Four months.
Four months of marriage, and Zayne had maintained his control with surgical precision. Every night, sleeping beside her soft warmth. Every morning, watching her eat breakfast with those adorable hamster-like cheeks. Every innocent touch, every accidental brush of skin—he'd endured it all with the same ironclad discipline he applied to everything else in his life.
But tonight, that control was fracturing.
He found Nana in the kitchen again, her small hand reaching for the forbidden macaron box. The third time this week. Her lower lip jutted out in that pout he both loved and found exasperating.
"Nana." His voice was calm, clinical. "We discussed this. No snacks before meals. Your blood sugar levels—"
"I don't care about blood sugar!" She spun to face him, and his words died at the sight of tears streaming down her face. "Why do you even care? You don't care about anything except your rules and your hospital and—and—"
She broke into sobs, and something twisted painfully in his chest.
"You don't even love me," she choked out, stumbling past him toward their bedroom. "That's why you won't touch me. Why you avoid me. Why we haven't—we're married and you won't even—"
The door slammed, and Zayne stood frozen in the kitchen, his hand clenched around the doorframe hard enough that frost began creeping across the wood.
She didn't understand. How could she?
How could he explain that every night was torture? That sleeping beside her, feeling her unconsciously curl against him like a baby koala, her short pajamas riding up to reveal soft thighs—it took every ounce of his self-control not to roll over and claim her. That watching her eat sweets with such innocent pleasure made him imagine what other pleasures might make her sigh and moan. That he'd married her not out of obligation but because the moment he'd seen her, something in his carefully controlled world had tilted on its axis.
But she was nineteen. Sheltered. Homeschooled in arts and literature, raised in a mansion like a princess in a tower. She'd never even been kissed before their wedding ceremony. He'd seen the nervous flutter of her pulse when he'd pressed his lips to hers—brief, chaste, appropriate.
How was he supposed to explain that he was terrified of his own desire? That if he started touching her, he might not be able to stop? That the beast he kept leashed behind clinical professionalism might devour her whole?
Zayne took a steadying breath and followed her to their bedroom.
She was buried under the blankets, her small form shaking with sobs. The sound broke something inside him—something that had been straining against its bonds for four months.
"Hamster," he said softly, using the nickname that always made her smile.
She didn't respond, just cried harder into her pillow.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his hand hovering over what he assumed was her shoulder beneath the covers. "Nana, please. Talk to me."
"No." Her voice was muffled. "I know you don't love me. You only married me because of the arrangement. You—you probably wanted someone older, more sophisticated. Not some stupid girl who doesn't even know how to—"
"Stop." The command came out sharper than intended. He pulled the blanket down, revealing her tear-stained face and wounded eyes. "That's not true. None of it."
"Then why?" Those big eyes stared up at him, so full of hurt it physically pained him. "Why won't you touch me? We've been married four months and you've never—we haven't even—"
"Because I'm trying to protect you." He wiped her tears with his thumb, the gesture precise, controlled. "From me."
She blinked. "What?"
"You don't understand what you're asking for." His jaw tightened. "You're young. Innocent. You grew up sheltered, studying arts and literature. You've never—" He stopped, searching for clinical words. "You haven't experienced sexual intimacy. I didn't want to rush you into something you're not ready for."
"But I am ready!" She sat up suddenly, her hands fisting in his shirt. "I'm your wife. I want—" Her face flushed pink. "I want you to want me."
"Want you?" A humorless laugh escaped him. "Nana, I've wanted you since the moment we met. Every. Single. Day. Do you know what it's like? Sleeping beside you, feeling your body pressed against mine, hearing the small sounds you make in your sleep? I've spent four months exercising self-control that would make a saint look weak."
Her eyes widened. "Really?"
"Really." He cupped her face, forcing her to hold his gaze. "But I need you to understand. Once I start, I won't be able to stop easily. I've been... restraining myself. If that control breaks—"
"I want it to break." She climbed into his lap with sudden boldness, her small hands cupping his jaw. "Husband, please. I love you. I want our first night together. I want you to claim me."
The clinical term "claim" coming from her innocent lips nearly undid him. His hands gripped her hips—harder than necessary—trying to maintain the last threads of his control.
"Nana, do you even know what happens? The physical process of sexual intercourse between—"
"I do." Her face flushed deeper. "I read books."
"Books." His eyebrow rose. "Medical texts?"
"...Romance novels."
Despite everything, he nearly smiled. "Those are not anatomically accurate representations of—"
"I know it might hurt. The first time. I know you'll..." She bit her lip, struggling with the words. "Put yourself inside me. I know it's supposed to feel good eventually. I'm not completely ignorant."
His breathing had become uneven. Having her in his lap, talking about this, her innocence and boldness warring in equal measure—it was destroying his carefully maintained control.
"Are you certain?" His voice had gone rough. "Because once I start, Nana, I don't know if I'll be able to be gentle enough. I've wanted you for too long."
"I'm sure." She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "Please, husband. Let me see the man beneath all that control. Show me you love me."
The last thread snapped.
In one fluid motion, he flipped their positions, pinning her beneath him on the bed. His mouth crashed against hers with four months of pent-up hunger, his tongue demanding entry. She gasped, and he swallowed the sound, kissing her like a man starving.
His hands were everywhere—mapping her body through her clothes, learning curves he'd only glimpsed, claiming territory he'd denied himself. She whimpered against his mouth, overwhelmed, and the sound went straight to his groin.
"Still sure?" he asked roughly, pulling back just enough to see her face.
Her pupils were dilated, lips swollen from his kiss. "Yes."
"Then you need to understand something." His hand slid under her shirt, palming her breast through her bra. She arched into his touch with a gasp. "I'm going to examine every inch of you. Touch you places you've never been touched. Make you feel things you've never felt. And I'm going to do it thoroughly. Do you consent?"
"Yes—yes, I consent—"
He stripped her shirt off with efficient movements, then her bra, exposing her to his hungry gaze. "Beautiful," he murmured, almost clinical in his observation. "Breasts are approximately a B-cup, nipples already erect and responsive to ambient temperature and arousal."
"Z-Zayne, you don't have to narrate—"
"I'm a doctor. I observe." His mouth closed around one nipple, and she cried out. He sucked hard while his hand kneaded the other breast, cataloging every reaction. "Heart rate elevated. Respiration increased. Pupils dilated. All signs of sexual arousal."
His free hand worked at her pajama shorts, sliding them down along with her panties. When she was finally bare beneath him, he sat back to look at her properly.
"Don't stare," she whispered, trying to cover herself.
"Why not? You're my wife. I have every right to examine what's mine." He caught her wrists, pinning them above her head with one hand. "And you are mine, Nana. Say it."
"I'm yours."
"Good girl." He rewarded her by sliding his hand between her thighs, cupping her sex. She was already wet, and the evidence of her arousal made him groan. "External genitalia showing signs of engorgement. Significant vaginal lubrication present. Your body is preparing itself for penetration."
"That's so—ah!—clinical—" Her words cut off as he slid one finger inside her.
"Incredibly tight," he observed, his professional mask cracking as he felt her clench around his finger. "This is going to be difficult. I'm going to need to prepare you extensively."
He added a second finger, stretching her carefully while his thumb found her clitoris. The combination made her back arch off the bed, a keening sound escaping her throat.
"That's it," he encouraged, watching her face as he worked her open. "Let me hear you. I need to know what you're feeling. Pain?"
"No—good—it feels—"
"Use proper terminology."
"It feels good when you touch my—my—" She couldn't say it.
"Clitoris," he supplied, circling it with more pressure. "And when I curl my fingers like this?" He demonstrated, finding that spot inside her that made her see stars.
"Oh god—Zayne—!"
"Husband," he corrected. "Call me husband when I'm pleasuring you."
"Husband—please—I need—"
He added a third finger, and the stretch made her wince. "Pain level?"
"It's—it's okay—just different—"
"I need you to accommodate three fingers comfortably before I attempt penetration with my penis." He said it so matter-of-factly, even as his own arousal strained against his pants. "I'm significantly larger than three fingers. If you can't handle this, you're not ready."
The clinical assessment should have been mortifying, but something about his controlled voice while doing such intimate things made it unbearably arousing. She felt herself getting wetter, her body adjusting to the intrusion.
"That's better," he murmured, feeling her relax. "Your vaginal walls are becoming more elastic. The natural lubrication is increasing. Your body is intelligent—it knows what's coming."
He withdrew his fingers and brought them to his mouth, licking them clean while maintaining eye contact. "You taste better than I imagined."
"You imagined?"
"Every. Night." He stood, finally removing his clothes with the same precise movements he used for everything. When he was naked, her eyes went wide.
He was... substantial. Long and thick, flushed and hard, a bead of moisture at the tip.
"That's not going to fit," she whispered.
"It will. The vaginal canal is remarkably elastic. However," he positioned himself between her thighs, the head of his cock pressing against her entrance, "there will be discomfort initially. Your hymen will need to break. There may be some bleeding. It's normal."
"You're still being clinical."
"Because if I'm not, I'll lose control completely." His hands gripped her hips, and she could see the tension in every line of his body. "Are you ready?"
"Yes."
He pushed forward slowly, just the tip breaching her entrance. She tensed immediately.
"Breathe," he commanded. "Your pelvic floor muscles are contracting. You need to relax or this will hurt more."
"I'm trying—"
"I know." He leaned down, kissing her softly while his hand found her clit again. "Focus on this. Let me distract you from the penetration."
He pushed in another inch, and she whimpered against his mouth. Too big. Too much.
"Shh," he soothed, stilling his movements. "You're doing well. You've accommodated approximately three inches. Only five more to go."
"Five?!"
"Breathe, hamster." The nickname, so soft and affectionate, helped her relax slightly. "I've got you. I won't hurt you more than necessary."
He continued his patient advance, stopping whenever she tensed, working her clit to keep her aroused and wet. When he finally broke through her barrier, she cried out in pain, tears springing to her eyes.
"I know," he murmured, kissing away her tears with surprising gentleness. "The worst is over. Just breathe through it."
He stayed perfectly still, buried halfway inside her, giving her time to adjust. His own face was strained with the effort of not moving, frost creeping across the headboard where his hands gripped it.
"You can move," she finally whispered.
"Not yet. Your internal temperature has dropped slightly—a pain response. I'm waiting for it to normalize."
Always the doctor. Even now, he was monitoring her body's reactions.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she felt her body start to adjust. The burning pain faded to a dull ache, then to something almost... pleasant.
"Better?" he asked.
"Better."
He pushed in the rest of the way, and they both groaned at the sensation. He was fully seated inside her, and the feeling of being stretched and filled was overwhelming.
"Perfect fit," he said roughly. "Like your body was made for mine. Can you feel it? How deep I am?"
She could. She could feel every inch of him, impossibly hot and hard inside her.
"I'm going to move now," he warned. "Slowly at first. Tell me if the pain increases."
His first thrust was careful, controlled. The second slightly less so. By the third, he was breathing hard, his legendary control fracturing with every stroke.
"God, Nana—" His voice had lost all clinical distance. "So tight. So perfect. I've dreamed about this—wanted this—"
"Husband," she gasped, wrapping her legs around his waist. "More—please—"
The word 'more' broke something in him. His control shattered completely.
He drove into her with increasing force, all pretense of gentle patience gone. His hips snapped against hers with a desperation that spoke of four months of denial, of nights spent aching and alone, of wanting what he couldn't allow himself to take.
"Mine," he growled against her throat. "My wife. My Nana. Only mine."
The room frosted over—windows, walls, ceiling. Ice crystals formed beautiful patterns as his Evol responded to his emotions. But he didn't notice, too lost in the feeling of finally, finally claiming his wife.
She was saying his name like a prayer, her small hands clutching at his shoulders, her body moving with his despite the lingering pain. Every whimper, every gasp, every clench of her around him drove him closer to the edge.
"Touch yourself," he commanded. "Your clitoris. I want you to come with me inside you."
Her hand slipped between their bodies, fingers finding that sensitive bundle of nerves. The addition of her own touch combined with his relentless thrusting pushed her over the edge.
She came with a cry of his name, her body clenching around him rhythmically. The sensation of her orgasm triggered his own. He buried himself deep and came with a groan that sounded almost pained, filling her with pulse after pulse of his release.
The frost spread across the entire room in a beautiful, explosive pattern.
They collapsed together, breathing hard, covered in sweat despite the cold. Zayne pulled out carefully, immediately observing the evidence of their coupling—blood and semen mixed on her thighs.
"Stay still," he murmured, already reaching for the tissues on the nightstand. Ever the doctor, even in the aftermath. He cleaned her gently, clinically checking for any tears or excessive bleeding. "Some light bleeding is normal for first intercourse. No signs of significant trauma. How's your pain level?"
"Zayne," she laughed breathlessly. "You don't have to examine me right now."
"I do." His hazel eyes were soft behind his glasses as he looked at her. "You're my wife. My patient. My responsibility. I need to ensure you're okay."
He finished cleaning them both, then pulled her against his chest, wrapping them both in blankets. His arms held her with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with his earlier passion.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I tried to be gentle. I should have—"
"You were perfect." She tilted her head up to look at him. "A little clinical, maybe. But perfect."
"I had to be clinical. If I let myself feel everything I was feeling, I would have lost control completely." He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. "You have no idea what you do to me. How much I love you. How much I've wanted this."
"Then why did you wait so long?"
"Because I wanted your first time to be your choice. Not something forced by obligation or expectation. I wanted you to want me, not just tolerate me." He cupped her face, his thumb stroking her cheek. "I love you, Nana. I married you because I love you. Not because of any arrangement. I would have married you regardless."
Tears pricked her eyes again—happy tears this time. "I love you too. Even when you're being an annoying doctor with your rules."
"Speaking of rules," he said, that subtle hint of a smile appearing, "you're still banned from eating macarons before meals."
"Zayne!"
"Your blood sugar—"
She shut him up with a kiss, and he went willingly, pulling her closer.
Outside, snow began to fall—his Evol still active, responding to the emotions flooding through him. Relief. Joy. Love. Satisfaction.
As they drifted toward sleep, tangled together in their frosted room, Zayne pressed one more kiss to her temple.
"Thank you," he whispered, "for breaking my control. For choosing me. For being mine."
She smiled against his chest, already half-asleep. "Always yours, husband. Always."
And for once, the man who controlled everything allowed himself to simply feel—to be vulnerable, to be loved, to be human.
His walls had broken.
And he'd never been more grateful.
.
.
.
.
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🩺🩺🩺
THE END.