodie zipped up, his phone shoved in his pocket. He looked at Axel, then at the closed bedroom door, then back at Axel, his eyebrows raised.
"Is she...?"
"Sleeping." Axel took another sip of his coffee, his eyes fixed on the whiteboard. "She's fine."
Wilder ran a hand through his messy brown hair, letting out a long breath. "My exammmmmm is on WEDNESDAY," he groaned, collapsing onto the couch, his head falling back against the cushions. He stared at the ceiling, his voice a mix of despair and exasperation. "Wednesday. In three days. Three."
Axel shrugged, taking another sip of his coffee. "You'll survive."
"Do you HAVE to break her legs when I have my EXAM???" Wilder shot back, sitting up, his green eyes wide with indignation. "I need her to teach me, Axel. She's the only one who makes this shit make sense. I can't just—I can't just Google 'respiratory system' and get the same results. I need her explanations. Her diagrams. Her—" He gestured wildly at the whiteboard. "Her hands. She moves her hands when she explains things, and that's how I remember it, and you—" He pointed an accusing finger at his brother. "You took her hands. You took her away. For—" He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Two hours. Two hours, Axel."
Axel shrugged again, a slow, lazy movement, a smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He set down his coffee and walked over to the couch, dropping down next to his brother, the leather creaking under his weight. He leaned back, his arms stretching across the back of the couch, his eyes glinting with amusement.
"You'll understand when you get your own girl," he said, his voice low and smug.
Wilder groaned, dropping his head into his hands. "I don't want my own girl. I want to pass my exam. I want to become a doctor. I want to—" He looked up, his eyes narrowing at his brother. "I want to not hear my brother fucking his girlfriend in the bathroom while I'm trying to memorize the stages of fertilization."
Axel's smirk widened. "Then next time, study in the library."
"This is my house!"
"And she's my girlfriend." Axel's voice was calm, but there was a possessive edge to it, a quiet finality. "You'll live, Wilder. You'll survive your exam. And when you're a doctor, you'll look back at this and laugh."
Wilder stared at him, his jaw tight, his eyes searching his brother's face for any sign of remorse. He found none. He sighed, slumping back into the couch. "I hate you."
"Love you too, little brother."
They sat in silence for a moment, the hum of the refrigerator filling the space, the distant sound of traffic from the street below. Axel reached for his coffee, took another sip, and then set it down, his eyes drifting to the whiteboard again.
The diagrams were detailed. Elena's handwriting was neat and precise, each label carefully placed, each arrow pointing to the exact structure. She'd drawn a cross-section of the female reproductive system, highlighting the uterus, the ovaries, the fallopian tubes. Next to it, she'd drawn a sperm cell, labeled its parts—head, midpiece, tail—and written a brief note about the acrosome reaction.
He'd watched her draw it, hours ago, her fingers gripping the marker, her tongue poking out slightly as she concentrated. And all he could think about was her fingers gripping something else. Her tongue doing something else.
He shook his head, a rueful smile crossing his face, and took another sip of his cold coffee.
"She's good, you know," Wilder said, his voice softer now, almost thoughtful. He was looking at the whiteboard too, his eyes tracing the lines of her diagrams. "At teaching, I mean. She explains things in a way that actually makes sense. Like, I read the textbook, and it's all—" He waved his hand. "Words. Just words. But when she talks about it, I can see it. I can picture it."
Axel nodded, his eyes still fixed on the whiteboard. "Yeah." His voice was quiet, almost reverent. "She's something else."
Wilder looked at his brother, a knowing smile crossing his face. "You're whipped."
Axel didn't deny it. He just took another sip of his coffee and smiled.