Nicolas Valo | VU STUDENT

The crisp, sharp air of early fall swept through the grand stone courtyard of Valmont University, rustling the golden leaves clinging to the surrounding oak trees. The morning air carried a distinct chill, forcing students into heavy jackets and tailored wool coats as the autumn semester kicked off.

For you, as a newly arrived transfer student, the morning was already turning into a complete disaster.

You were practically sprinting up the grand marble staircase leading into the Fine Arts building, breathless and desperately trying to navigate the massive, unfamiliar campus. In your arms, you were balancing a dangerously overfilled wooden art tote stacked high with sketchbooks, metal palette knives, and large, unsealed jars of liquid acrylic paint for your upcoming studio class.

You were so focused on checking the room number on your phone that you completely missed the slick, damp patch of fallen leaves on the top step.

Your foot slipped hard.

In a split second of pure panic, your gravity shifted, and you tumbled forward right onto the polished marble landing. The heavy wooden tote flew out of your arms with a loud, clattering crash—and the unsealed jar of dark, viscous black acrylic paint hurled straight through the air.

SPLAT.

The heavy glass jar shattered violently against a pair of pristine, Italian leather dress shoes. Black paint erupted upward like a fountain, thick, dark streaks splashing violently across crisp, tailored charcoal dress trousers and splattering straight up the front of a custom, unbuttoned black silk dress shirt.

A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the dozens of students milling about the hallway. The bustling corridor instantly went dead silent.

Standing directly over you was Nicolas Valo.

He looked like he had just stepped off a high-fashion runway—his messy, ash-blonde wolf cut framed his sharp, aristocratic face, a delicate silver chain catching the morning light against his exposed collarbones, and his icy grey-blue eyes wide in absolute, stunned disbelief.

For three terrifying seconds, Nicolas didn't move. He stood frozen on the marble floor, his heavy-lidded eyes slowly tracking down from his chest to his ruined, paint-drenched trousers and leather shoes.

Then, the storm hit.

A deep, violent muscle twitched in his sharp jawline. His face flushed with pure, unadulterated disgust as his mind completely short-circuited over the sheer, filthy chaos coating his immaculate body.

"Putain de merde..." Nicolas hissed out under his breath, dropping into fluent French as his voice practically trembled with toxic, icy rage.

He snapped his head up, his heavy-lidded eyes burning into yours with a look of lethal, condescending venom. He didn't yell—his voice was a low, dangerous, and razor-sharp growl that vibrated through the silent, watching hallway, but every word carried the weight of an absolute executioner.

"Are you completely fucking blind, or just utterly incompetent?" Nicolas spat, his chest heaving under the stained silk as he reached into his pocket with two clean fingers, pulling out his sterling-silver bottle of unscented hand sanitizer. He obsessively scrubbed his hands clean, staring down at the black paint dripping off his hem as if it were radioactive waste. "Do you have any idea what you just did? This shirt is custom bespoke silk. These shoes are one of one. You just destroyed thousands of dollars in a single second of your brainless, clumsy existence."

He closed his eyes, taking a sharp, irritated breath through his nose as he adjusted the silver watch on his left wrist, trying desperately to keep his explosive temper from causing a scene in front of the whispering crowd.

Despite his overwhelming disgust for the dirt and clutter spreading across the floor, his eyes dropped to the sharp palette knives and heavy wooden brushes rolling toward the edge of the stairs. Gritting his teeth with an audible grind, Nicolas clicked his tongue in pure irritation and crouched down—his tall, 6'2" muscular frame bending over the mess as he began snatching up your scattered art tools with cold, swift efficiency just to keep them from tripping anyone else.

As he leaned closer, the scent of expensive metallic cologne and fresh cedarwood washed over you. Looking at his sharp, breathtaking profile from mere inches away, your heart slammed into your ribs.

The ash-blonde hair was new, the icy, arrogant demeanor was terrifying, and the cold glare was lethal—but you recognized those plush, full lips, that sharp jaw, and those distinct grey-blue eyes instantly.

It was him. Nicolas. The sweet, gentle guy from your freshman year of high school who had held your hand, listened to you talk for hours, and kissed you so softly under the warm afternoon sun before vanishing from your life without a single word.

Nicolas froze for a fraction of a microsecond, his calloused fingers tightening around a wooden paint knife. His brain instantly registered your face—the buried memory of high school rushing back to him in a chaotic wave.

He remembered you. He remembered every single detail.

Slowly, deliberately, Nicolas stood back up to his full height, holding the gathered tools in one hand while using his handkerchief to meticulously wipe paint off his fingers with the other. The momentary flicker of recognition in his eyes completely vanished, replaced by an impenetrable wall of condescending, high-society aristocracy. He looked down his nose at you like you were a bug he’d just stepped on.

"I don't know who the hell you think you're doing, Mutt," Nicolas lied flatly, his voice dropping into a cold, transactional sneer that echoed off the high marble ceilings for the entire crowd to hear.

He threw the gathered art supplies carelessly back into your ruined tote bag, wiping his hands one last time before tossing the paint-stained cloth directly over your mess.

"You are going to clean this disgusting disaster off the floor right now," Nicolas commanded softly, leaning down slightly so his heavy-lidded eyes locked dead onto yours, burning with a complex, dangerous mix of suppressed memories and strict arrogance. "And then you are going to find a way to transfer the exact amount of seven thousand, four hundred dollars into my account to cover the cost of my ruined clothes. In full."

He brushed a strand of ash-blonde hair out of his face, his tone leaving zero room for argument or nostalgia.

"Welcome to Valmont University, transfer student," he sneered softly under his breath, his eyes lingering on your face for a beat longer than necessary before stepping around the pool of black paint. "Pay me back, or I'll make sure your time on this campus is a complete living hell."

Two weeks had passed since the catastrophe on the art building stairs, and the $7,400 debt hung over your head like an executioner's blade. Unable to produce that kind of money on a transfer student’s budget, you had been forced into an agonizing compromise. Nicolas had offered you an alternative: until every single cent was accounted for, you belonged to him on campus. You were his errand runner, his fetch girl, his personal "mutt"—an arrangement he took immense, arrogant pleasure in enforcing.

The mid-morning sun cast long, cool shadows across the central plaza of Valmont University. The autumn breeze carried a sharp bite, making the surrounding trees drop dry, fiery leaves onto the stone walkways.

Nicolas was walking leisurely through the plaza, towering over the crowd at 6'2" in a tailored charcoal topcoat over an immaculate white silk button-down. Walking beside him was Jordan Butler, the two of them engaged in a quiet, analytical conversation about an upcoming weekend mansion party.

"...and I'm telling you, Valo, if we host it at the south estate, security won't even bat an eye," Jordan was saying, a mischievous smirk on his face as he gestured with his hands. "We just need your card to clear the venue deposit."

"I'm not funding another one of your ill-advised circuses, Jordan," Nicolas replied flatly, his icy grey-blue eyes scanning the campus crowd with bored condescension. "The last time I let you handle venue logistics, the host spent three days in lockup, and I had to personally oversee the legal scrub—"

Nicolas cut himself off mid-sentence. His sharp gaze locked onto a familiar figure attempting to blend into the crowd near the library steps.

You.

A cold, calculated smirk tugged at the corner of his plush lips. Without breaking his stride, Nicolas pivoted slightly, closing the distance between you before you could even realize he was behind you.

Rather than touching you directly—his strict germaphobia refusing to let him make bare skin contact in public—Nicolas reached out with two fingers, precisely hooking the sturdy fabric at the back of your coat collar. He yanked you backward with sudden, effortless strength, pulling you to an abrupt halt right in front of him and Jordan.

"Where do you think you're scurrying off to, Mutt?" Nicolas asked, his voice a low, smooth baritone that dripped with condescending authority.

Jordan chuckled softly beside him, crossing his arms and watching the interaction with an amused, knowing look.

Nicolas released your collar, immediately pulling out his sterling-silver bottle of hand sanitizer. He methodically rubbed the clear gel into his palms, his heavy-lidded eyes staring down at you with a mix of strict arrogance and subtle, hidden intensity.

"Your daily task," Nicolas stated coldly, stepping closer until his towering frame blocked out the autumn sunlight. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a sleek, black metallic card and holding it out between his index and middle finger, ensuring his skin didn't brush yours as you took it. "It is currently 11:15 AM. By precisely 11:45 AM, I expect my lunch waiting on the glass table in my private study on the third floor of the science wing."

He leaned down slightly, his sharp, aristocratically chiseled face coming just inches from yours. The subtle scent of expensive cedarwood and metallic cologne washed over you as his gaze narrowed into a deadly, uncompromising stare.

"It must be ordered from the organic botanical cafe on the west side of campus," he warned, his voice dropping into a razor-sharp whisper that sent a shiver down your spine. "A raw plant-based grain bowl. Avocado, cold-pressed olive oil, sprouted seeds, and green tea. No dairy. No eggs. No animal derivatives. If I find so much as a single microgram of honey or milk fat in that bowl, I will reject the delivery, add another thousand dollars to your debt, and make sure your academic advisor revokes your campus parking pass before dinner. Do you understand me?"

Before you could even formulate a response, Nicolas’s sharp ears caught the sound of loud, chaotic laughter echoing from the far side of the plaza.

He glanced over your head, his eyes spotting a wild flash of blonde hair—his twin sister, Colette, surrounded by a group of loud socialites and clearly up to no good. A heavy, irritated sigh escaped his lips, his jaw tightening as his role as her reluctant handler immediately took priority.

Nicolas flicked his wrist impatiently, waving his hand at you as if shooing away an annoying stray dog.

"Go," he snapped coldly, adjusting the silk cuffs of his shirt with practiced, mechanical precision. "You're wasting my time, and your presence is cluttering my sight. 11:45 AM sharp, Mutt. Don't be late."

With that, he brushed past you without another word, his long, confident strides taking him straight toward his sister before her chaos could cause a public scene.

October had fully settled over Valmont University, painting the sprawling estate in deep shades of crimson, burnt orange, and cold gold. The autumn breeze off the nearby canyons carried a sharp, biting frost, and with Halloween approaching, the entire campus was consumed by a chaotic, manic energy. High-stakes mansion parties, secret gatherings, and unpoliced late-night events were popping up in every sector of the private estate.

For you, however, October was just another month of dealing with your lingering $7,400 debt to Nicolas.

Junwoo was hosting a massive, notorious Halloween party at one of the south estate mansions, and Nicolas had made it abundantly clear that you were attending as his guest. But there was, of course, a humiliating twist. Exercising his arrogant, condescending authority over your unpaid debt, Nicolas had hand-delivered a sleek black package to your apartment door two days prior. Attached was a brief, non-negotiable sticky note written in his sharp, immaculate handwriting: 'Wear this to Junwoo’s, or the debt doubles.'

Inside the package was a ridiculously soft, form-fitting plush dog costume complete with floppy ears and a tail—a literal physical manifestation of his favorite degrading nickname for you.

At precisely 8:00 PM, a sharp, rhythmic knock echoed against your front door.

Standing on the cold concrete walkway outside was Nicolas, looking so absurdly, unfairly handsome that it made your breath instantly hitch in your throat. He hadn't gone for a tacky, store-bought costume; instead, he was dressed as a high-society vampire lord—a tailored, pitch-black double-breasted velvet coat clinging to his broad frame, a crisp white silk shirt left dangerously open at the throat to reveal his sharp collarbones and a thin silver chain, and a subtle touch of dark crimson gel slicking his ash-blonde wolf cut back just enough to frame his aristocratic face.

When you pulled the door open, Nicolas was mid-sentence, already reaching into his velvet coat pocket for his sterling-silver bottle of hand sanitizer.

"If you're taking more than five seconds, Mutt, I'm leaving you behind to walk through the canyon in the cold—"

He cut himself off instantly.

Nicolas froze dead on your doorstep. His heavy-lidded, icy grey-blue eyes swept slowly down from the plush floppy ears resting on your head, tracing over the ridiculous costume wrapping around your frame, down to your feet, and right back up to your face.

For two agonizingly silent seconds, the cold, impenetrable mask of the high-society Valo heir completely shattered.

A sharp, stunned breath escaped his plush, naturally dark lips, and then—unexpectedly, shockingly—a rich, deep, genuine laugh burst from his chest. It wasn't his usual condescending smirk or a bitter, sarcastic sneer. It was a real, uninhibited laugh that echoed down the quiet hallway, completely lighting up his sharp features and making him look breathtakingly human.

"You actually put it on," Nicolas wheezed out, placing a hand over his mouth as his muscular shoulders shook with amused disbelief. His eyes crinkled at the corners—a rare, mesmerizing sight that instantly brought a painful rush of high school nostalgia straight to your chest. "Putain de merde... I was ninety percent sure you'd throw the box in my face. Look at you."

Without asking for permission, he stepped past the threshold into your apartment entryway, bringing the faint, crisp scent of luxury cedarwood, metallic cologne, and cold autumn air in with him. His heavy-lidded eyes danced with a wicked, playful amusement as he casually leaned back against your hallway wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest and drinking in the sight of you.

"Turn around," he commanded softly, a lingering, breathless chuckle underlying his deep baritone voice. "Let me see the full ridiculous ensemble. Come on, give me a full spin."

As you stood there under his intense, unblinking gaze, Nicolas straightened up, taking a slow, deliberate step closer into your personal space. The sweet, gentle boy from your freshman year of high school seemed to flicker right beneath his cold exterior, seamlessly blending with the arrogant, strict man he had grown into.

"You know," Nicolas purred, leaning down until his sharp face was mere inches from yours, his voice dropping into a smooth, dangerous murmur that sent a violent shiver straight down your spine. "I ordered it as a complete joke... but it's actually fucking cute on you."

He pulled back just enough to lock his icy grey-blue eyes dead onto yours, the playful smirk softening into something far more complex, heavy, and intense. He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear—a rare, quiet moment of bare skin-on-skin contact that sent a jolt of heat racing through your pulse.

"Just like back in freshman year," Nicolas whispered smoothly, bringing up your buried history without a single shred of hesitation, choosing precisely when to pull that emotional card just to see you flush. "Always so eager to please me, aren't you? Even when I'm being a complete, demanding prick to you."

He lingered in your space for a heartbeat longer, his heavy gaze dropping briefly to your lips—the very same lips he had kissed under the warm afternoon sun years ago—before he abruptly straightened his towering frame. He casually pulled his hand back, using his handkerchief to wipe his fingers before adjusting the silk cuffs of his velvet coat with mechanical precision.

"Come on," Nicolas said, his tone shifting effortlessly back to his usual cool, commanding demeanor, though a faint, wicked smirk remained tugging at the corner of his mouth as he held the front door open for you. "Junwoo's party is already starting, and I refuse to let my favorite little mutt keep me waiting in the cold any longer."

The south estate mansion was practically bursting at the seams with heavy bass, flickering neon red lights, and the overwhelming, claustrophobic mix of alcohol, smoke, and expensive perfume. Junwoo’s Halloween party was a chaotic, unpoliced nightmare—exactly the kind of lawless, decadent event Valmont University was infamous for.

Earlier in the evening, Nicolas had dismissively flicked his wrist and sent you off to have your own fun, retreating to a private leather booth near the main floor bar alongside Adrian, Jordan, and Ace. But as the hours bled past midnight, the strict, calculated composure Nicolas usually maintained like an iron suit of armor began to fracture. Spurred by heavy pressure from the crew and a bitter, venomous confrontation with his ex-girlfriend, Julie Martinez, in a secluded hallway twenty minutes prior, Nicolas had committed what was usually unthinkable for him: he had actually started drinking heavy alcohol.

And a drunk, uninhibited Nicolas Valo was something the campus had literally never witnessed before.

You were standing near the crowded edge of the dimly lit living room, watching the sea of costumed students dance, when a tall, heavy presence suddenly materialized directly behind you.

Before you could react or turn your head, a long, muscular arm snaked around your waist. With a sudden, firm tug, your back was pulled flush against a warm, broad chest. The dark velvet fabric of his vampire coat brushed heavily against your outfit, and the distinct, intoxicating scent of high-end cedarwood mixed with the sharp, sweet bite of expensive tequila washed over your senses.

"There you are..." Nicolas’s deep baritone voice rumbled right against the back of your neck. It was slurred, thick, and lacking every single ounce of his usual cold, clinical authority.

He rested his heavy chin squarely on your shoulder, his messy ash-blonde wolf cut brushing against your cheek. In his free hand, he was loosely holding two silver shot glasses filled to the brim with clear liquor, the liquid sloshing precariously over his knuckles.

His heavy-lidded, grey-blue eyes were glassy and blown out, his sharp cheekbones flushed with a rare, faint rose tint. The pristine, untouchable heir looked entirely undone—his silk shirt was unbuttoned three buttons lower than before, exposing his muscular throat and chest, and his dark velvet coat was hanging loosely off one broad shoulder.

"Take a shot with me," Nicolas demanded softly, his voice dropping into a raspy, needy murmur as he pressed the cool glass rim of one shot right against your lips. His strict, lifelong germaphobia seemed completely burned away by the alcohol rushing through his system. "Come on, Mutt. Drink it. You're taking a shot with me right now."

Looking into his hazy, unfocused eyes and smelling the booze on his breath, you immediately recognized that something was dangerously off. You knew how obsessively he controlled his health and metrics—he never drank like this. Remembering the tense whispers floating around the party about his quiet, explosive confrontation with Julie earlier, you instinctively shook your head, gently pushing his wrist away and declining the drink.

Nicolas blinked slowly, his sharp brow furrowing in genuine, drunken confusion before a childish, irritated pout formed on his plush lips—a expression so absurdly opposite of his usual arrogant sneer that it was almost disorienting.

"No?" Nicolas repeated, his slurred voice rising slightly. "You're telling me no? To my face?"

He didn't get angry or hurl a razor-sharp insult like he normally would. Instead, he let out a low, frustrated huff, carelessly dropping both silver shot glasses onto a nearby glass table with a sharp, echoing clink that almost shattered the glass.

Before you could take a single step backward to give him space, Nicolas closed the distance between you entirely. Completely ignoring the dozens of shocked, wide-eyed partygoers staring at the two of you from across the room, his tall, 6'2" frame leaned heavily into yours. He wrapped both of his strong, muscular arms around your waist from behind, burying his face directly into the side of your neck as he pulled you tightly against his chest in a desperate, surprisingly clingy bear hug.

A collective, stunned silence fell over the immediate crowd. Ace Oliver actually dropped his red cup in shock, pointing at the two of you while Jordan nudged Adrian with a disbelieving laugh. The untouchable, clean-freak Nicolas Valo—who hated being touched without permission—was publicly clinging to you like a lifeline.

"You're being stubborn," Nicolas muttered into your skin, his body pressing so close you could feel the heavy, erratic thud of his heartbeat. His breath was warm against your neck as he let out a long, shuddering sigh. "You always do this... always fighting me..."

Without warning, his plush lips pressed a soft, warm, and lingering kiss right against the sensitive skin beneath your jaw, making your pulse spike wildly. He didn't pull away; instead, he rested his forehead heavily against your neck, his strong arms tightening around your waist as if refusing to let you go.

"Don't leave," he whispered softly, his slurred voice carrying a rare, vulnerable crack that sounded hauntingly like the sweet boy from your freshman year. "Just stay right here... stay with me, Mutt."

The bite of January was harsh and relentless across the Valmont University campus. Crisp, freezing winter air swept through the canyon roads, coating the stone architecture in frost and forcing everyone into heavy wool overcoats and scarves.

By now, months had passed since the chaotic night of the Halloween party. The heavy $7,400 debt was long settled, and the harsh, razor-thin barrier between you and Nicolas had gradually dissolved into a quiet, comfortable closeness. You were undeniably friends again—even if his sharp mouth still couldn't resist teasingly ordering you to fetch his organic teas or clear his desk just to keep his favorite "mutt" close.

It was a quiet Tuesday afternoon when Nicolas pulled his matte-black Porsche Taycan Turbo S into the private valet lot of an high-end, minimalist tech boutique in the city's luxury district.

A few days prior, while sitting in his sterile penthouse study, he had watched you accidentally drop and crush your favorite pair of wireless headphones. You had dismissed it as no big deal, but Nicolas’s hyper-observant mind had quietly logged the detail. Without asking, he had dragged you into his quiet supercar after your afternoon lecture and driven straight to the store.

The interior of the boutique was clinical, quiet, and spotless—floors made of polished concrete, glass display tables, and warm recessed lighting highlighting top-of-the-line audio equipment.

Nicolas stood beside you at a display counter, looking effortlessly stunning in an expensive tailored black wool coat, a high-collared cashmere sweater, and his ash-blonde wolf cut framed perfectly by the store’s soft lights. His hand reached out, gently picking up a pair of sleek, custom noise-canceling headphones crafted from brushed aluminum and leather.

"These," Nicolas stated flatly, his deep baritone echoing softly in the quiet store. He turned toward you, setting the box down on the glass counter with mathematical alignment. "The sound drivers are unmatched, and the build quality means even someone as hopelessly clumsy as you won't manage to break them within a week."

Before you could argue or protest about the ridiculous price tag, Nicolas fell silent.

His heavy-lidded, grey-blue eyes locked onto yours, the usual condescending smirk completely vanishing from his sharp face. The sterile, quiet atmosphere of the shop suddenly felt heavy, charged with a sudden, suffocating intensity that made your heart skip a beat.

Nicolas shifted his tall frame, stepping closer until he effectively blocked out the rest of the store. His posture lost its rigid, high-society stiffness, a rare flicker of raw hesitation crossing his aristocratic features. He adjusted the silk cuff on his left wrist—a habitual gesture he always made when his sharp mind was struggling to process rare, chaotic emotions.

"I know," Nicolas began softly, his voice dropping into a low, quiet murmur meant only for you. "I know how you still look at me. And I know you still carry feelings for me... the ones from freshman year that I walked away from."

Nicolas let out a low, slow exhale, his heavy gaze dropping to the floor for a fraction of a second before locking back onto your eyes with unyielding, honest clarity.

"I'm not going to sit here and pretend I'm a good person," he confessed, the words tasting strange and heavy on his tongue. "I'm arrogant. I'm strict. I have an unbearable temper, my family legacy is a nightmare, and my mind processes people like numbers on a spreadsheet. I am flawed, damaged, and borderline insufferable... but I am working on it. Every single day."

He reached out, his long, warm fingers hesitating in mid-air before gently brushing against your jawline—a touch so shockingly tender it sent a wave of heat straight to your pulse.

"If you'll have me..." Nicolas whispered, his voice carrying a subtle, vulnerable crack that bared his heart completely. "If you are truly willing to deal with the disaster that I am... I want to accept your feelings. I want to give you everything you deserved back then. I want to be yours."

The silence between you stretched, heavy and profound, as the weight of his confession hung in the cold air.

Then, as if his brain suddenly registered just how intensely raw, exposed, and vulnerable he had just made himself, a sudden flush of faint red crept up his neck, staining his sharp cheekbones and the tips of his ears. Nicolas blinked rapidly, his strict, self-controlled demeanor instantly short-circuiting over his own sudden outburst.

"Ahem," Nicolas cleared his throat loudly, his face burning as he desperately tried to pull his arrogant mask back over his flustered expression.

Before you could even speak, he raised two fingers and delivered a quick, light flick right to the center of your forehead.

"Quiet, Mutt," Nicolas grumbled hastily, his voice rising in a sharp, flustered hurry.

He thrust his hand into his coat pocket, pulled out his slim, bespoke black leather wallet, and slapped it directly into your hands. His heavy-lidded eyes refused to meet yours as he hurriedly adjusted his wool coat, his usual cool composure completely shattered into adorable, chaotic embarrassment.

"Take my card. Pay for the headphones," Nicolas commanded rapidly, turning on his heel and taking long, hasty strides toward the glass exit doors of the shop. "I'm going to wait in the Taycan. If you take more than two minutes, I'm locking the doors and leaving you to freeze on the sidewalk."

He pushed through the heavy boutique doors without looking back, his tall frame practically sprinting toward his whisper-quiet supercar, leaving you standing at the counter with his credit card in hand—and the absolute certainty that the cold, untouchable Nicolas Valo had just completely fallen for you.

The high-rise penthouse was completely enveloped in shadow, save for the soft, blue-toned glow of the massive television screen flickering against the white marble walls. Outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, the city skyline stretched out like a silent sea of lights under the cold night sky. But inside Nicolas’s sterile, soundproofed sanctuary, the ambient air was thick, quiet, and suffocatingly warm with a heavy, unspoken physical tension.

You had officially been dating for about a month now, and Nicolas had brought you up to his top-floor penthouse for what was supposed to be a low-key, quiet movie night away from the chaotic noise of Valmont University.

Sitting on his plush, dark leather sectional sofa, the film played silently in the background, but Nicolas wasn't paying a single shred of attention to the screen. His tall, imposing 6'2" frame was leaned casually back against the deep cushions, one long arm draped lazily over the back of the couch behind your head. His heavy-lidded, icy grey-blue eyes weren't tracking the plot or the actors; instead, his gaze was fixed entirely on you, scanning every micro-expression on your face and counting the subtle rise and fall of your chest.

It started subtly, with a slow, deliberate shift in his posture.

His long, calloused hand reached out and settled heavily over your knee, his broad thumb beginning to trace slow, hypnotic circles against your skin. Gradually, those rhythmic, soothing motions began to slide higher, his palm gliding up the inner length of your thigh with a firm, possessive pressure that made a sudden, electric heat pulse through your veins.

"The film is irredeemably boring," Nicolas murmured smoothly into the quiet room, his deep baritone voice dripping with lazy, unyielding authority as he completely disregarded whatever was happening on the screen.

Without waiting for permission or a single word of agreement, he shifted his weight, using his strength to pull you closer until you were half-draped across his lap. His broad hands slid up your waist, his long fingers anchoring at the base of your throat to tilt your head up. He leaned in, his plush, naturally dark lips pressing a slow, lingering kiss right against the sensitive skin just beneath your ear. His sharp, chiseled jaw grazed your skin as his mouth trailed heavy, burning kisses down the slope of your neck, his warm breath fanning across your collarbones and sending a violent shiver straight down your spine.

"I didn't bring you up to my penthouse to watch a fucking screen, baby," he purred raspy against your skin, his tone dropping into a low, dangerous whisper that made your pulse race wildly.

His hands moved lower, efficiently shifting the barrier of your clothing completely out of the way. For a man who usually pulled out a sterling-silver bottle of hand sanitizer after touching a door handle or shaking a hand, his total lack of hesitation with you was intoxicating. In the bedroom, his clinical germaphobia completely evaporated—replaced by an unhinged, dominant hunger where the only thing in the world he deemed worthy of touching, tasting, and completely obsessing over was you.

He gently, firmly pressed you back into the soft leather cushions of the couch, spreading your legs and settling his broad shoulders squarely between your knees. His heavy, dark gaze locked onto yours, his hands gripping your hips to hold you securely in place against the leather.

"Look at me," Nicolas commanded softly, his heavy-lidded eyes burning with an intense, surgical focus as his tall frame hovered directly over you.

He leaned down, his warm breath fanning across your sensitive skin just a fraction of a second before his mouth made full, warm contact with your core. His tongue moved with deep, broad, and exquisitely deliberate strokes—a masterclass of calculated, anatomical precision that coaxed a sharp, helpless gasp straight from your lungs as he drank you in without a single second of hesitation.

Nicolas groaned softly into your skin, a deep, raspy sound rumbling low in his chest as he ate you out with a feverish, absolute devotion. He treated your pleasure like an art form he was obsessively determined to master, using his hands to keep your thighs pinned open while his mouth drove you straight toward the terrifying edge of bliss over and over again. He didn't care about anything being messy; your taste was the only thing his mind found intoxicating rather than dirty.

"That's it... hold onto me," Nicolas murmured against your skin, briefly breaking away to look up at you through his messy, bleached ash-blonde wolf cut. His plush lips were slick, flushed, and parted, his grey-blue eyes dark, heavy, and completely blown out with uninhibited, dominant need. "If I push too hard, pull my hair... or just tap my shoulder, okay? You set the pace."

He didn't wait more than a second before burying his face right back between your thighs, his strong fingers digging firmly into your hips as he drove you completely wild with relentless, rhythmic licks that made your back arch dramatically off the leather sofa.

After several agonizingly perfect, breathless minutes, Nicolas slowly dragged his mouth back up the length of your body. He hovered his heavy, muscular frame over yours, leaning up on his elbows as his chest heaved with heavy, erratic breaths. His dark silk button-down shirt was unbuttoned low, completely messy and undone, his sharp face flushed with raw heat. He captured your mouth in a deep, desperate, and lingering kiss, letting you taste yourself on his lips before pulling back just an inch to lock his dark, intense gaze onto yours.

"I've been patient for a whole month," Nicolas growled softly against your lips, his hand sliding down to unbuckle his trousers as his broad, heavy frame pressed firmly against yours. "I want to fuck you right here on this couch, Mutt. Tell me you want it too."

.