The Fuckening

Lexi

I wasn’t planning to fuck anyone tonight.

Honestly, I wasn’t even planning to leave the flat.

The plan was simple: wine, face mask, trash TV reruns and a deep dive into my group chat’s latest drama.

No bra. No makeup. Zero expectations.

Just a quiet Thursday night where I could pretend my vibrator was enough to make up for six months of celibacy and one truly horrific dating app incident involving toe-sucking with a man called Lionel.

But then Mia called.

“You’ve been boring for weeks, Lex. Get dressed. I’m not asking.”

Half an hour later, I’m at a bar that smells like spilt tequila and bad decisions, wedged into a dress that barely covers my ass and heels I haven’t worn since I still had hope.

I tell myself it’s just a drink. Just one night out to prove I’m not turning into a frigid workaholic.

The bar’s loud and dark and already too full. But it’s familiar. We’ve been here a dozen times. It’s cheap, close, and crawling with predictable men who think confidence means grabbing your waist without asking.

Mia’s off ordering shots and flirting with someone in a tight shirt.

I’m scrolling my phone when I feel it.

That shift.

Like I’ve become prey.

He’s leaning against the far wall like he owns the fucking place. All black—t-shirt, jeans, boots—like a walking bad decision with a jawline sculpted by gods who wanted me to fail.

He’s not looking at me. Not directly.

But I feel it. The burn of it. The pull.

The way his posture changes, just slightly. The way his eyes flick over, slow and shameless.

Like he already knows what I look like naked. Like he’s deciding if I’ll moan or beg.

My stomach clenches. My mouth goes dry. And just like that, I know I’m in trouble.

I try to ignore it. I turn away. Order a drink. But I can feel him.

Watching.

And worse—I like it.

I make it halfway through my vodka soda before I feel the heat of him at my side.

“You’ve been looking at me,” he says.

His voice is rough. Like smoke and late nights. The kind of voice that belongs behind locked doors and tangled sheets.

“You’ve been looking back,” I answer, not even pretending I wasn’t.

He smiles. It’s slow. Dangerous. Like he’s already decided how this ends.

“Difference is, you look curious.” He leans in, breath brushing my neck. “I look like I already know.”

Fuck.

He doesn’t touch me. Not yet. He doesn’t have to. His presence is a hand around my throat and a promise between my legs. I don’t know his name. I don’t care.

I want him.

Badly. Stupidly. Now.

The night blurs after that. Music. Drinks. His eyes on me like a brand. He doesn’t follow me around. He doesn’t chase. He waits. Watches. Every time I glance over, he’s there, like gravity.

I don’t remember how we get back to mine. I just remember the cab ride—his hand on my thigh, lips brushing my ear as he murmurs filth I’ll be replaying for weeks.

His mouth is already on mine by the time we hit the door.

I fumble with the keys. Zayn’s hands are on my hips, my ass, my thighs, keeping me off-balance while I try to unlock the flat.

When the door finally swings open, I barely make it three steps before he pushes it shut behind us and pins me to it.

“You wore that dress for me,” he murmurs, voice low and rough in my ear.

“I don’t even know your name,” I breathe.

He chuckles darkly. “Zayn. You’ll remember it when you’re screaming it.”

Then his mouth crashes onto mine—hot, greedy, brutal.

There’s nothing gentle about him. Nothing hesitant. His hands are already yanking my dress up, dragging it over my head in one motion. I’m bare underneath.

“Fuck me,” he groans, stepping back to look. “No bra. No panties. Did you come out tonight to be ruined?”

“I came out for a drink.”

“Liar.”

He’s stripping as he speaks, shirt over his head, jeans shoved down. I don’t even pretend not to stare. He’s all muscle and ink, that kind of lazy power that comes from knowing exactly what he can do.

When he steps in again, it’s to grab me by the throat—not hard, just enough to hold me there, to make my breath catch as he kisses me again.

His free hand slides down my stomach, between my thighs, and fuck—I’m already soaked.

“Yeah,” he mutters against my lips, fingers sliding through the mess. “You came out for me.”

We don’t make it to the bedroom.

He drops to his knees right there, mouth hot on my inner thigh, tongue teasing like he’s savouring every second. When he finally licks me—slow, deep, deliberate—I let out a sound I don’t recognise.

“Hold still,” he murmurs. “I’m not stopping until you come.”

And he doesn’t.

His mouth is filthy perfection—tongue relentless, fingers sliding in deep, hitting in just the right spot. I’m shaking, gasping, clawing at the door like it might save me.

It doesn’t.

I come with a cry, loud and broken, and he groans like I just fed him.

“You taste like perfection.”

Then he stands, lifts me, like I weigh nothing—like he already owns me.

Carries me down the hallway with one arm under my thighs, the other around my back, his cock still hard against my stomach, pulsing like it’s got something to prove.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t smirk.

He just looks at me like I’ve already fucked him without touching him.

He lays me down on the bed—slow, like a ritual—then stands over me, stroking himself once, his gaze dragging across every inch of bare skin like it’s a fucking crime scene.

“Look at you,” he mutters. “Laid out like a fucking sin I didn’t mean to commit.”

My eyes sweep over him, drinking him in. God, he's fucking glorious.

“Condom?” he grits out, even though his hand hasn’t stopped moving.

“Pill,” I whisper, throat dry.

His jaw flexes. “Good. I want to feel everything.”

Then he’s on me.

No preamble. Just one punishing thrust that makes me cry out—loud, needy, already cock-drunk. I claw at his back, wrap my legs around him, pull him deeper.

“Fuck—Zayn—yes—just like that—I like it rough—”

He groans into my neck, like he wasn’t expecting me to be this much.

“You feel that?” he grits out. “That stretch? That ache? That’s what you get when you show up looking like a fucking siren and make every other woman disappear.”

“God, yes,” I moan, rolling my hips to meet every thrust. “Fill me. Fucking break me. I want to feel it tomorrow.”

He growls like I just slapped his ego and kissed it after.

“You wanted it. You wanted me.”

“I want everything. Don’t you dare hold back.”

He laughs—dark, dangerous. “Be careful what you ask for, Lexi.”

“Do it. Fuck me like I’m the only thing you’ll ever want again.”

His rhythm slows, grinding deep, dragging a whimper from my throat. I start talking just to push him over the edge.

“You like that?” I whisper. “Like how tight I am? Like how wet you made me just by looking at me?”

He curses, hips jerking.

“I saw you the second I walked in. Knew I’d fuck you or die trying.”

Every thrust drags a broken gasp from my throat. He grabs my wrists, pins them over my head like he needs to hold something down.

“You want more? Want me not to stop until I’m all you think about?”

"Fuck, yes. I want that."

He shifts, hooks my leg over his shoulder, and sinks in again—deeper.

“You want to cry on my cock?” he breathes. “Because I’ll keep going until you do. Until your body stops trying to fight how much it fucking needs me.”

My head falls back. I can’t speak. I can’t think. Every nerve is stretched tight, every muscle clenched, every part of me tuned to him.

I come hard. Violently.

And he doesn’t slow.

He keeps going like he’s addicted to the sound of it.

His hand moves to my throat—not choking, just holding me there, claiming me with pressure and intent.

“You’re in my fucking head already, Lexi,” he mutters like he hates it. “I don’t even know you, and I want to wreck you again just to see what kind of noise you’ll make next.”

He pulls out and flips me, fast, rough—angry now, but it’s not at me. It’s at himself.

I don’t get a second to breathe before he’s buried in me again, this time from behind. My cheek hits the sheets, hands clawing at the mattress while he drives into me, deeper, harder, sending shockwaves up my spine.

"Yes—yes—just like that—harder—don’t stop—”

His fingers tangle in my hair. His other hand slides under my hips.

He starts rubbing my clit like he needs me to come again. Like it’ll make sense of whatever the fuck I’m doing to him.

“You should be a one-night stand,” he grits out. “But I already want to know what you taste like in the morning.”

I break again.

Louder.

Wetter.

Uncontrollable.

“Zayn—fuck—I’m coming—can’t stop—don’t stop—”

I’m shaking so hard I forget how to breathe. Forget how to be.

He follows—groaning like it’s agony, like I’ve stolen something from him he wasn’t ready to give.

Then he pulls out, grabs my chin, and makes me look at him.

“What the fuck are you, Lexi?” he asks, eyes wild, still panting. “Because that didn’t feel like a first time. That felt like a fucking claim.”

We didn’t stop there.

That was just the beginning.

The first round in a night that broke every rule he thought he had.

He fucked me again. And again.

On my knees. On his face. With my thighs shaking and his cum still dripping out of me.

We tasted each other like we were starving.

Touched until the lines blurred.

And by the time the sun came up, I still didn’t know his last name.

But I knew the sound he made when he came for the third time with my name on his tongue.