Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 151: Wired for You [IV]

He kissed a slow, wet path higher, his breath hot against my skin, driving me insane. He wasn’t rushing. His hands came to rest on my hips, his grip firm, possessive, holding me in place as he continued his worship.

"You taste like... mine," he murmured against my skin, and the words, possessive and raw, shattered what little composure I had left.

"Ngh~" I gasped, my fingers flying to the edge of the bed, gripping the mattress like I was trying not to float off the damn planet.

The first touch of his tongue was exquisitely gentle, a question. My response was a choked cry, my hips bucking against his hold. That was all the answer he needed. The gentleness vanished, replaced by a hungry, knowing skill that sent my world tilting on its axis. He learned my body in seconds, memorizing the sounds I made, the way my thighs trembled, the exact pressure that made me gasp his name.

"That’s it, little bird," he growled, his voice thick, his hands tightening on my hips. "Sing for me."

And I did. I was a symphony of pleas and moans, completely lost to the storm he was creating.

The monitor beeped a little faster. I didn’t care.

I reached down with what little strength I had and tangled my fingers in his hair. Tugged softly.

His groan was muffled against me. The vibration made me gasp.

I let my head fall back with a moan, the world spinning.

I wanted to tease him.

I just wanted to poke the dragon.

And now I’m being incinerated by a man who thinks this is a religious experience.

My whole body was shaking now. My breath hitched, stuttering in time with the rhythm of his mouth, his tongue, the maddening pressure of his hands gripping my thighs like he was holding me together.

My hand flew to the bedrail, gripping it like I might lift the whole thing off the ground. My body wasn’t mine anymore. Just sensation. Just heat. Just—

God, his tongue—

"Adrien," I gasped, "I swear to God, I’m gonna—"

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t slow down.

And when I came, it was like drowning and floating at the same time. My legs trembling, toes curling, the loud beep of my heart monitor jumping—dramatic little traitor—while I came apart under his tongue.

And he held me there. Gently. Patiently. Riding it out like he’d been waiting to destroy me for years.

When he finally rose, his mouth was wet.

He looked wrecked.

I stared at him—breathless, legs trembling.

And then I reached for him. I wanted him inside me, around me, against me— I don’t even know anymore.

But his hand caught my wrist. Gentle. Firm.

"No," he said, voice low and hoarse.

I blinked, dazed. "But I want to—"

"I know." He leaned closer, kissed my cheek. "But I’m not letting you do a damn thing until you’re fully healed."

"Then what are you going to do?" I asked breathlessly.

He pulled away just enough for me to see all of him—standing at the foot of the bed. Unbuttoning his pants.

His fingers worked the button and then the zipper, the sound impossibly loud in the quiet room.

Oh.

Oh, he’s serious.

He didn’t break eye contact as he pushed it down his hips, along with his briefs, kicking them aside with a careless motion. My breath hitched. He was magnificent. Hard and ready, and all for me, yet he was keeping a deliberate, torturous distance.

"I’ll do it myself," he said. "But you’re going to watch."

My mouth went dry. The heart monitor, my own personal Greek chorus of betrayal, picked up its tempo again.

His hand, big and calloused, closed around himself. He stroked once—slow. Purposeful. And my mouth actually dropped open. Okay now this is pure evil.

His eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, stayed locked on mine. It was a dare. A promise. A punishment for a crime I was more than willing to commit again. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving was a torment, amplified in the sterile quiet.

I’d never seen anything so sinful. So undone.

He was doing this for me. Because of me.

Because I teased him.

Every motion of his hand made my thighs tighten again.

He noticed. Smirked.

He was panting already, biting back sounds, his eyes never leaving mine. His free hand reached out, brushing the inside of my knee, as he fisted himself harder now, faster. Like he was punishing himself with pleasure.

I shifted, the thin hospital gown rustling, and his gaze sharpened. "Don’t move," he commanded, though his voice was strained.

My lips parted, but no sound came out. My throat was desert-dry. The only commentary was the heart monitor, that traitorous little bastard, beeping a frantic rhythm that echoed the frantic pulse at the base of my throat. Beep-beep-beep-beep.

He laughed, a rough, breathless sound. "Listen to that. Your heart is singing for me again, little bird."

I whimpered. Actually whimpered.

"Fuck," he gasped again, eyes slipping shut for a second. "You—god, you don’t know what you do to me."

His pace quickened. His head tilted back, his throat corded, his whole body a testament to iron control beginning to fray at the edges. He was a god of destruction, and I was his sole, helpless worshipper. He watched me, his eyes burning with an intensity that stripped me bare all over again.

His body shuddered, his hand stilling as his release tore through him. It spilled across his stomach, and for a second, he just stood there—head bowed, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a marathon through hell.

And then, slowly, he reached for a tissue from the tray table and cleaned himself with careful, practiced grace.

Then he turned back to me.

His expression had shifted.

No longer dark or desperate—but soft. Quiet. Like something in him had settled.

"Are you okay?" he asked gently, reaching for the damp cloth beside the fruit bowl and carefully wiping the inside of my thighs. "Did I hurt you?"

My heart was still somewhere on the ceiling.

He was wiping me like I was precious. Like I wasn’t the reason he’d just defiled the sanctity of hospital linens and probably traumatized at least one very innocent heart monitor.

I wanted to say something clever. Something sassy. Something like, "You missed a spot."

But my brain? My brain was jelly. Warm, wet, Adrien-flavored jelly.

"I’m okay," I whispered, still dazed. "A little fried. Definitely useless for rational thought. But okay."

He huffed a laugh—quiet, relieved—and leaned down to kiss the inside of my knee.

Which... honestly?

Unfair.

"You’re going to give me a heart attack before the actual IV does," I murmured, breath still unsteady.

He lifted his gaze. His eyes weren’t dark anymore. Not lust-fueled or wrecked or thunderous.

They were soft.

Almost... tender.

Which was somehow worse. Because now I was melting for a different reason. This man had made me fall apart like a five-piece IKEA chair with no instructions and was now looking at me like I hung the damn moon.

"I don’t deserve you," I mumbled, drunk on endorphins and exhaustion.

He leaned in, pressing his lips to my temple. "You’re wrong."

"Then prove it again when I’m strong enough to crawl into your lap."

He smiled, brushing a thumb across my cheek.

"You’re warm," he murmured. "You need to rest."

Rest? Now?

I barely resisted the urge to roll over and start part two.

Instead, I turned to him, slapping on a grin. "If I die, I die. At least they’ll say it was from pleasure-related heart failure. You want that on your record, Mr. Walton?"

His lips twitched. "You’re lucky I’m not heartless."

"No, you’re not," I agreed, my voice barely a whisper. "You’re just... a menace."

Then he straightened, walking toward the private bathroom like he hadn’t just made me forget my name, social security number, and the laws of physics.

My jaw dropped a little. "Wait—you’re leaving?"

He paused at the door. Looked back. "To wash my hands."

"Oh," I said, intelligently. "Right. Hygiene."

The moment he disappeared inside, I flopped back against the pillows and let out a breathless groan. The heart monitor was still beeping in chaotic rhythm, like even it was fanning itself.

God. I had just witnessed Adrien Walton touch himself for me. And then cleaned me like I was the most fragile, precious thing he’d ever touched.

What was I supposed to do with that?

I stared up at the ceiling, my body still tingling, my brain static. I was supposed to be recovering. Being good. Letting my cells regenerate or whatever.

Instead, I’d practically begged him to ruin me in a hospital bed.

And he’d said no.

But he still gave me that.

He came back minutes later, bare chest still flushed from exertion, damp hair pushed back like he’d run cold water through it in a desperate attempt to cool down. It didn’t help. If anything, it made him look more dangerous—shirtless, glowing, and composed in a way that should’ve been illegal.

He paused at the edge of the bed. "Stop thinking."

"I’m not thinking."

"You’re thinking."

"I’m just... reflecting."

He gave me a look. "You’re plotting how to get me to break my promise."

"...Maybe."

He sighed—a quiet, strained sound that did nothing to hide the fact that his eyes had just dipped to my mouth. Then my throat. Then lower.

"You’re not allowed to look at me like that when you’re hooked to a monitor," he muttered.

I smiled lazily. "Then take it out."

His eyes narrowed. "Isabella."

"What?" I stretched just enough to make the sheet slide down my shoulder. "It’s not my fault your mouth made a mess of my recovery timeline."

He swore under his breath. "You’re impossible."

"And you like that about me."

He didn’t argue.

Instead, he leaned over and reached for the control panel, adjusting the head of the bed so I was reclining slightly more upright. His hand brushed the side of my neck as he worked.

When he was done, he settled back into the chair beside me—close but not too close.

"Sleep," he said, voice quiet now. "You need it."

I yawned before I could argue. "You’ll still be here when I wake up?"

His eyes didn’t waver. "Always."

"Thank you, Adrien."

"For what?"

"For everything," I whispered. "For being patient. For taking care of me. For... that." I gestured vaguely in the direction of his now-clean stomach.

He covered my hand with his, his thumb stroking my knuckles. "You deserve to be taken care of, Princess. And you deserve anything and everything. Always."

"Adrien," I whispered, the sound barely there.

"Hmm?"

"I think I love you," I blurted out, like an idiot who’d just discovered feelings existed.

Adrien raised a brow. "Think?"

"Okay, fine," I groaned, hiding my face against the pillow. "I love you."

He kissed my temple. "I know. And I love you too. Now shut up and sleep."

My breath caught anyway.

Not because I didn’t know. Not because it was new. But because every time he said it—like that—it carved itself deeper into me. Quiet. Certain. Like gravity.

Like it had always been true.

I let out a soft laugh, exhausted and utterly wrecked. "You really know how to end a scene, Mr. Walton."

He smirked. "Would you rather I left you on a cliffhanger?"

I hummed, half-asleep already. "Depends. Will there be a part two when I wake up?"

His hand found mine again under the blanket, warm and grounding. "When you’re strong enough to handle it," he murmured, thumb brushing my knuckles. "And then some."

God, this man.

I drifted, barely holding on to consciousness now, my body blissed-out and my heart humming in sync with that damn monitor.

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