Undivided Attention

“You think I don’t notice?”

His voice was low, a quiet rumble beside her ear. It cut through the dark of their bedroom, sharper than the anger she’d thrown at him hours ago in the bright kitchen light. She flinched, not from the sound, but from the deliberate, cool glide of metal against her skin. Again.

Her wrists were pulled above her head, soft restraints buckled around them, tethered to the dark wood of the headboard. Not tight enough to hurt, not yet, but tight enough to make the illusion of escape just that - an illusion. He hadn't needed them, not really. He knew she wouldn't fight him. Not like this.

“Is that what you meant?” he murmured, his breath warm against her shoulder. The vibrator, smooth and unforgiving, slid down from her belly, nudging between her legs. “When you said I don’t pay attention?”

Her thighs trembled. Already. He hadn't even turned it on yet, just the cold promise of it against her wet heat. God. Already. She squeezed her eyes shut. The memory of her own voice, high and tight with frustration downstairs - “You never slow down.” “We don’t spend time anymore.” “It’s like you don’t even see me half the time!”- echoed sickly in her head. He hadn’t yelled back. Hadn't defended himself.

Just watched her, that still, unnerving focus in his eyes, letting her spin herself out. Then, the quiet promise: “Okay. Tomorrow night, I’m not working. I’m making time.”

She’d forgotten. Forgotten what making time meant when he looked at her like that.

The toy buzzed to life, a low hum against her clit. A gasp ripped from her throat. He hadn't wasted a moment. Walked into the bedroom just before midnight, shut the door with a soft click, and simply started. No preamble, no sweet words. Just action. Just… attention.

“Shhh.” His thumb brushed her cheekbone, surprisingly gentle. His other hand held the toy steady, a slow, circular pressure that already had her hips twitching. “Just focus on this.”

Easy for him to say. His fingers weren't the ones going numb from being held aloft. His body wasn’t already humming, strung tight like a wire about to snap.

His hands… so big against the chrome toy. Steady. Purposeful.

The pressure increased. A slow, deep grind. Her breath hitched. Ah… fuck. He knew exactly where. Always knew.

“Tell me,” he whispered, leaning closer, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “Am I paying attention now?”

A choked sound escaped her. Yes. No. Too much. Please.

He laughed softly, a dark velvet sound. “Words, sweetheart. You had plenty of them earlier.”

The vibration pulsed, stronger. Deeper. Catching that one nerve ending that sent lightning straight down her spine. Her back arched off the mattress. Mmmph.

“That’s it,” he approved, his voice like gravel. “Let me hear it.”

His free hand drifted down, cool fingers tracing the curve of her hip, settling possessively on her thigh. Holding her steady. Anchoring her to the feeling he was building.

His touch. Even through the restraints, the overwhelming buzz… I feel every single point of contact.

It built fast. Too fast. The slick slide between her legs, the relentless buzz, his thumb stroking slow circles just inside her hip bone. Her core clenched. No, not yet…

“Already?” His voice held feigned surprise, but his eyes, when she forced hers open to look at him in the dim light filtering from the hallway, were dark, knowing. Intense. He saw everything. He always did. Fuck.

She couldn’t hold it back. A raw cry tore from her as the first wave hit, sharp and consuming. Her body bucked against the restraints, thighs clamping down on nothing.

He didn’t stop the toy. Just leaned down, catching her cry with his mouth, kissing her deeply as she came apart. His tongue tangled with hers, swallowing her ragged gasps, his hand relentless between her legs, chasing the orgasm, riding it out with her.

When the last shudder faded, leaving her boneless and panting, her wrists aching faintly, he pulled back, his gaze locked on her flushed face. He slicked his thumb over her swollen lower lip.

“One,” he murmured, his voice soft now, almost tender. But the predatory glint in his eyes hadn't faded. “You said we were behind schedule. Just catching up.”

Her mind struggled to form words. One? Behind schedule? What schedule? Panic, sharp and sudden, fluttered in her chest. What had she agreed to? What had he decided she'd agreed to with her outburst in the kitchen?

He smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. He saw the panic. Liked it, maybe. He lowered his head, his mouth finding the sensitive skin just below her ear. His tongue traced a wet path down her neck.

“You seemed… unsatisfied,” he whispered against her pulse point, which was hammering like a drum. “With my level of focus. My dedication.”

His fingers, slick with her wetness, dipped inside her. Just two. Testing her tightness. Oh God. She whimpered.

“Mm. Still responsive,” he noted, his tone almost clinical, if not for the heat coiling low in his gut, a tension she could feel even through the layers of sheet and space between their bodies where he knelt beside the bed. He moved his fingers slightly, just a subtle curl against her inner wall. She gasped again, fresh waves of unwanted sensation skittering through her.

He brought the vibrator back, pressing it firmly against her clit again. The renewed buzz, overlaid with the intrusion of his fingers, was sickeningly potent.

“Ready for two?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. The intensity ramped up. Higher pitch. Deeper thrum.

Her head thrashed against the pillows. “No… please… wait…”

“Wait?” He tilted his head, considering her. His fingers inside her stilled for a torturous second before starting a slow, rhythmic pump. In and out. Matching the relentless buzz. “Didn’t you say I work too much? That I’m always putting things off? Can’t afford to wait now, can we? Got lost time to recover.”

His thumb found her clit again, rubbing small, insistent circles around the spot where the vibrator was doing its merciless work. Fingers pumping inside. Vibration grinding outside. Mouth moving down her body, leaving a trail of damp heat across her collarbone, the swell of her breast.

Too much. It’s too much. Her vision blurred. Sensory overload. His scent—clean soap and something darker, muskier, purely him—filled her nostrils. The slide of his fingers, the electric hum, the scrape of his evening stubble against her skin.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

Her eyelids fluttered open. His face was close, intense. Eyes tracking every flicker of expression on hers. Studying every sound you make. Hadn't he said that? Or had she dreamt it?

“You wanted my attention,” he said, his voice dropping lower, rougher. His fingers pumped faster. The vibrator seemed to fuse with her skin. “You have it. All of it.”

Her hips lifted instinctively, seeking more pressure, seeking release, seeking an end to the relentless build. Ah… fuck… God…

“That’s it, princess,” he growled, the endearment sounding rough, possessive. His mouth closed over her nipple, sucking hard.

Pain and pleasure slammed into her simultaneously. The sharp pull at her breast, the grinding friction below, the deep fullness of his fingers. It shattered her control.

The second orgasm ripped through her, harder than the first. A ragged scream tore from her throat, swallowed partly by the pressure of his mouth on her breast. Her body convulsed, straining against the leather cuffs. Tears tracked hot down her temples, soaking into her hair.

He didn’t let up until the tremors subsided, his fingers finally stilling inside her, the vibrator’s hum lowering slightly but not stopping. He lifted his head from her breast, his lips wet, his eyes blazing. He licked a tear from her cheek.

“Two,” he stated, his voice thick. He leaned back slightly, giving her a moment to breathe, but his hand remained, fingers buried deep inside her wet heat. He watched her, tracked the frantic rise and fall of her chest, the slight quiver that still shook her thighs.

He’s studying me. Like I’m a puzzle he’s determined to solve. The thought was strangely… thrilling. And terrifying.

She sobbed, a wet, exhausted sound. “Please… Liam… stop. Just for a minute. Please.”

He considered her plea, his expression unreadable for a moment. His thumb stroked gently over her hipbone. He leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead, brushing sweat-dampened strands of hair back from her face. It was a gesture of almost painful tenderness, starkly contrasting with the scenario.

“You’re okay,” he murmured, his voice softer again. “Just breathe. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Safe? Tied to the bed, trembling after being forced through two orgasms, with him looking at her like he could devour her whole? The word seemed ludicrous. Yet… deep down, a traitorous part of her knew it was true. He wouldn’t really hurt her.

Not in a way that mattered. This… this was different. This was him making a point. This was him… loving her, in his intense, possessive way.

He withdrew his fingers slowly, deliberately, letting her feel every inch of his exit. The loss of fullness made her whimper again, a pathetic sound. He set the still-humming vibrator aside on the nightstand. The sudden relative silence was almost deafening, broken only by her ragged breaths and the distant drone of the toy.

He reached up and carefully unbuckled the restraints from her wrists, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin. She brought her arms down slowly, flexing her fingers, faint red marks circling her skin. She expected him to pull her close, maybe let her catch her breath properly.

Instead, he shifted on the bed, moving between her legs, kneeling there. His hands went to her thighs, gently but firmly pushing them wider apart.

Her breath hitched. No… what now?

He looked up at her, his eyes dark pools in the dimness. “You look beautiful like this,” he said, his voice a low caress. “Open for me. Still trembling.”

His head dipped. His tongue darted out, tasting the slick evidence of her release at the entrance to her pussy. She gasped, jerking slightly.

“Shhh.” He pinned her thighs gently with his hands. “Relax. Let me.”

His mouth settled over her clit. Soft at first, a gentle lapping. Exploring the swollen flesh. Then firmer. Lapping changed to sucking, a steady, rhythmic pull that sent tendrils of heat coiling low in her belly. Oh… fuck… his mouth…

He added pressure, his tongue flicking, circling, teasing the hyper-sensitive nub.

Ah… God… mmm. Her hips began to move instinctively, a desperate little wiggle against his face. He made a low sound in his throat, pinning her hips more firmly with one strong forearm across her stomach, stopping her movement. Trapping her.

His other hand slid up her body, fingers tracing patterns over her still-damp skin, mapping the curve of her waist, the underside of her breast. His thumb found her nipple again, the one his mouth had recently abused, rolling it gently between finger and thumb. Not painful now, just… adding another layer. Mouth below, hand above.

“Liam…” Her voice was a threadbare plea. It’s too soon. I can’t…

“Mmm. So wet, princess,” he growled against her skin, his breath hot. His tongue became more insistent. Faster. Harder. Finding that perfect spot, that unbearable pressure point. fuck… his tongue… ahh… He seemed to know exactly how close she was, drawing it out, letting the tension build just shy of breaking.

Then, his fingers slipped inside her again. Two deep, curling slightly, hitting her G-spot with unerring accuracy. The combined sensations – his driving tongue, his stimulating fingers, his thumb teasing her nipple – short-circuited her brain. He's so fucking good. oh god. his tongue..mmmm... His fingers… right there…

“You can come again,” he said softly, his voice vibrating against her core. His tongue didn’t falter. “I know it feels like too much. Like you’ll break. But you won’t. I’m here. You’re safe.”

The same words as before. Safe. This time, they sounded like a promise wrapped in a threat. Safe with him. Safe because he was in control.

She cried out when it hit her, the third wave crashing over her with breathtaking intensity. It felt different this time – deeper, almost painful in its completeness. Her whole body spasmed, legs shaking violently around his head. He held her through it, his mouth relentless until the very last pulse faded, his fingers still buried deep inside.

He finally lifted his head, breathing a little harder now himself. He looked utterly satisfied, his expression fierce and proprietary. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze never leaving hers.

“That’s three,” he whispered, his voice husky. He stroked her inner thigh, his touch possessive.

Tears streamed down her face, tears of exhaustion, release, and something else… something darker and more complex. She felt utterly undone. Spent. Owned.

“Stop,” she begged, her voice hoarse. “Please, Liam. I can’t… anymore.”

He nodded slowly, seemingly accepting her surrender. He withdrew his fingers carefully, then moved up the bed. He gathered her into his lap, turning her so her back was pressed against his chest, his arms wrapping around her middle. She collapsed against him, burying her face in the curve of his neck, inhaling his scent, seeking comfort in the solid warmth of his body. He held her tight, rocking her gently, his hand stroking her hair. Her body still twitched with residual tremors, the memory of his touch electric under her skin.

His breathing was even against her ear. The room was quiet again, save for her own shaky breaths slowly starting to deepen, to even out. A fragile sense of peace began to settle over her. Maybe he was done. Maybe this overwhelming display of focused attention was finally over. Maybe now they could just… be.

She let out a long, slow sigh, relaxing fully against him.

And just as the last vestiges of tension began to drain from her muscles, just as her mind started to drift towards sleep… his hand slid down her stomach. Paused. Then slipped deliberately between her legs again.

Her whole body went rigid. A choked gasp escaped her. No.

His fingers, impossibly gentle now, found her still-swollen clit. Started stroking. Slowly. Softly. A feathery touch that was almost worse than the earlier intensity. It bypassed exhaustion, reigniting embers she hadn't known were still there.

He leaned his cheek against her hair, his voice a low murmur directly into her ear.

“You said we were missing time, sweetheart.” His fingers continued their devastatingly soft ministrations. “Years of it, you implied. All those late nights. All those missed connections.” His other arm tightened around her waist, holding her inescapably against him. “I’m just making up for it.”

Oh god. He wasn't done. He wasn’t even close to being done. This wasn't just about tonight. This was about every night she'd felt alone while he worked. Every missed moment. He was repaying it all, touch by touch, sensation by sensation. And he wouldn't stop until he decided the debt was settled.

His fingers pressed a little firmer, finding the sensitivity again with effortless ease. A low moan built in her throat.

“That’s it,” he encouraged softly. “Don’t fight it. Just feel it. Feel me making up for lost time.”

His hand moved, fingers teasing, exploring, learning her all over again, even though he knew her better than she knew herself. He slipped one finger inside, then two, stretching her gently, moving with excruciating slowness. Each tiny movement sent fresh sparks through her exhausted nerves.

“Remember complaining about that merger call last month?” he murmured, his lips close to her ear. “The one that went until 3 AM?” Two fingers pushed deeper, flexing slightly. She gasped. “This is for that.”

He shifted slightly, allowing his hardening cock to press against the base of her spine through his pants. A low groan rumbled in his chest. The contact, even indirect, sent another jolt through her.

“And the Peterson deal? The week I basically lived at the office?” His thumb replaced his fingers at her entrance, rubbing slow, lazy circles. Her hips instinctively tried to rock back against his touch. Mmmm… please…

“Let me hear you want it,” he whispered. “After all that complaining… show me you still want this. Want me.”

“Liam…” It was half plea, half surrender.

“Tell me.” His voice roughened. His thumb pressed harder.

“I want…” she choked out, humiliation and desire warring within her. “Want you…”

“Good girl.” The praise was low, guttural. His fingers replaced his thumb, sinking back into her welcoming heat. He started a slow, deliberate rhythm. Not fast. Not urgent. Just… thorough. Making her feel every millimeter of his possession.

His other hand slid up, cupping her breast, his thumb circling her nipple, mirroring the rhythm of his fingers below. Slower. Deeper. A current building steadily beneath the surface exhaustion.

He leaned forward, his teeth gently grazing the shell of her ear. “We have hours left until morning, sweetheart. Plenty of time to catch up.”

The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 3:17 AM. Hours had blurred into a sequence of relentless sensation, brief moments of exhausted peace shattered by renewed attention. He hadn't stopped 'making up for time'. He'd used his mouth, his hands, toys she hadn’t seen in months. He'd turned her over, put her on her knees, pushed her face into the pillows while he drove into her from behind, his voice a low growl in her ear, listing deadlines she’d hated, trips she’d resented, each one punctuated by a harder thrust.

Now, she lay on her back again, utterly drained, limbs heavy, skin buzzing. He was beside her, propped on one elbow, looking down at her. His shirt was gone, his chest slick with a fine sheen of sweat, muscles defined in the dim light. His eyes were still intense, but softer now, a lingering possessiveness mixed with something that might have been actual concern.

“Tired?” he asked softly. His fingers traced the faint red marks still visible on her wrists.

She could only nod, swallowing thickly. Her throat felt raw.

He leaned down, kissing her gently, a slow, deep kiss that tasted of her, of him, of hours spent reclaiming territory. It wasn't demanding. It was… settling.

When he pulled back, he smoothed her hair again. “You fought me,” she whispered, the words raspy. Not the restraints. But the sheer overwhelming nature of it. The pushing past her limits.

He looked down at his own hand, resting possessively on her hip. “Did I?”

“You… didn’t stop.”

“You asked for my time,” he replied simply, his gaze lifting back to hers. “Undivided. Uninterrupted. You said I wasn’t present.” He tapped a finger lightly over her heart.

“I was present tonight, wasn’t I?”

She couldn't deny it. Every second, every touch, every word had been utterly focused on her. It was terrifyingly thorough. Exhaustingly complete.

He shifted, moving to lie fully beside her, pulling her against his side. His arm rested heavy and warm across her waist. She felt the steady beat of his heart against her back.

“We missed dinner last Tuesday,” he murmured against her hair, almost absently. His hand started to drift down her stomach again.

She stiffened instinctively, bracing herself. Not again… surely not…

His fingers brushed the top of her pubic bone, then stilled. He chuckled softly, a low, warm sound. “Relax, sweetheart. Just thinking.” He pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Even I need to recharge.”

Relief washed over her, so potent it almost made her dizzy. She sagged against him, letting the solidness of his body anchor her.

They lay in silence for a few moments, the only sound the soft whisper of their breathing. His hand rested lightly on her hip now, inert, just… there. Comfortable. Familiar.

His hands. She thought back over the night. The control, the skill, the way they’d felt both demanding and careful. How deep his fingers felt inside me… how strong his grip was… She pictured his biceps flexing as he held her down, the concentration etched on his face. His eyes… God, his eyes tonight…

A different kind of warmth started to bloom low in her belly, slow and unexpected after the hours of forced response. This felt… internal. Her own.

He shifted slightly behind her, pressing himself more fully against her back. She felt his cock, still thick and semi-hard, nudge against her backside through his trousers.

A low grunt escaped him, muffled against her hair.

His grunts… fuck. That sound always got to her. Raw. Uncontrolled, unlike the rest of him tonight.

“Problem is,” he muttered, his voice thick with sleep and something else, “when I finally slow down… all I can think about is starting again.”

His hand moved from her hip, sliding slowly down her thigh, fingers exploring the sensitive skin on the inside. Gentle, almost absentminded. Testing.

She held her breath. Was he…?

And then came the surprise. Not his touch restarting, but his words.

“Remember arguing about that awful beige paint for the spare room?” he asked, his voice low and conversational, completely at odds with where his hand was now drifting, fingers ghosting near the fold of her leg.

“Wha…?” She turned her head slightly to look back at him, confused. Paint? Now?

“You wanted grey. I said beige was more… practical.” His fingers brushed lightly, so lightly, against the outer curve of her labia. She gasped softly, instinctively clenching. “You were right. Grey looks better.”

His thumb swept across her clit, just once, a feather-light touch that had her arching back fractionally against him.

He laughed again, low and husky. “See? Paying attention.”

Then, his hand retreated from between her legs, and she almost sighed in relief, thinking the strange paint tangent was over. But his hand reappeared holding… his phone. The screen glowed faintly.

“What are you doing?” she asked, bewildered.

“Making a note,” he murmured, thumb tapping quickly on the screen. He held it angled slightly so she could almost see. A shopping list app. He typed: 'Spare Room - Repaint - Agreeable Grey.' Then he added another item: 'New restraints - softer leather - black.'

He clicked the phone off, set it back on the nightstand without looking away from her. His eyes glittered in the dark.

“Can’t have you uncomfortable while I’m catching up on all this missed… conversation,” he said, his voice dropping back into that dangerously smooth purr.

The sheer unexpectedness of it – the mundane mixed with the dominant, the casual planning for future sessions while referencing their earlier fight and acknowledging her taste in paint – sent a bizarre jolt through her. It was intimate, controlling, and weirdly domestic all at once. Oh fuck… restraints… black leather… while talking paint colours… It wasn't just the sex; it was the seamless integration of this intense power play into the fabric of their ordinary life. That was the hook. That was him.

His hand returned, not to her core this time, but resting flat on her lower belly, fingers splayed wide. Possessive. Grounding.

“Now,” he breathed against her neck, pulling her even tighter against him, his erection now fully hard against her ass. “About that business trip I took in March…”

She closed her eyes. Exhausted, aching, but no longer fighting. Just feeling. He hadn’t lied. He was making up for lost time. Every single second of it. And somehow, terrifyingly, wonderfully, she wouldn't have it any other way.

The argument felt like a lifetime ago, irrelevant except as the catalyst for this overwhelming, consuming attention. He hadn't just given her his time; he'd taken hers, filled it completely with himself, leaving no room for anything else. And the worst part? The best part? She was already wondering what tomorrow night would bring. Because surely, surely, they still had more time to make up.

The thought sent a fresh wave of heat, entirely her own this time, pooling low inside her. Maybe she'd complain more often. The idea was both horrifying and thrilling. She felt his answering smirk against her skin, as if he'd heard the thought. Damn him. He probably had.