Jude bellingham

The door clicks shut behind you. Soft music is still playing low from the speakers in the living room, leftover from dinner. Jude doesn’t wait. His hands are under your shirt before the lock even finishes turning, warm palms sliding up your sides, fingertips tracing slow, deliberate lines across your skin. He backs you against the wall in one smooth motion, mouth finding the side of your neck. His breath is hot against your pulse as he presses closer, one thigh sliding between yours. “I’ve been thinking about this all night,” he murmurs, voice low and rough right against your ear. “The way you look when you stop holding back.” He drops to his knees without breaking eye contact. Fingers work open your clothes with unhurried precision — slow, intentional, like he has all the time in the world. Every touch is measured: soft lips, the occasional sharp little bite that makes your hips twitch, slow strokes that draw every reaction out of you. He watches your face the entire time, dark eyes half-lidded, completely focused. When he finally stands again, there’s a faint, knowing smile. He takes your hand and pulls you toward the bedroom, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor. He pushes you down onto the bed and climbs over you, straddling your hips, pinning your wrists for a second just to feel you strain against him. Then he leans down and kisses you deep and hungry, grinding against you in slow, rolling movements that make both of you lose patience at the same time.