masn-mount

[masn-mount]

‘Slow Burn’

Summary: Hidden in Provence, surrounded by fields of lavender and the golden haze of early summer, you leave behind Paris to take a job as a private chef at a secluded chateau, craving nothing more than the quiet comfort of your craft working for a non disclosed athlete. But when the door opens, it’s not just any athlete...it’s Kylian, his presence as magnetic as the heat rolling off the stove. You tell yourself to stay composed, to keep your heart steady, but feelings bubble over like water left too long to boil. He’s nothing like you expected, beneath the charm and fame are delicate layers, soft and surprising, much like the croissants you make him each morning. And as storms sweep across the countryside, trapping you in the warm glow of him, you realize some fires aren’t meant to be controlled, they’re meant to consume you. [Kylian Mbappé x Reader]

Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series, s'il te plaît !!

Chapitre 2- 'Good At This' | 'Slow Burn'

word count - 13.9

[Mystery Lady - Masego, Don Toliver]

The house was quiet, finally. Long past midnight. You’d crept down barefoot, padding across cool stone floors, the weight of heat still lingering in the kitchen. One small light above the stove spilled a golden hush across the countertops, catching the gleam of copper pots and half-sliced lemons left to dry on a wooden board.

Kylian had been at the chateau all day. Playing video games with friends, headset crooked, leaving one ear exposed to listen, pretending not to glance toward the hallway every time footsteps passed. Pretending he didn’t know it was you. That he couldn’t smell garlic and thyme wafting from the kitchen, couldn’t tell you were wearing that scent again, the one that clung to your wrists and made him want to bite. But you didn’t come to him. Not even to say goodnight. And that gnawed at something. You hadn’t even checked to see what he was doing. Usually, he ran from too much attention. It followed him without invitation. But tonight, he hated the silence of not having yours. So he drank. Not enough to fall over, never, but enough to feel it warm in his limbs. Enough to be obvious. A glass too many poured with a flick of the wrist, his laugh a little louder, his grin a little looser. Maybe it was childish. Maybe it was dumb. But he wanted you to see him. And when you didn’t, he came to find you.

The refrigerator door sighed open. You leaned in, spoon in hand, and stole a taste of the lemon curd you’d made earlier, sweet and sharp, silky with butter and eggs. It coated your tongue like sunshine. You closed your eyes. Sighed softly. Then a voice behind you:

“Voleuse.” You flinched, nearly dropping the spoon. Kylian stood in the doorway, shirtless, in grey joggers, holding a half-empty bottle of wine like it was an afterthought.

“Don’t sneak up on people,” you muttered, failing at stopping a smile forming on your face at the mere sight of him, wiping the spoon on a towel, pretending your heart wasn’t racing.

“You were making love to that lemon curd,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t want to interrupt the romance.” Your heart thudded at the insinuation. The mere idea of him talking about you making love. Unfortunately, for now, it came in the context of a dessert topping. 

“I was testing it.” You glared, cheeks warm.

“Mmh,” he hummed. “At one in the morning? Very professional.” He crossed the kitchen slowly, barefoot like you, the bottle dangling in one hand. His eyes were soft, hazy, half-sleep, half-wine, all trouble. “Can I tempt you?” he asked, lifting the bottle slightly. You hesitated.

“I don’t usually drink while working,” you said, weakly. Because frankly, you’d do anything to be drunk with him right now and make a mistake. He smirked slapping another stemmed wine glass on the marble too hard. Somehow still sluggish and somehow still sexy. 

“You’re not working,” he said as he began to pour you some anyway. “You’re stealing.” You took the glass. The wine was chilled, pale gold, a whisper of stone fruit and flowers. You sipped. He watched your mouth. Dreamed of those lips. He leaned against the counter beside you, close but not touching, and reached for the same jar of lemon curd.

“Want to try?” you asked, surprising even yourself. You held out your same spoon. He didn’t blink. Didn’t wait. Just bent slightly, mouth closing around it, lips brushing where yours had been seconds before. Not eager but confident. He hummed. Swallowed.

“Putain, that’s good.” He smiled.

“Merci.” You cleared your throat.  He licked his bottom lip, slow. 

“You always taste-test this late?” His eyes danced. 

“Only when I can’t sleep.” He looked at you then, really looked. Tired but present. Amused, but not playful.

“I can’t sleep either,” he said quietly. “I blame you.”

“Quoi?” You froze. He turned to face you fully now, glass in hand, leaning his hip into the counter like he owned the room, and maybe you, too.

“You’re in my kitchen. In my house. Always barefoot, always making things smell like sugar. You laugh when you think I’m not listening. You hum when you whisk.” His voice dropped a note lower. “You make it warmer here.” The silence buzzed, thick as honey. You said nothing. You couldn’t. He stepped closer, just enough for his chest to almost brush your shoulder. His fingers grazed your hand on the counter, lightly, like they weren’t sure if they meant it. And then…“Taste something else for me.” It was a low purr. You turned to him, breath caught. He messily poured some of the wine into the same spoon. Stupid? Sure. But he did it anyway. He held out a spoonful, just wine this time, cradled in a deep-bowled spoon, absurd and elegant. You leaned in, slowly, and sipped from it. Your lips nearly touched his fingers. Eyes fixed on his, a taunt or a question. You swallowed. Didn’t blink.

“That’s good too,” you said softly.

“Yeah?” You nodded, sure. Then, finally, you stepped back, heart pounding.

"Bonne nuit." He didn’t follow. But his voice, low and teasing, followed you to the stairs. 

“Sleep well, ma petite flamme.”  He smirked. And you thought about that name all night. 

—

The room was dim, shadows stretched long and quiet across the floor. The French doors of his bedroom had been left slightly ajar, summer air drifting in, warm and wet from the day’s heat, humming with crickets and lavender. Kylian sat at the edge of the bed, shirt discarded, the wine bottle still in his hand. Two more unnecessary sips since he’d seen you. Not enough to forget the way you looked under that stove light. Barefoot, soft at the edges. Your laugh still echoing in the bowl of his ribs. He leaned back, sighed through his teeth, head tipping toward the ceiling.

“Putain…” He dragged a hand down his face. Then lower, pressing his fingers over his mouth, as if he could hold in the groan crawling up his throat. Why did you not want him? You’d been right there. Right in front of him. Your breath warm when you leaned in. Your lips touching where his had just been. You’d fed him from your spoon. You fed him, and then walked away.  She’s gonna kill me.” He chuckled bitterly. He was supposed to be cool. Controlled. This was just two weeks of peace, of quiet training, away from the wo rld and the press and the noise. You were just the chef. Just part of the routine. He didn’t even know your name when you were hired. But then you smiled once, just once, soft and distracted over a saucepan, and something inside him unspooled. And now… now his mouth ached with the want of yours. His hands curled with the urge to touch you, your jaw, your back, your hips pressed to his. The scent of lemon still lingered faintly in his mouth, and he wondered: would your kiss taste like it too? He let out a breath. Restless. “What are you doing to me, Y/N…” he said your name like a prayer. Low. Drawn out. Needy. He fell back on the bed, arms splayed, exhaling into the dark. The wine glass rolled from his fingers and landed with a soft clink on the floor. He didn’t care. You hadn’t touched him, not really. Not tonight. Just a graze. Just a spoon. But it was enough. He was hard now. Again. Ache blooming like bruises beneath his skin again. His body buzzed with all the places you hadn’t touched. His thighs, tense. His stomach, coiled. His cock, insistent against the seam of his joggers, pressing for something he knew you wouldn’t give, yet. He covered his eyes with the back of his hand. The other slid low, slow, with the quiet kind of urgency that came only when he thought of you. Always you. And still, he pictured your mouth. The tilt of your head when you smirked. The sound of your bare feet leaving the kitchen like you were escaping something. He wished you hadn’t left. Wished you’d turned around. Wished you’d fed him something else.

—

You fled. Not in a rush, not in a run, but your legs moved on instinct, heart pounding loud enough you were sure the walls could hear it. You climbed the stairs too quickly, bare feet silent on stone, trying to will the heat from your face, from between your thighs, from your chest, where his breath had almost lingered. Your door shut with a soft click behind you. The storm murmured just beyond the shutters. And inside, it was you, and the echo of him. You pressed your back to the wood and closed your eyes. You should not want this. He was your client. This was your job. This was temporary. This was two weeks and a kitchen and boundaries you knew better than to cross. But still.

Still.

You peeled your shirt off slowly, tossed it toward the wicker chair in the corner. The air in your room was heavy with Provençal summer and something hotter, humming through your skin like static. You slipped beneath the sheets in nothing but your underwear, the fabric whispering over your warm thighs as you curled onto your side. You shut your eyes. You tried to sleep. You failed. Because all you could see was him, Kylian. His voice low behind you. The soft brush of his chest against your back. His fingers ghosting yours on the spoon. The look in his eyes when he scanned your mouth and didn’t kiss you. That restraint. That power. Your thighs pressed together. God. What if he had kissed you? What if he hadn’t stopped? Your mind spiraled through it like a film you couldn’t rewind, his hands finding your hips, your gasp swallowed by his mouth, the feel of him pressing you into the windowpane earlier with a groan low in his throat, something desperate and French falling from his lips as your name. Your breath hitched. You opened your eyes. This was ridiculous. Unprofessional. Dangerous. And yet. Your hand curled into the sheets, trying to ground yourself, to not imagine his hand replacing it, rough, commanding, slowly dragging up your thigh under the blanket. You bit your lip. You flipped onto your stomach, buried your flushed face into the pillow, let out a quiet, breathless sound that could have been frustration or longing or both. You were coming undone. And he hadn’t even touched you. Not really. And that was the worst part. Because you already knew you’d let him. If he asked. If he said please. Or maybe even if he didn’t.

—

You rolled over again onto your back, sheets tangled around your hips, chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven rhythm. The shutters let in slats of stormlight, cool and blue-grey, broken by flashes of lightning that etched your silhouette in silver. You ran a hand over your hair, lips parted, your whole body aware of itself now, every inch of skin aching with a craving you didn’t want to name. Not here. Not like this. But he’d gotten under your skin. Slipped in like heat, like hunger. Kylian. You silently whispered his name into the pillow like it wasn’t treason. Like it hadn’t already been on your tongue a dozen times tonight in silence. You imagined his hands first, wide and warm, sliding over your waist the way they had almost done hours ago. The way you’d wanted them to. You imagined them firmer now, gripping, tilting, commanding. You inhaled sharply, your own hand sliding lower beneath the sheet, fingers brushing the waistband of your panties. Just a little. Just enough to chase the ghost of him. Your breath caught as your fingers grazed sensitive skin. You gasped quietly, the sound half-swallowed by the pillow, eyes fluttering shut. It wasn’t him. But you could pretend. You imagined his mouth at your neck again, murmuring chérie, lips dragging lower, tongue hot and slow. You arched into your own touch, the pace lazy and trembling, letting yourself fall deeper into the fantasy, his knee pushing between your thighs, his voice rough and low, speaking in French against your collarbone.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” You imagined him growling. “Look at how I have you…” You whimpered, thighs tightening, fingers finding a rhythm that made your breath hitch again. You wanted it to be him, his mouth, his fingers, the way he looked at you like he was starved. You moved faster, chasing that edge, burying your face in the pillow to muffle your moan. You were unraveling. And when the climax came, hot, slow, stealing through you like a wave, it was his name you whispered into the sheets. Not yours. Not yours to say. And yet it felt like the only true thing left. You laid there breathless, chest heaving, the storm rolling closer again outside. And all you could think was how badly you still wanted him. Not in a dream. Not in your imagination. 

—

You laid there, still. Breath catching in your throat, your chest rising and falling like you’d just run miles, but you hadn’t moved at all. Not really. Just your hand. Just your mind. Just the whisper of his name on your lips. Your fingers twitched beside you, the heat still clinging between your thighs like a secret. The air in the room was thick, storm-heavy and scented faintly of lavender and summer rain. But all you could smell was him, your memory of him. Skin, sweat, citrus soap. The wet cotton of his shirt peeled off his chest, the way he grinned at you like he already knew. You stared at the ceiling, lips parted in something like disbelief. Shame. Wonder. You’d just touched yourself thinking about him. Your boss. A man you’d known for less than a full day. And he hadn’t even been in the room. Still, your body had arched like it remembered his hands. You’d gasped like he was inside you. You’d whined, needy and soft and breathless, for a man who’d done nothing more than flirt, glance, kiss you then nearly kiss you, and then walk away. Not even in the room, and he had you undone.

You dragged the pillow over your face and let out a strangled, silent scream, kicking your feet against the mattress like it might chase the heat away. It didn’t. Your skin was still buzzing, lit up and too aware. God. How would you look him in the eye tomorrow? You turned onto your side, curling your legs up, trying to find comfort in the coolness of the sheets. But even here, safe and hidden beneath the blankets, your body still thrummed with need. With ache. With the ghost of his voice in your ear. What the hell were you doing? And why, despite everything, ,did part of you want it to happen again? Worse: why did part of you want him to catch you? You had work in the morning. You had eggs to crack, berries to rinse, pastry to proof. But your body didn’t care. It remembered his voice. The command in it. The softness, too. And now, your mind was painting pictures: of him dragging his hand down his chest, maybe letting it linger lower. Of him picturing you. Of him needing you.

—

[Can’t Sleep - Luke Christopher] 

He couldn’t sleep. His body still thrummed with the phantom of your touch, and you hadn’t even touched him. Not really. Not the way he wanted. He’d kissed you, yes, but that had barely scratched the surface of the hunger curling deep in his gut now. He lay on top of the sheets, chest bare, his body still humming from the day and the rain and you. He reached for his laptop, telling himself it was nothing. Maybe he needed to check a fitness schedule. A message. But he opened the folder with your NDA instead. Just your name. Your full name. Fuck. He said it aloud, once, tasting it in the room like it meant something. Like it would. Before he even realized what he was doing, he’d grabbed his phone and he was typing it into Instagram. His thumb hovered above the screen as your profile appeared, and then he was gone, lost.

Photo after photo. You at the beach with wet hair and glowing skin. You laughing with a cocktail in hand. You in that one goddamn bikini, the same skin he’d seen flash beneath the hem of your shirt, the same hips he knew he barely got to hold in one hand. He dragged his palm across his mouth, exhaled hard. He wanted to peel that bikini off you. Slowly. Teeth and tongue. He wanted to pin your wrists to the counter next time you teased him with apricots and batter. He wanted to lick the sugar from your fingers, trace every birthmark with his mouth. He wanted to kiss his way up your tanned legs. To see how wrecked he could make you, how sweet you’d sound when you broke just for him. And he knew he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. But God, he was losing his mind. Downstairs in the quiet of his bedroom, Kylian was unraveling, hard. Hand braced on his knee, jaw tight, the heat of you flooding his thoughts in wave after wave. And what he didn’t know was that upstairs, in your own bed, you were falling apart too. No photos needed. You were already in his head. And he? He was already yours.

—- 

He shut the laptop. Closed it like it might stop the spiral, as if the fire inside him could be silenced by darkness. But it only got louder. The silence of the chateau stretched thick around him, the rain whispering faintly against the terrace stones. His room still smelled faintly of sweat and salt and something he swore was you, peach skin and summer. He stood. Barefoot on the cool floor, body burning. Crossed to the window, cracked it open. Let the storm wind kiss his skin, let it ground him. But it didn’t. Nothing did. He could still feel your mouth from earlier, still hear your little whimper echoing in his chest. You’d pulled away like you were scared. And he’d let you. But he was still hard. Still aching. Still fucking wrecked. He dragged his fingers over his head, exhaled slowly, tried to be reasonable. Two weeks, he reminded himself. You were only here two weeks. And this wasn’t just chemistry, it was chaos. A bad idea. A terrible risk. He should take a cold shower. Count backwards from one hundred. Go to sleep. Instead, he reached for his phone. Pulled up your profile again, just to look. To punish himself. Your eyes. Your mouth. The way your hips curved when you weren’t trying to pose. That black bikini he’d found three photos down, it haunted him now. He pictured what it would feel like to untie it. To push it down your thighs with the back of his knuckles, to have you sigh his name with that sleepy, needy little voice of yours. That voice that had nearly undone him this morning when you curled into him half-naked and unaware.

“Bébé…” Jesus Christ. His hand slid absently down his stomach, lower. He was pulsing. He was losing it. He sat on the edge of the bed. One hand braced behind him, the other still gripping the phone like he needed proof you were real. That this ache wasn’t some fantasy carved from too much sun and the softness of Provence. He closed his eyes. And let himself imagine it: you walking into his room. Quiet. Needing him like he needed you. No rules, no job, no kitchen. Just your thighs bracketing his, your lips parted for him, your voice whispering his name over and over like a secret prayer. He groaned into the quiet. Tipped his head back. Surrendered to it. Because even if he couldn’t have you yet, Tonight, in the dark, you were already his. And he didn’t even know… Upstairs, you were just as far gone. Alone. Whispering his name against your own skin. Two hearts beating in sync across candlelit rooms. Waiting for the moment the match would strike again

—

The sun came slow, filtered through a thin veil of cloud. The garden was still wet from the night, the lavender heavy with dew, the olive trees swaying just slightly as the early wind brushed through them. The kitchen was quiet again. You moved in muscle memory, coffee on, eggs cracked, peach slices fanned out like golden crescents across the board. Everything summer-fresh. Everything meant to distract you. But nothing could. You still felt the ghost of his breath on your jaw. Still tasted that sip of wine he fed you. Your mouth burned from it. You shouldn’t have gone down there last night. You shouldn’t have let him watch you like that. You shouldn’t have liked it. The floor creaked. You didn’t turn, but you knew it was him before he spoke.

“‘Jour.” His voice was low, hoarse, unbrushed, still folded in sleep. You glanced back. He looked like sin wrapped in comfort, hoodie loose over his shorts, and still barefoot. His eyes found you. Held. Your fingers fumbled slightly as you reached for the plate.

“You’re up early,” you murmured, praying he couldn’t feel the embarrassment of you falling apart for him in your bed alone last night. 

“Didn’t sleep much.” He shrugged.

“Maybe cut back on the midnight wine.” You slid a small plate toward him to tide him over. He chuckled, scratching the back of his neck.

“Yeah. Maybe that wasn’t a career highlight for me.” He moved closer, too casually, reaching for a peach slice from the plate you were arranging. His fingers brushed yours. You pulled back, just a flicker. But he saw it.

“I was thinking about that lemon curd,” he said.

“Were you?” You turned, narrowing your eyes. 

“Couldn’t stop.” His grin pulled lazy across his mouth. He took the peach between his teeth. Juice slid down his thumb. He licked it without breaking eye contact. Your knees wobbled.

“I should… I need to finish the bread,” you said too quickly, stepping back toward the counter. He followed, slow. The kitchen wasn’t that big. Or maybe it was but his presence just filled it full like heat.

“You okay?” he asked. Soft. Careful now. 

“Fine.” You nodded, eyes on your hands kneading dough. 

“You sure?” You looked up. He was closer than he should’ve been, chest rising slow beneath the grey cotton, eyes dark but not cruel, just tired from wanting. And then he said it. “I dreamt of your mouth.” You froze. The dough stuck to your palms. A bit of flour dusted into the air between you like smoke.

“Don’t,” you whispered.

“Don’t what?” He tilted his head. 

“You can’t say that.” You weakly replied. He stepped in closer, just enough for his scent, cypress and citrus and something warm, to coat the space between you.

“I didn’t mean to.” Your eyes flicked to his and they were innocent. Dangerously so. 

“You think that helps?”  You stared at him. He laughed, quiet and rough. 

“No. Not really.” You pressed a hand to his chest to stop him. To keep him there. To say don’t move even though you were pretending to say the opposite. He didn’t move. You felt the steady pound of his heart beneath your fingers. His skin was hot underneath the fabric. You were trembling, and he knew it. “Say stop like you mean it,” he said. “And I’ll stop.” You looked at your hand on his chest. At his mouth, parted like he’d been waiting days for air. You didn’t say it. Instead, you stepped away.

“I’ll bring your breakfast to the terrace.” He nodded, jaw tight, throat bobbing with the effort not to speak again. But you turned before he could. You had to. Because if he opened his mouth, if he said one more thing, You weren’t going to be able to stop. And you didn’t want to.

—

[Billie Bossa Nova - Billie Eilish]

The sun was low and syrupy when you wandered out back, thyme sprigs still clinging to your fingers, your white tank over bare shoulders, one silky Simone Perele black bra strap [ref index] slipping just-so as the breeze caught it. Provence smelled like rosemary, distant heat, and crushed peach skins. The sky was half-clouded, pale and tender as linen. And there he was. Kylian, barefoot in the grass, standing before the laundry rack you’d set out earlier that morning, your dress fluttering faintly beside sheets, whispering in the wind. He stood there, pretending to untangle a sheet from the breeze, but his thoughts were louder than the cicadas, Why the fuck am I out here? He wasn’t cool. He wasn’t composed. He was planing to help with the laundry just to be near the idea of you, just to see the image of you in that dress, light cotton clinging to the curves of your back like it was made for his undoing, in his head. And in his head he was. He didn’t hear you approach. His head was slightly tilted, eyes tracing the hem of your linen sundress, the one you wore the day before before a pop of oil on the stove made you have to change. His fingers brushed the fabric. Barely. Just enough to make it sway. His posture wasn’t perverse, caught in a moment he didn’t realize belonged to someone else. He wasn’t doing anything, not really. Just standing there, half-shadowed beneath the fig tree, one hand at his side, the other reaching, slow, almost hesitant, for the hem of your white dress where it fluttered in the breeze. He didn’t see you yet. His fingers brushed the cotton. Barely. Like it was something sacred. His eyes lingered, not with hunger, but with something more dangerous. Something tender. Something real. And you almost turned around. Almost. But instead like a mouth to a flame, you stepped closer, slow and soundless, until the thyme in your hand brushed your thigh. And then, voice soft, almost fond:

“You really gonna steal my dress?” He startled. Just a little. Turned around with a crooked smile, sheepish, guilty, a touch flushed.

“I wasn’t…” he said, hands half-raised, surrendering with a laugh. “I just…walked by. Didn’t know if you needed help.” You smiled at him, slow and amused, stepping into the grass, your bare feet brushing past his. You reached up and took the dress from the line, folding it in your arms. He didn’t move.

“You like this one?” you asked, barely glancing up. He gave a small shrug, eyes dragging down the side of your tank, lingering, just for a second, on the black lace peeking through before dragging back up to your mouth. His throat worked.

“Think I like all of them on you.” That slowed your breath. Just a little. Enough for him to notice. Your fingers brushed his arm lightly as you adjusted the folded linen in your hands. Your nails dragged against his skin for just a beat too long. He went very still. You caught the hitch in his breath. And smiled.

“It smells like sun and salt,” you said softly. “Not quite me.” He glanced at you then. Really looked. His gaze caught on your mouth. The corner of your lips. The warm space just below your throat.

“Non,” he murmured. “It’s you. I’d know it anywhere. C’est le genre de chose qu’on n’oublie pas.” [It's the kind of thing you don't forget.] A silence stretched between you. Not awkward, thick. Your perfume, that warm, faint vanilla, seemed to swell behind you, filling the space between his inhale and yours. You stepped back, barely. Not far enough.

“C’est gentil,” [that’s sweet] you said lightly, your eyes flicking to his in a moment of shared vulnerability. “But if you start stealing my laundry I’m gonna have to start locking the line.” That earned a breath of laughter from him, relieved, but still aching. You tilted your head, letting your eyes trail across him once before you turned. “Come in when you’re done lingering,” you called over your shoulder. “Made Tarte Aux Abricot.” You didn’t see it, but he stood there a little while longer after you left. His hand still tingled where your nails had touched him. And the dress? He couldn’t look at it the same.

—

Céline stood at the laundry room sink, hands in soapy water, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow. The window above the basin was cracked open, letting in the scent of sun-warmed herbs and the faintest breeze off the garden. She’d been humming some old Charles Aznavour tune, until she caught the movement out back. Kylian. Standing in the grass. Near the laundry line. Her brow furrowed, fingers stilling in the suds. He never touched the laundry. Not in all the years she’d known him, tousled and grinning from the moment she could remember, never once had he offered to hang a shirt, let alone fold a linen sundress like it was spun from gold thread. She watched as you appeared, barefoot and easy, a black strap peeking beneath your thin white tank, your mouth already curling around something clever. And then, the way he turned to you. That smile. Soft. Unsteady. The way your fingers brushed his arm as you reached for the dress. The way he leaned in without moving. Like his body knew something he hadn’t said yet. Céline smiled quietly to herself. It was all there. The slow orbit, the silent current. Not lust, not quite. Something thicker. Warmer. That still-tender ache of want, unspoken but so loud. She dried her hands slowly, watching through the lace of the curtain as you turned back toward the house, laughing over your shoulder. He stood there a moment longer, watching the swing of your steps like it was a tether pulling him along. Céline shook her head fondly. “Ah, mon petit Kylian…” She thought. “Il est fichu.”  [He’s a goner.] She turned back toward the counter, her heart full. She’d always hoped something soft would find him, something that didn’t care about goals or headlines. Someone who smelled like thyme and peaches, someone who didn’t flinch when he looked too long. And now, there you were. Outside, he bent to pick up the clothespin you’d dropped. Still watching you like his heart might unravel in his hands.

—

Inside, the house was cooler, shadows pooling in the corners of the sleek modern kitchen, soft Provençal light slipping in through the open doors. You’d plated the apricot tart with care: delicate, golden, the fruit blistered and caramelized at the edges, a soft cloud of crème fraîche spooned beside it. You saw him before he saw you. Seated at the table by the window, Kylian’s broad shoulders relaxed back in the chair, one hand lazily draped over the armrest scrolling on his phone, the other absently spinning a fork. His skin was still damp from the garden’s heat, the skin at the back of his neck golden. He looked restless. And beautiful. You didn’t say his name. You just stepped forward, silent, the plate held in both hands. Around him, the air still carried your perfume, vanilla balm, salt, sweet skin. He didn’t notice you until you were already behind him. Then,  Your voice at his ear. Soft. Teasing.

“Tarte, monsieur?” He jolted slightly, then let out a quiet laugh under his breath, his head tilting back instinctively, like you were sunlight. Your mouth was close to the edge of his jaw. Too close. He turned to look at you. Slow. His nose brushed against your cheek. You didn’t move. Neither did he. He leaned back into you instead, his face angled up, eyes flicking to yours. Warm. Curious. Wanting. His hands came up, lightly, sliding over the backs of yours as he took the plate. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just knowing. His fingertips grazed your skin like a question.

“Merci,” he murmured, voice a little rough. You hummed. Didn’t answer. You bent a breath closer, lips brushing the air above his ear. Your eyes on his profile. Your pulse a mess in your chest.

“Savoure-moi,” you whispered. Savor me. You hadn’t planned to say that. It fell out. Like being too close made you slip into a psychosis for a moment. You didn’t regret it though. Maybe it was completely sane but still, you slipped away. Didn’t wait for his answer. Didn’t trust yourself to stay. Behind you, he sat motionless for a beat, the tart on the porcelain plate untouched, breath shallow. And on your tongue, apricot and fire. Savor me. Not the tart. Not the moment. You. Then he exhaled, low and quiet, his shoulders rolling forward. He dropped his head into one hand, pressing his fingers to his brow like it could still be your voice echoing inside him. Eyes shut tight. A shake of the head. A soft curse under his breath…

“Putain…” He’d thought he could play it cool. Keep it light. Flirt. Tease. Enjoy the slow tension winding between you like a silk ribbon pulled taut. But now? Now it felt like the thread had wrapped around his ribs. Tugging. Squeezing. He opened his eyes again, jaw tense, lips parted just slightly like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Still, he forced himself upright, tried to settle the plate on the table without shaking. He reached for the fork, but his fingers didn’t close around it. 

“Elle est jolie, non?” [She’s lovely, isn’t she?] Céline’s voice was quiet. But knowing. Kylian flinched, just slightly. He turned toward her too fast, like she’d caught him red-handed. “A snuck a piece of the crust, it's delicious. She’s very talented too.” She stood at the edge of the room, a folded towel draped over one arm, smiling with that maternal softness that had disarmed him since he was sixteen. Still, he couldn’t meet her eyes for more than a second.

“Don’t start. s'il te plaît,” he said, waving her off, voice tight. “It’s not, just leave it, Cé.” He reached for the tart again, more forcefully this time. Céline didn’t move. She just tilted her head slightly, watching him try to find calm where there was none. He wouldn’t look at her, still pretending to focus on the food he hadn’t tasted. His ears would’ve tinted ever so slightly if it weren't for the summer sun. She smiled gently, stepping back, giving him the space he pretended he wanted.

“D’accord, Kyks,” she said softly, her voice brushing through the air like sunlight through gauze. “Je laisse.” [All right. I’ll leave it.] But as she turned to go, her eyes lingered on him once more, on the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed, the full plate of apricot tart still untouched before him. She didn’t need to say what she was thinking. He was already lost.

—

You’d barely made it down the hallway before your fingers were at your neck, pressing to where your pulse still hammered beneath your skin. The breath you exhaled came out uneven, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. You ducked into the pantry, cool and dim, lined with jars and dried herbs that should’ve grounded you. You gripped the edge of a wooden shelf and closed your eyes. God. You could still feel it, the brush of his nose along your cheekbone, the weight of his hands barely grazing yours as he took the plate from you like it meant more than dessert. Like it meant you. The way he looked at you after. You shook your head. Paced two slow steps. Then back again. This wasn’t supposed to happen. You were here to cook. To keep things professional. Two weeks. That was it. Two weeks, a gorgeous chateau, a very famous man, and meals kissed with olive oil and sun. Not this. Not him, looking at you like he was starving for something only you could serve. Fuck, you hoped you carmelized the apricots well. A million things racing through your mind. And unfortunately your cooking was coming in last place. You ran a hand through your hair, chewing at your lower lip. Part of you wanted to go back in. Just to see if he’d look at you the same. Just to taste what it might feel like to let that heat bloom into something real. But instead you turned, opened the door, and went back into the kitchen. Busied your hands with wiping down a counter that was already clean. Rearranging cutlery. Anything. Still, your skin buzzed with him. You caught your reflection in the glass oven door, flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. You looked kissed. You weren’t. But you’d whispered savoure-moi like you wanted him to do far more than taste a tart. And maybe you did. You stilled. Outside the window, you could see Céline returning from the garden, a knowing smile on her lips, her arms full of linen. And somewhere just out of sight, he sat alone at the table, with a full plate and your voice still echoing in his ear.

—

You rounded the corner too fast, towel in hand, trying to recompose yourself with a shallow breath and a crooked little smirk meant only for yourself. If you kept moving, maybe your blood would settle. Maybe the heat crawling along your spine would cool. Maybe. You stopped. Kylian was there. Just a few steps away. Standing still in the arch of the entrance to the kitchen like he hadn’t quite decided what to say yet. His eyes met yours instantly. Like he’d been waiting for you to turn that exact corner. He had one hand braced against the wall, his body half-angled like he’d been mid-step and forgot how to move. The other hung loosely at his side, thumb brushing over the curve of his palm. He was holding the fork. Still. Just the fork. No plate. No excuse. Your stomach dropped, warm and low. He hadn’t been heading anywhere. He’d been looking for you. He gave you a look, just a flicker, slow and simmering.

“You forgot something,” he said, voice lower than it needed to be. You swallowed. Lifted a brow. Played it light. 

“I don’t think I did.” He took a step closer. Not too much. Just enough for the air to shift, for your pulse to leap.

“You left me,” he said, “with a tarte and a problem.” 

“What’s the problem?” Your mouth quirked. Another step. His fingers turned the fork lazily in his grip.

“The tarte was good.” His eyes flicked down your body, then back up, not without an extended stay at your chest. “But the whisper was better.” Your throat tightened.

“Is that your way of saying thank you?” you asked, voice lighter than your heart. He smiled, slow and boyish. Dangerous.

“Mm.” He leaned a little closer, enough that his shoulder brushed yours. “You want a proper thank you?” You didn’t move. Didn’t answer. He tilted his head, his waves catching the hallway light, that smile softening, just a little. Then, like he couldn’t help it, he reached behind you, set the fork on the counter, swapping it for a spoon instead, his fingers grazing the small of your back in passing. You tensed. Not from fear. From fire. “It’s a crime,” he murmured, almost to himself, “the way you taste better than the food you make.” You blinked, heat flaring up your neck. Words caught in your mouth. But before you could answer, before you could cave, he stepped back. “I’m gonna finish the tarte,” he said, with a wink that unraveled you. “I’m not done. Not done with you either.” Then he was gone. And you were left standing there, breathless, burned alive by nothing more than a look, a brush, and the soft echo of your own voice still whispering in his ear.

—

You told yourself it was just a refill. That he might want coffee to go with the rest of his tarte, that the whipped crème fraîche had sat too long and you’d whipped a fresh batch, cool and silken, folded with the barest zest of lemon and a whisper of sugar. You’d even sliced a few late-summer figs, the color of flushed skin, and arranged them with too much care. You balanced it all on a tray, fingers curled around the handle tighter than needed, trying to steady the shake in your breath. You really weren’t obligated to bring him the food, only make it, chef not service, but now you wanted to. He was back where you’d left him, at the table facing the garden, legs sprawled, scrolling on his phone, spoon turning slow circles over his empty plate. He looked up the moment he heard your footsteps. Didn’t say a word. Just watched.

–

The afternoon had turned golden. A cloud had passed, and the light coming through the big glass doors spilled like honey across the stone floor. It lit him in ribbons, his bare arms, his jaw dark with stubble. You stepped behind him again, placing the tray down on the table just to his right. But he didn’t move. You could feel the heat of his body rising toward you, his breath slowing, waiting. You poured the coffee, steady-handed. Then reached for the small silver spoon to stir the cream, and that’s when his fingers brushed yours. You paused. Didn’t move. He didn’t either. Your breath caught, but you didn’t step away. He turned his head just slightly, his cheek so close to your belly you swore he could feel your breath. And then he tilted his face up, eyes dark, a little wild, and met yours.

“You always serve like this?” he asked, voice like dusk. “Or just when you’re trying to kill me?” You smiled. Soft. Unsteady. Your fingers were still on the spoon. His hand still beneath yours. You didn’t pull away.

“It’s fig season,” you whispered, your voice airy, teasing, but your pulse a thunder in your throat. “You’ll like. I made them for you.” He reached up, slowly, and dragged his knuckle along the inside of your wrist. Just once. You shivered. But still, you stood there. He picked up a fig slice, held it between thumb and finger like something sacred. Then, without taking his eyes off you, he pressed it past his lips. Chewed slow. 

“You really shouldn’t look at me like that when you’re trying to stay professional,” he said. You leaned in, just a little. Just enough to tip the scales.

“And you shouldn’t talk with your mouth full.” Then you plucked a fig from the plate and walked away, your hips swaying gently, knowing full well his eyes were still on you. But you’d lingered. And now, the wall wasn’t just cracked, it was starting to crumble.

—

Dinner had always felt like a performance, measured, professional, quiet.  You loved dinner. But that night, as the sun dipped low and washed the chateau in soft gold, you felt… exposed. The heat clung to your skin, and the dress you’d chosen, light cotton, soft white, the flounce cap sleeves grazing your shoulders, suddenly felt too intimate. Too telling. Still, you wore it. You padded barefoot through the kitchen, assembling the final details of the meal. A smear of sauce. A twist of herbs. You could feel the air shift the moment he stepped into the dining room behind you. You didn’t turn. The silence pressed, thick and expectant. You reached for the plates, bending slightly to arrange the dishes, and that’s when you heard him.

“Tu vas me rendre fou.” [You’re going to drive me crazy.] Low. Hoarse. Right behind you. You froze, a breath caught at the back of your throat. The words hit your spine like heat. You smiled to yourself, small, secret, eyes still on the food, pretending it hadn’t made your knees soften.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you murmured. But your voice wasn’t steady. Not really. You brought the plate to the table where he’d settled, white linen shirt open at the collar, sleeves pushed halfway up his arms, golden skin kissed by the last of the light. He looked at you like he was starving. You set the plate down, careful not to meet his eyes.

“You’re not eating with me?” he asked, his voice casual but a little too quiet.

“Non.” You shook your head, stepping back.

“Pourquoi pas?” You glanced at him and tried not to let your mouth give you away. 

“Because I should clean up.” The truth sat in your chest, hot and trembling. Because if I sit down with you, I don’t trust myself not to touch you. Because I want to so badly it scares me. He nodded slowly, watching you. Not pushing. But something in his eyes followed you all the way back to the kitchen. And behind the clink of dishes and the hum of running water, you could still feel the imprint of his gaze. Like he’d branded you with it. You didn’t eat dinner that night. Not really. But you tasted him in everything.

—

[Small Talk - Niall Horan]

You were leaned over the marble island, scrolling lazily on your phone, the soft cotton of your sundress [ref index] straining against your chest, dipping just enough to make the neckline criminal. The hum of the kitchen, the heat of the day lingering even as the sun dipped low, everything was quiet. Until you heard the floor creak. Slowly. Kylian stood in the doorway, his empty dinner plate in hand, shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms flexed just slightly. He didn’t usually bring his plate in. That alone made something flicker in your chest. His gaze dropped before it rose, mouth curving into a slow, dangerous smirk as his eyes caught on the way the fabric shifted over your chest.

“Do you want more?” you asked, tipping your head to the side with a teasing smile.

“Of what?” He cocked a brow. You huffed a soft, breathy laugh and looked down, shaking your head as if to brush it off, but your skin burned under his gaze.

“Okééé… didn’t have to bring me your plate then,” you purred, standing up a little straighter, hips swaying as you rounded the island toward him, your smile laced with mischief.

“I can help out sometimes,” he said, still smirking as you reached for the dish.

“I’m sure you can,” you murmured, brushing his fingers as you took it from him. You walked it to the sink, back turned to him now. “Do you want dessert, Kyks?” The nickname tumbled off your tongue so casually. You didn’t see the way his breath caught, how his brows rose ever so slightly, caught off guard, the smallest flush crawling up his neck.

“Non…” he said, voice slower now, something heavier behind it. You turned back to him, wiping your hands on a towel, brows raised in question. He was watching you. Hard. “Want you to come have a drink with me.” There was no hesitation in his voice. No coyness. Just the low, smooth edge of desire pressed under words too calm for what he was feeling. Your lips parted slightly. The air between you pulled taut like a string. You could’ve laughed, deflected, said you were still on the clock, but you didn’t. Not yet. Because something about the way he was looking at you made your knees soften. Because you weren’t sure if he wanted the drink or just the excuse to have you sit beside him, glowing and undone. You wiped your hands on the dish towel once more, slowly, buying time you didn’t really have, because he was standing there, just watching you, holding the air taut between you like a thread stretched to breaking. You could feel it, the heat of his gaze like a hand at your waist. You stalled a second too long before lifting your eyes to his. And when you did, he didn’t look away. He didn’t blink. Something in your chest fluttered, wild and unwelcome, and you felt it in your throat when you spoke, voice light, trying to play it off.

“Just one,” you said, tilting your head, teasing. Your heart was pounding, and you both knew it.

—

You followed him into the living room, dim and minimal, whitewashed stone walls, linen curtains dancing gently in the breeze, a low cream sofa the color of sun-faded parchment. Outside, the rain that seemed to linger had softened into crickets and dripping leaves, the windows still open, letting in the scent of warm earth and lavender. Everything was quiet. Still. Except you. The storm had mostly passed, but the heat hadn’t. It hung heavy and slow, like everything was waiting for something. Kylian had found a bottle of vintage red, something expensive, something stolen from his own cellar with a boyish shrug, casual but confident. You perched at the far end of the sofa, knees drawn toward him, your dress settling soft against your thighs. The cushions dipping just enough that your bare thigh brushed his. He didn’t pull away. Kylian, beside you, sleeves pushed up, bottle in hand. You watched the veins on his forearm as he worked the corkscrew, the subtle flex of muscle, the furrow between his brows as he concentrated. You caught yourself staring. So did he. Your perfume lingered in the space between you, sweet and heady, something creamy and sun-warmed, like skin and citrus and trouble. He swallowed once. You saw his eyes flick briefly to your chest, the soft rise and fall as you tried not to breathe too deeply. Your lips were still glossed from earlier. You’d touched them up, though you wouldn’t admit that.

“Don’t spill,” he murmured, pulling the cork free with a little pop and a wicked glint in his eye.

“I never do,” you replied, playful, a tilt to your chin.

“Bon,” he said, pouring you a glass, “then you can help me. Because I always do.” You laughed, soft and breathy, turning fully toward him on the sofa. He handed you your glass and your fingers brushed. You swore the electricity could’ve lit the whole damn château. He watched you take the glass, watched the way you brought it to your lips. You caught the look, like he was memorizing you, cataloging how you tasted things, how your mouth curved. 

The wine was poured. The room felt heavier now, like dusk had folded itself over the furniture, like the linen curtains swayed slower just to give you more time. Kylian sat close beside you, one knee angled toward yours. And maybe it was the way the storm had almost passed, or maybe it was the wine, or the way his scent, clean skin and cotton, made your stomach flip. But something in you was warm and light and aching, all at once. He looked handsome anywhere. That much you knew. You’d seen the headlines, heard the way people spoke his name with awe and hunger. But up close, in this dim, quiet room with no audience, he was something else entirely. Golden. Radiant in the dull light. Not just striking, but real. Solid and still somehow unreal. You could feel him without touching him. The heat of him. The calm he carried. Your eyes softened. You weren’t even thinking, just looking. At his full lips, the way his lashes curled when he blinked, how his jaw flexed when he laughed low under his breath at something you said. And all you could think was: wow. And him? Kylian didn’t know how to look away from you. He tried, God, he tried. But there you were, curled up on his sofa in a soft sundress, golden skin and glossy lips, eyes bright and unfiltered like you didn’t even know you were a weapon. An angel who smelled like sun and vanilla and some dangerous sweetness he couldn’t name. Like sin dressed in sugar, a slow, golden vanilla that curled at the edge of heat, not the lacquered kind sprayed from bottles, but something lived-in, warm and maddening, like the ghost of a dessert he wasn’t allowed to finish. It wasn’t perfume. It was skin. Soft and warmed, like you’d soaked it in Provençal light. It clung to you like a secret, taunting him with every breath, sweet in a way you can’t buy, grounded like flour and cream and salt,  the kind of scent that made him greedy. The kind he wanted on his tongue. Again. And again You kissed like you wanted to ruin him, then fed him like you needed him alive. And when you smiled, that slow, curling smile, it knocked the air from his lungs all over again.

“This isn’t exactly dessert, I had one planned, t’sais.” you teased, tipping your glass against his with a soft clink.

“T’occupe pas de ça. Stay a little longer and I’ll find some,” he smirked, leaning in just enough that your knees brushed. [Don’t worry about that.] He held your gaze when you looked up at him, slow and steady.

“T’es dangereux, j’le sens.” you murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. [You’re dangerous, I can feel it.] It was a deflection, a tease, anything to keep your heart from leaping straight out of your chest.

“You have no idea,” he said, voice thick with something more than flirtation. And then, quieter, almost to himself: “but only because you’re too good at this.”

“At what?” you asked, genuinely unsure. He reached out, brushed the same piece of hair gently off your face. His fingers barely grazed your cheek, but you felt it like a spark under your skin.

“At making it hard to behave.” He spoke quiet and it felt like the world slowed with each syllable. The laughter that had been lingering between you both faded into something deliberate. Deeper. Your breath caught. Your thighs pressed together instinctively, heartbeat in your ears. But still, with him, you didn’t feel scared or cornered. You felt seen. Not in a way that made you shrink, but in a way that made you want to undress. Maybe not your clothes. Not yet. But your guard. Your timing. Your fear. You tilted your head, eyes gleaming, smile small and breathless.

“You don’t have to behave with me. In your house,” you purred, voice low, teasing, an invitation dressed like a joke. His smile curved slow and crooked. 

“Don’t tempt me,” he murmured, but there was no playfulness in it now. Just heat. A thread of warning. Then silence. Thick, humming, charged silence. Neither of you said a word, but it was loud with everything unsaid. You were acutely aware of his body, how close it was, how his knee had just brushed yours again, firmer this time, like he wasn’t pulling away anymore. Like he didn’t want to. You shifted slightly, pretending to get more comfortable, but it only made things worse. Or better. Your thigh pressed into his. He didn’t move. You didn’t either. He leaned in a little, not fully, just enough to feel the change in air between you. His gaze dropped. Lingered on your mouth. And didn’t move. You could feel the panic rolling off him, soft and subtle, like static in the air. He didn’t panic. Not ever. Not on the pitch. Not in interviews. Not when the stakes were high and the whole world watched. But here, in his own chateau, next to you in a little barely there dress and a too-steady stare, he was absolutely unraveled. Did he kiss you? Was that allowed? Did you want that? God, he wanted that. He was confused, and aching, and harder than he’d been all week. And he was still looking at your lips like they held every answer, like kissing you might ruin him, or fix him, or both. But he didn’t move. Not yet.

—

The bottle sat between you on the low coffee table, your legs curled beneath you on the plush cream sofa, a little too close to his. The wine had deepened the color in your cheeks, loosened the curve of your smile. The air was warm, heavy with the smell of Provence through the open terrace door. The world hummed outside like a chorus egging you on.

“Très bien…” you said, voice a little too breathy, brushing your fingers over the stem of your glass, “Let’s play something.”

“Truth or dare? Or twenty questions?” Kylian raised a brow.  You tilted your head, lips curved. 

“Both. But maybe let’s start with questions. Truths only. Dare’s a little…” you trailed off, tracing the rim of your glass, “…dangerous.” He smirked, eyes falling to the motion of your finger. 

"C’estl toi la fucking dangereuse." [You’re the fucking dangerous one.] You laughed, cheeks flushing, eyes shutting for a second like you needed to gather yourself before opening them again to meet his gaze. The way he looked at you made your stomach knot. Like he was memorizing every second.

“Okay,” you breathed. “First question. What’s the last thing you Googled?” He grinned, rubbing a hand over his buzzed head.

 “Mmm. The weather. Hoping for another storm. I think I like the chaos.” His eyes slid to you. “Your turn.” 

“Ask me.” You sipped your wine, hiding your smile behind the glass.

“What’s your worst habit?” He leaned in a little.

“Starting things I know I shouldn’t,” you said without thinking. The moment the words left your lips, you caught your breath. Kylian’s brows lifted, then pulled together, just slightly.

“Like what?” he asked softly. 

“That’s another question.” You shook your head, looking away with a laugh.  

“Okay. Have you ever kissed someone you knew you shouldn’t?” He smiled, eyes sharp but warm. It really technically was your turn to ask not answer but maybe it was the wine, more likely him, but you were having trouble thinking straight. You didn’t respond right away. Your lips parted, your gaze dropped to his lips for just a breath before sliding back up.

“Peut-être,” you said, voice velvet. [Maybe.] The air pulsed between you. You reached over, just slightly, and touched his arm, fingertips on his skin like you didn’t even realize you were doing it. But you did. God, you did. And so did he. “Have you?” you asked, not taking your hand back.

“Ouais.” He swallowed, throat tight. You didn’t ask who. The game went on, but now every question was layered, like skin peeled back. Favorite scent? “Yours,” he said too quickly, and you tried to smile but your chest felt like it might explode. What do you think about when you can’t sleep? His voice dropped, almost a whisper: “Sometimes… what it would feel like to kiss someone who looks a little like you do.” You blinked, stunned silent for a beat, then laughed, eyes closing. He laughed too, but it was quieter, like he wasn’t sure if it was allowed. You asked what he was most afraid of. He didn’t answer for a long time. Then said, “Regret.” And didn’t look away. Your heart slammed in your chest, throat dry. You looked at him like you might be dreaming, because this was not where this was supposed to go. But it had. So effortlessly. Like you’d always been heading here. 

“You’re very good at this.” You leaned back a little, resting your arm across the back of the couch, body open, a temptress invitation.

“I’m good at a lot of things.” The room spun slowly. Or maybe that was just you. “But thinking you might be just as good at this, bébé.” And there it was again. Like a shotgun start. Neither of you asked what came next. Neither of you dared.

—

You were tipsy now, maybe from the wine, more likely from him, almost positively so now, curled up sideways on the sofa, your shoulder closer to him. The clean linen of the room blurred slightly at the edges. You laughed a little too long at something he said, a hand stayed on his forearm without thinking, your voice low, warm with that slow, flirty confidence that only came once in a while. Then, without quite meaning to, you murmured,

“If I wasn’t working here…” His head turned, slowly.

“What?” The word left him like it had weight. You blinked at your glass, avoiding his gaze.

“Nothing.” You shook your head, cheeks burning, lips parting to sip again. But it was too late. He’d heard it. Really heard it. The thread had begun to fray. Slip by slip, sip by sip. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it pulsed, electric and heavy, alive with what wasn’t said. He leaned back slightly, like weighing a decision.

“Okay,” he said, casual, coaxing. “Truth or dare?” You looked up at him then. His eyes locked on yours. You rolled yours softly, a smile tugging at your lips. 

“Dare.” He paused for half a beat. Not long enough for you to take it back.

[Under The Influence - Chris Brown]

“Kiss me.” You blinked. You didn’t smile. You just stared,  breath caught, heartbeat riotous. You just looked at him, really looked at him. The way the faint lamplight caught the slope of his jaw, the warmth in his dark eyes flickering like a fuse, waiting. The room seemed smaller now, like the night had folded in around you, the silence between you louder than any thunder. You should’ve laughed it off. Made a joke. Pretended you hadn’t heard. But instead… you leaned in. Slow. Soft. Careful. Not because he dared you. Not because of the wine. Because the air between you felt like something you could step into, soft, charged, inevitable. His breath caught. You felt it. His eyes dropped to your lips and stayed there, reverent. He didn’t move, not at first, but the moment your mouth brushed his, he was there, meeting you. The kiss bloomed slowly, painfully, like the kind that starts at the mouth but consumes everything else. Your fingers curled softly into the fabric at his side, not holding, just touching, like if you anchored yourself too much it would all burn down. His lips parted slightly, breath mixing with yours, tasting of wine and restraint. Your blood roared in your ears. It was dizzying, like heat rising too fast in your chest, like something was being pulled out of you and replaced with him. And still you didn’t stop. Couldn’t. His hand ghosted up your thigh but didn’t move further. Not yet. Like he knew, this moment wasn’t about how far, or how fast. It was the fall. The way your bodies barely touched, but it felt like you’d crossed every line. You were burning. Breathless. His mouth was soft and slow beneath yours, answering the question neither of you had dared to ask aloud. But when you finally pulled back, the air crackled. Only a breath’s width away, he was close, too close, and the space between you felt too fragile to speak in. It was the kind of kiss that lingered long after you seperated.Your eyes flicked up to his. Like you were waiting for permission to want it again. You looked at him, not like a challenge anymore, not like a game. Something had shifted. The air between you was no longer tension; it was revelation.

“Was that just to get it out of your system?” Your voice was quiet. He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t smile. His eyes searched yours as he shook his head.

“Non,” he murmured. “That was… because you’re too good at this. I’ve been dreaming of it.” A silence stretched between you, long and full. The kind of silence that said more than either of you could. And then his fingers found your skin, softly, slowly, slipping up your bare thigh again. His touch was gentle, reverent, but laced with heat, like he didn’t quite trust himself to hold back if he pushed further. His thumb traced circles over your skin, and when you looked up, you caught the devilish glint in his eye. “That was my dare,” he said, voice low, rough. “Now it’s your turn.” You smiled, barely, but it curled into something mischievous. You took a breath like it might steady you, but your pulse wouldn’t calm.

“Truth or dare?” you asked, your voice dipped and thick.

“Dare.” He didn’t blink. You leaned in, the wine making you bold. Maybe it was the way his thigh pressed against yours, the way his eyes had been tracking your mouth like a prayer all night. Your hand crept slowly up his leg, deliberate and unhurried, your fingers tracing over muscle and tension. You felt the way his breath hitched, how his body went taut beneath your touch like a bowstring drawn tight. You let your lips trail slowly down the line of his jaw, kisses feather-light, over his throat, your breath fanning over his skin. He let his head lull to the side, eyes fluttering closed as you pressed your lips to his neck, a soft nibble up the column of his throat. His skin tasted faintly of salt, heat, and want. You smiled against him, lips brushing the shell of his ear as you purred.

“I dare you to tell me what you reall want for dessert.” A sound escaped him, low, wrecked, something between a breath and a growl. He was unraveling. You could feel it. And God, you were right there with him. You had him though. His hand tightened on your thigh. You could feel it in the way his body leaned into your touch, the way his breath caught, low and uneven, when your hand crept just a little higher along his thigh. Your thumb taunting. His muscles tensed beneath your fingers, but he didn’t move. Didn’t stop you. Just let his head fall further to the side, exposing his neck like an offering. And you took it. Your lips brushed over the curve of his jaw, wine-stained and slow. You nibbled lightly at the soft skin beneath his ear again, and he groaned, quiet, broken, like he couldn’t believe you were doing this to him, like he didn’t want you to stop. He let you lead. Let you press the flat of your palm over his stomach, your fingers teasing the hem of his shirt, slipping just underneath. His skin was warm. Tense. He was burning. You were breathless, giddy with how undone he was, how he looked at you like you were a fever he wanted to keep. Your mouth curved into a smirk, lips grazing the shell of his ear as you whispered again. “I could make you something sweet…” You felt him shudder. “Something warm, maybe…” you continued, dragging your hand on his thigh just a little higher. “Creamy.” You let the word melt in your mouth like butter. Another groan, this one lower, deeper. You smiled against his skin. He was breathing hard now, jaw clenched, other hand finally coming up to your waist, gripping tight, like he was anchoring himself in you. But you weren’t done. “Or maybe…” you purred, your voice almost cruel in its softness, “You’d rather skip dessert and just taste something else.” His whole body tensed. His fingers dug in. And for a moment, the only sounds were two racing heartbeats and the quiet hum of a Provençal night bracing to catch fire. He turned his head then, eyes wild, chest rising and falling like he’d played 90 minutes. You had him. Completely. 

Or so you thought.

A sudden yelp escaped your throat, half laugh, half gasp, when his arms snapped around your waist and he pulled you into his lap, rough, like he’d finally let go of restraint. The room tilted. The warmth between you combusted into something hotter, something you hadn’t braced for. And you didn’t resist. You couldn’t. You straddled him, legs falling on either side of his hips, your hands slipping to his shoulders, his neck, like muscle memory. He groaned into your skin, low, guttural, as his hands slid along your back, dragging your dress up, gliding over your ribs, up your spine. His mouth found your neck, no hesitation now, teeth grazing the soft curve there, tongue smoothing over where he bit. And just like that, the power shifted. A switch flicked you didn’t know existed.

“You think you can play with me like that?” he rasped, voice dark, breath ragged against your skin. You couldn’t speak, only nod, trembling with a smile as he dragged you closer, so close you felt every inch of him pressing up into you, hard, hungry. His hands roamed with confidence now, sure. Desperate. And still, neither of you said another word. You didn’t need to. The truth had already been dared. His hands roamed with purpose. No more teasing brushes, no more breathless restraint. His palms were sure, sliding beneath your dress, fingertips grazing your ribs, your waist, like he was mapping what already belonged to him. You shifted to pull his shirt off, some reflex to even the playing field, to do something, but he caught your wrists. Firm, not rough. Just… certain. “Non,” he murmured, his eyes darker than you’d ever seen them. He guided your hands to rest flat on his chest, over his hammering heart. “You’ve been in charge all night. That ends now.” Your breath caught, heart lurching. His grip loosened, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t. His hands moved again, slower now. Reverent. He brushed your hair back, then slipped one finger beneath the fabric of the cap sleeve of your dress, dragging it down your shoulder with agonizing care. “You wore this for me.” It wasn’t a question. You didn’t answer, your voice caught somewhere between his mouth on your collarbone and the deep, dizzying roll of your hips against his lap. His other hand found the opposite strap and did the same, slipping it down so both shoulders were bare, your chest heaving. “T’es fier de toi, hein.” [So proud of yourself, huh?] He said low against your skin, teeth grazing your clavicle. “Flirting, teasing, tempting me with those lips…” You whimpered when he kissed just above the swell of your breast, your hands curling tighter against his chest. “What happened to all that bravado, hmm?” he asked, his voice sin-slick and smug. “Don’t go quiet on me now, ma petite flamme.” You shuddered. Tried again, half-heartedly, to touch him, to take control back. But he caught your wrists again, this time bringing them behind your back as you straddled him. You inhaled, your core pulsing like a drum. He held you there, bound in nothing but his hands, chest to chest. You swallowed hard, your breath breaking into shallow fragments, pulse screaming under your skin. He still held your wrists behind you, lightly, but it may as well have been chains. You didn’t fight. You didn’t want to. Not really. Not when he looked at you like that, like he could see through every smirk, every sidelong glance, every layer of false control you’d wrapped around yourself all week. “Say it,” he repeated, voice a murmur of smoke, of heat, but firmer now. His mouth brushed yours, not a kiss, just the idea of one, his breath warm as his nose skimmed your cheek. “You want me to take you apart. Say it.” You let your head tip forward, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs tightened around him, the ache between them blooming unbearable.

“Kylian…” you whispered. A plea. A prayer. He chuckled softly, low in his throat, and God, it made your stomach knot.

“You’ve been so good at pretending you don’t want this. Hiding behind apricots and pretty plates. But you do.” He released your hands, only to let them fall to your thighs, firm, holding you there. “You want me to touch you like this…” he dragged his hands up, slow, deliberate, thumbs brushing the inside of your thighs beneath your dress. “But only if you ask me.” Your whole body trembled. You tried to move, rock against him, anything, get some friction, but his hands flexed, grounding you, holding you completely still.  “You’re not gonna come into my house, kiss me like you did, moan my name in the dark, and then act like you don’t want this,” he growled, each word punctuated by the slow drag of his thumb tracing closer to your center. You gasped, back arching slightly, your voice barely a whisper:

“Steuplééé…” He looked up at you through thick lashes, those deep brown eyes molten.

“Please what?” You bit your lip. His hand stilled. “Say it,” he said again. “You know how to use your words, bébé. You’re good with that mouth.” Your cheeks flushed. Your thighs trembled. But when you spoke again, it was nearly a whimper.

“I want you.” He exhaled sharply, like the words cracked something open inside him. And still, he didn’t move. Just stared up at you, hands bracketing your hips, jaw tight, breathing ragged.

“Good girl,” he muttered, almost to himself. And when he finally moved, it wasn’t rushed. It was terrifyingly slow, like a man unwrapping something he planned to savor.​​ His grip on you tightened, but only because you’d started to move again, your lips brushing his jaw, your breath trailing heat along the stubble lining his skin. You nuzzled there, just below his ear, then kissed gently, soft, a hum in your throat like it tasted too good not to savor.

“I think about this when I cook for you,” you whispered a whine, dragging your mouth down his neck. “Your hands. That mouth. What you’d do if I ever licked the cream off my finger too slow…” His breath hitched. His hands flexed at your waist like he meant to stop you, but didn’t. Couldn’t.

“Tu es vraiment trop bon à ça. Too fucking good at this,” he murmured. [You're really too good at this.] It wasn’t playful. It was reverent. Like a confession. Like he didn’t understand how you’d gotten under his skin so fast, so deep. You smiled against his throat, wicked and sugar-sweet. 

“You wanted this instead of dessert.” You taunted, the power dynamic swinging like a pendulum even science couldn’t predict.  He growled low, not even angry, just wrecked, and you felt the sharp jerk of his thigh beneath you, the way his hips bucked slightly. You rolled your hips in response, and his jaw clenched tight, head dropping back. And just like that, the tension shifted. Your fingers, curious, coaxed at the hem of his shirt. He didn’t stop you this time. He let you peel it up, revealing hard muscle, a line of sweat at his sternum. You kissed there too. He hissed.

“You are fucking dessert, genre vraiment, bébé,” he muttered, and it was ragged now, like he was losing ground. But you weren’t done.

“Let me have mine first,” you purred, pulling back just enough to look him in the eyes, your mouth hovering at his collarbone. “Let me have you like this.” His hands had dropped away completely now, limp at his sides, like he couldn’t think with them. You slid down slowly, hands dragging along his torso, your eyes not leaving his face. When your knees hit the rug and you looked up at him, lashes low, lips parted, something in him broke. His eyes darkened, throat bobbing with a hard swallow. He’d never liked losing control. Never. But right now, watching you kneel in front of him, eyes glinting, smile too clever, voice too soft, he didn’t mind one bit. He leaned forward, thumb grazing your cheek, his other hand carding into your hair. Your palms glided over the firm curve of his thighs, slow and reverent. Kylian’s breath hitched, his chest rising a little quicker now, anticipation curling through his body like smoke finding all the soft, hidden places. His eyes darkened as he looked down at you, voice low when it came, coaxing, laced with heat and something unsteady underneath. His fingers brushed your cheek, traced the line of your jaw, tilting your face toward him so he could see the way your lips parted under his touch. You turned your head slightly, lips grazing the inside of his thigh, barely there, just a whisper of contact, but it was enough to send a tremor through him, subtle and sharp like a struck chord. You unzipped his shorts, the soft rasp of metal slicing through the quiet like a secret too loud, too late to take back. chord. You slid his boxers down with agonizing slowness. His cock sprang free, thick, flushed, already leaking against the plane of his abs. He was hard for you. Waiting. Wanting. His thumb skimmed along your bottom lip, catching on the wetness there, the tension in his body pulled taut as wire.

“Montre-moi what a good girl you are,” he murmured, barely holding himself together. You didn’t make him ask again. Your tongue traced the underside of his length, slow and deliberate, savoring the way his hips jolted in response, how his fists clenched in the linen at his sides, knuckles white with restraint. Spit spilled from your lips, thick and glistening, sliding down the length of him in messy, gleaming trails. Your hand followed, stroking him with that same wet heat, every movement soaked in hunger. “Putain…” Kylian groaned, head tipping back, throat working as he swallowed hard, fighting the wave threatening to pull him under. And you hadn’t even taken him in yet. Kylian’s eyes flutter shut the second your mouth wrapped around him. “T’es… trop bonne” A wrecked sound catching in his throat, low and raw, something between a moan and a prayer. One hand reached blindly for the cushions, gripping at the fabric like it might anchor him, before finding what he really needed, your hair. His fingers tangled there, not to guide, not to force. Just to hold. To remind himself this was happening. That it was you. You were taking him so sweetly, so slowly. Letting him feel every inch of it. Wet and warm and devastating. He shuddered under you, the muscles in his stomach jumping as he tried to stay still, tried not to fuck into your mouth like his body begged him to. Your lips were slick with spit and him, and when you moaned around him, Christ. The vibration made his thighs tense, his grip tighten. “Bonne fille… Just like that.” His voice was rough velvet, unsteady now. You hollowed your cheeks and took him deeper, just to hear that sound again. Just to watch him unravel. His cock twitched on your tongue, hitting the back of your throat over and over, and you gagged a little, spit pooling at the corners of your mouth. The mess of it only made him harder. His breaths came shallow, ragged, the kind of panting that came with restraint, barely, the kind that said he was holding on by a thread. “Non… non, bébé, je vais…” His voice cracked, hoarse and frantic now. [“No… no, baby, I'm going to…] “Fuck.”  And then, suddenly, his hands gripped your face, pulling you off him with a sharp inhale. His cock jerked against his stomach, slick and flushed, and he leaned forward like he was possessed. His thumbs smeared the mess from your lips, slow and deliberate. His eyes were fire. “Told you. You don’t get to be in charge here,” he murmured. Low. French. Dangerous. Your lips parted, breathless. You licked a drop from the corner of your mouth, not shy, not innocent, and the way your eyes glittered at his words nearly sent him over the edge anyway.

“Ah ouais? Pourquoi.” You asked, soft as silk. But your body told a different story, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, chest rising and falling like you’d run, nipples tight under your dress, your skin streaked with spit and the heat of him. You looked wrecked. But Kylian knew better. He hadn’t even started. He leaned back, settling against the sofa like a king reclaiming his throne. Took his time dragging his eyes down your body, slow and consuming. He didn’t let you ruin him. Not yet. Your eyes climbing slowly back up to his. And what you saw there made your stomach drop, dark, simmering, a thread of desperation just barely disguised under command. His thumb brushed over your bottom lip. Your knees ached against the floor, but you didn’t care. You were lightheaded from the scent of him, cedar and rain, the ghost of sweat from his run still clinging to his skin.

“Viens.” a growl, low in his chest. [Come.] He pulled you up effortlessly, and you let him. Stood up between his legs, his hands gripping your hips hard enough that your breath hitched. Your dress had shifted off one side almost entirely now. His eyes followed the path of the sleeve sliding down your arm like it was slow motion. Like he wanted to memorize every inch before it disappeared. The low hum of cicadas outside. The creak of an old wood beam above. And both of you, breathing like the walls were closing in. Your hands glided over his shoulders, fisting the fabric of his shirt. You weren’t thinking. He leaned forward more, nose grazing your sternum. “You’re not playing fair.” His lips moved like a taunt against you, like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you, and it hit you all at once, how much you liked that he could undo you with a look, a touch… and yet right now, he was the one trembling, wrecked, breathless from your mouth. The power tilted and teetered between you, thrilling and dangerous, and still, you ached to surrender to him.

“I didn’t know we were playing.” You smiled, breathless. But oh, you liked this. You liked him. You’d do anything for him, fuck, you wanted to, wanted to impress him, please him, feel his hands on you, his praise in your ear. You burned with it, this aching need to be his, to be used, to be everything he wanted and more, just to see that look in his eyes when he knew you were completely his. His hands lifted, slipped under the back of your dress, palming your ass like he had every right. “Kylian,bébé” You whined, arching into him, your mouth catching his name again, too loud in the quiet house. It made his jaw clench. His hands flex. He gripped the curve of your ass with a hunger he didn’t bother hiding. He pulled you down onto him, slow and sure, until you were straddling his lap, your knees bracketing his thighs all over again, breath shaky, body already aching for more. Your bodies didn’t move, not quite. But the air between you turned molten. 

“Say that again,” he murmured. But you didn’t. You whimpered instead, hands clawing gently at his shoulders. Because you felt it now, what this was. How dangerously close you both were to falling off the edge. And yet neither of you stopped. Your lips met fully again. And this kiss wasn’t like the first. This was teeth and tongue, a greedy, messy collision. The sound of it echoing softly in the high ceilings. You were already breathless, clawing at each other like it had been weeks not days, like you’d waited lifetimes, not just dinners and stolen glances. It felt like lightning had struck the hillside, and the quiet chateau was burning.

•

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

Be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think, s'il te plaît !!

Next Part - Chapitre 3 | Coming Soon!

⚜️🍽️🥖🌾 🪿🧈🤍🍾✨

[masn-mount]

Secrets.07🌿

“Just one more night”

When he couldn’t wait any longer

This series offers a closer, more honest look at Kylian Mbappé. By exploring his habits, routines, and subtle reactions IF HE WERE YOURS, it aims to reflect the real Kylian as accurately as possible: always human.

Content : Pre-Wedding Night…? Read at your own risk.

I was told it was bad luck to see your bride the night before the wedding.

But I wasn’t superstitious.

Not when it came to her.

We’d been through too much. Waited too long. And honestly? I missed her. It had only been a few hours since the rehearsal dinner, but it already felt like a lifetime.

The villa we rented for the weekend was beautiful, but right now it felt too big, too empty, too quiet without her laugh echoing in the halls.

Somewhere in the east wing, my boys, the best men, were still up ..loud, drunk, and arguing over whether I should wear a black tie or a navy one.

I was downstairs alone, they thought I slept . I didn’t care.

I just wanted her.

Her villa was just across the stone terrace from mine, filled with her bridesmaids and family. No seeing the bride before the wedding. No breaking tradition. But she was right there. And every second without her felt like a lifetime.

Yk how it goes because… the part of the old wedding traditions everyone insisted we honor. “Distance builds excitement,” they said. “Don’t ruin the moment tomorrow,” they said.

I get it.

But those people don’t have her.

They don’t know what it’s like to fall asleep with her head on your chest, or what it feels like when she walks into a room and every nerve in your body settles.

They don’t know what it’s like to wait. To hold back. To want something that’s right there—but still just out of reach.

Because here’s the thing:

We haven’t done it yet. Not fully.

We decided early on that we’d wait. We won’t do it till marriage. It was our choice. We wanted it to be meaningful. We wanted to belong to each other in every possible way with no fear, no guilt, no rush.

We’d done everything else. The tension between us had always been explosive. Kisses that went too deep. Hands that wandered too far. Tongues that left us shaking.

And still—we waited.

And now?

Now we were just one night away.

I paced my room for almost an hour, trying to shake the ache in my chest, in my gut, in my skin. The need to touch her was like gravity.

Finally, just after midnight, I gave up pretending to be strong. Quietly, barefoot, I stepped out onto the terrace and crossed the smooth stone tiles to her side of the villa.

Her lights were out.

But I knew she was awake.

I could feel her.

I lifted my hand to knock on the glass door separating us but before I could touch it, it slid open.

And there she was.

Hair down. Barefoot. Wrapped in one of my old t-shirts, the navy one that clung to her thighs like a second skin.

I forgot how to breathe.

Her eyes softened when she saw me.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she whispered with a smile. God this smile.

“You opened your door first,” I whispered back smiling like an idiot.

She laughed quietly, stepping out into the night air. It was warm. Still. Silent, like the world had stopped spinning for just us.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.

“Me neither.”

I stepped toward her. She stepped toward me.

And suddenly we were face to face, standing in the space where her door met mine. Her hands brushed my chest. Mine found her waist. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“Hi,” she murmured.

I looked down at her. My girl. My best friend. My bride.

“You’re trying to kill me,” I whispered.

She smiled, teasing. “It’s just your shirt.”

“It’s how you wear it.”

I kissed her.

Soft. Careful. Gentle.

Just a taste.

Then another.

And another.

The kind of kiss that stretches time. The kind that starts slow but spirals too fast.

It started soft. But it didn’t stay soft.

She was warm, and sweet, and tasted like toothpaste and skin and comfort. And she melted into me like she always did.

But this time? This time I didn’t hold back.

I pressed her into the glass door behind her, hands sliding up her thighs, lips devouring hers like I’d waited my whole life for this kiss.

She gasped against my mouth. Her arms wrapped around my neck. My hands gripped her waist and lifted her.

In seconds, she was in my arms, legs wrapped around me, and I carried her back inside, sliding the glass door closed behind us, laying her down on her couch like she was something holy.

Her lips never left mine.

I climbed on top of her slowly, grinding down just once to feel her whimper into my mouth.

And fuck, the sound made me dizzy.

We were still clothed, but it didn’t feel like it.

Every shift, every roll of her hips, every stifled moan so no one would wake up, felt like we were already tangled, already there.

And when her hands slid down my back, grabbing at my sweatpants, tugging, desperate, I couldn’t take it.

I started rocking against her, slow and deep, hips rolling with hers, our bodies grinding through layers of thin fabric, and it was heaven and hell in one breath.

“God, bébé—” I hissed against her throat.

Her head dropped back.

Eyes fluttered closed.

Mouth open, breathing heavy.

“Don’t stop,” she whimpered.

And I didn’t.

I pressed down again, my hard-on grinding right against her center. The shirt she wore had hiked up around her hips. My sweatpants did nothing to dull it. I could feel the heat of her, the wetness even through the layers.

She moaned,high, broken, shaky…and gripped my hair as I rocked into her again.

“You feel what you do to me?” I whispered. “Every time. You ruin me.”

“Kylian—” she gasped.

I kissed her harder.

Licked into her mouth.

Bit her lip.

She arched up into me, grinding back, chasing the friction like she needed it.

And I gave it to her.

Again.

And again.

The couch creaked.

Our breaths tangled. Our bodies burned.

“I can’t stop,” I choked against her neck.

“I know,” she breathed, nails biting into my back.

“I want you so bad it hurts.”

“I want you too.”

My forehead pressed to hers.

We rocked together, desperate, clothed, drowning.

“We ..we need to wait,” she whispered. “Kylian—amour we’re almost there. Just one more night.”

I stopped moving.

Breath ragged. Body shaking. Head rest against hers.

I pulled back just far enough to see her flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, kiss-swollen lips.

She looked wrecked.So did I.

But she meant it. And god I hate it, I want her as hell..but she is definitely right, just some more hours.

“want me to stop bébé ?” I asked gently.

She nodded.

“Yes.”

So I did.

I moved off of her, arms like lead, heart beating against my ribs like a war drum. I pulled her shirt back down, cupped her face, and kissed her slow.

She crawled into my lap, curled against my chest, and I held her like she was made for me.

Neither of us said anything for a while.

Just the sound of our hearts.

Our breaths.

Our bodies still buzzing.

Finally, she whispered against my jaw, “I almost didn’t stop you.”

I groaned. “You’re evil.”

She laughed, then kissed my cheek. “You love me.”

“Too damn fkn much.”

She stood, legs a little shaky, cheeks still pink. I chuckled …my woman.

At the stairs, going up, she turned and looked at me, my shirt hanging off her shoulder, lips swollen, skin glowing like she’d been kissed by fire.

“One more night,” she whispered with a soft smile. And she was gone.

I slipped back into the grooms villa as quietly as I could, hoping no one would spot me in the state I was in , shirt half-wrinkled, lips swollen with her lipgloss smeared around them, and the most obvious, unmistakable Mbappé situation going on in my pants. God help me if one of the groomsmen was still awake.

I dropped back onto the couch with a heavy sigh, the cushion barely softening the heat still thrumming through my body. One arm flung over my eyes, the other resting across my chest like it was trying to hold my heart in place.

I was still breathing hard, still aching with everything we almost did. My whole body felt wrecked, like she had branded herself into my skin without even needing to take off a single thing.

One more night.

That’s what she said.

That’s all that was left between us and forever. One more night of waiting. One more night of not giving in.

One more night of pretending like we hadn’t already fallen apart in each other’s arms without even going all the way.

I could do it.

Barely.

Because tomorrow?

Tomorrow, she walks down that aisle and becomes my wife.

Tomorrow, she says “I do,” and I get to call her mine — in every way.

No more rules.

No more limits.

No more stopping.

She’s mine.Forever.

And I swear, after tomorrow? I’m never holding back again.

[masn-mount]

[masn-mount]

AMOUR IS BACK !

I MISSED HIM♥️

[masn-mount]

Pieces Of Us | PT. IV. — Paper Cuts Deeper

Plot: After a horrible accident, Kylian Mbappé loses one whole year of his memories. Turns out it was the year he met and married you in. Will you be able to win him back?

Trailer: here by the talented @jkkyks

Warnings: smut in the beginning

Taglist: @jkkyks @jkkymb-10 @hood-jabi @haartemis

I don’t know who moved first.

Her breath on my cheek. My hands on her waist. Her fingers ghosting the hem of my shirt — then under it.

And suddenly it was happening.

Mouths colliding like we’d kissed each other in dreams for too long. Teeth. Tongue. Salt. Heat.

I don’t even think. I just need. And she gives. Every inch of her gives.

Her back hits the mattress with a sound that feels like surrender.

Her skin smells like something warm and familiar — faint traces of rosewater, the softness of cotton sheets, the salt of shared grief.

And something I can’t name.

Something that feels like home.

I hover above her, one hand cradling her cheek, the other braces near her ribs as if I could hold up the entire weight of the world by not collapsing into her too soon.

She looks up at me with those eyes — not wide, not begging, just open.

“I missed you,” she whispers, almost crying.

I can’t tell if she means now or always.

I brush my lips across her cheek, then her temple, then finally her mouth — soft, reverent — as if I could memorize her shape all over again through taste alone.

Her hands slide up my back, fingertips painting devotion across my spine.

“Touch me,” she says, not desperate — inviting.

And God, I do.

I kiss down her throat slowly, savoring every inch like it is my first and last meal.

Her fingers tug at my shirt, but they hesitate at the hem — like she needs permission, even now.

I give it in the way I kiss her.

Deep. Lingering. A silent yes.

Her hands slip beneath the fabric, skin to skin, and I swear I flinch — not from her touch, but from the way my body remembers it. Like muscle memory had been aching in silence, waiting for her hands to come home.

I pull my shirt off — clumsy, breathless — and the way she looks at me under the golden lamp light almost undoes me. Not just want. Not even love.

Recognition.

Like her eyes were seeing something they’d lost but never stopped reaching for.

I lift her shirt and my fingers.... Tremble.

God, they tremble.

Because undressing her feels like stripping time.

Fabric lifts, and her bare skin meets air and memory in equal measure. I kiss her collarbone as if to apologize for how long I’d been gone.

Each piece of clothing is peeled away like a secret being re-learned. My fingertips trace the outline of her ribs, the curve of her breasts — and she arches, barely breathing. I slide her panties off and I take my underwear off too.

She doesn’t shy away.

I suppose she never did.

My gaze lingers on her — bare, glowing, chest rising in soft anticipation. I take a moment. Just watching her.

“You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, voice rough. She reaches up, cups my face, and her thumb brushes over my lower lip like she is trying to commit the curve to memory.

“So are you,” she whispers, and it almost ends me.

I press my forehead to hers, heart drumming against my ribs. Our breaths mingle. Her thighs part slightly, inviting, trusting — and I guide myself to her entrance, slow.

When I slide inside, her gasp isn’t loud — it is felt. Her arms wrap around me.

I line myself up, the head of me nudging against her, and her thighs widen with a shiver like her body had been aching for this weight.

Her back arches. And I swear, for a moment, the world stops.

I don’t move.

Not yet.

I just breathe her in. The way her body pulses around mine, holding me like a memory too sacred to release. The way her lashes flutter — open, shut — as if even blinking is too long not to see me.

There were tears in her eyes.

Or maybe mine.

My mouth finds her nipple, and she gasps— her hand over my hair — and I want to worship, not just touch.

And I pause.

Because I want her — so deeply, so fully, it scares me.

My name leaves her lips — soft, trembling, reverent.

“Kylian.”

FLASH

White sheets. Our wedding night. Her whispering please as I’d finally pressed into her for the first time. The way her walls clenched like prayer.

Back in the present, I feel it again. That same resistance. That same stretch.

And then…

She opens for me.

Warm. Wet. Home.

I thrust into her in one long, slow push, every inch of her drawing me in like a secret being kept.

She gasps beneath me, arms clutching me tight, breath shallow. I hold still, eyes locked on hers.

Out of reverence.

Because this — this moment — is holy.

I kiss her — hard, desperate — and begin to move.

Slow thrusts. Deep. Grounded in something ancient and aching. She meets me with every roll of her hips, every arch of her back, like her body remembers mine even better than I remember her.

Her moans aren’t sounds. They are answers.

The way she wraps her legs around me, nails dragging down my back, the slick sound of us moving together — it feels like worship in motion.

I bury my face in her neck.

She whispers my name again, and it cracks something in me open.

Each thrust drives that memory deeper. Each gasp pulls it back out.

She is beneath me — flushed, breathless, open.

And I am above her, hands braced on either side of her head, arms trembling, like I was holding up the entire weight of everything we’d lost.

My forehead brushes against hers.

Our breaths mingle.

Her hands slide up my back — slow, reverent — fingertips dragging like she is tracing a path back to me.

Her legs wrap around my hips with a quiet urgency, heels digging lightly into the small of my back. Not to pull me in.

To keep me close.

Like if she lets go, I might disappear again.

I move — slow, deep strokes, like rediscovery — and her body lifts to meet mine instinctively, a rhythm remembered not just in flesh but in grief and craving.

Her hands find my face mid-thrust, thumbs brushing the curve of my cheekbones. I let my eyes fall shut at the feel of her. The reverence of it. Like she is praying, and I am the altar.

When I open them again, she is staring at me — glassy-eyed, mouth parted, her teeth tugging at her lower lip. My gaze drops to it, and I kiss her there. Bitten and soft.

She moans into my mouth, and her back arches, pressing her breasts against my chest, her nipples pebbling from the friction. I could feel the way her heartbeat kicks — fast and desperate — against mine.

I lick the edge of her jaw, down to her throat, then lower — tasting sweat, salt, memory.

Her thighs tighten around my waist.

My thrusts deepen.

The bedsheets rustles beneath us in time with her soft gasps, and still — I need more.

I sit up slightly, just enough to watch her.

The way her hips roll to meet mine.

The way her breasts move with each thrust, skin hot and slick.

The way she clutches at the sheets, and then at me, when the rhythm grows rougher.

How her mouth opens like she might cry — or say my name again — but doesn’t.

There is no room for words.

Only this language.

Only the slick sound of our bodies moving, the soft slap of skin meeting skin, the rise and fall of us, over and over, like waves pulling a shipwreck closer to shore.

At one point, she pushes up, sits halfway, hands on my chest — her forehead resting against mine.

We move together like that — her on top without ever leaving my arms — her hips grinding slow and torturous as if she wants to be devoured.

Or remember how I used to.

My hands grip her waist, thumbs digging into her soft skin as I thrust up into her, and she lets out a quiet whimper — the kind that makes my whole body seize.

Her hands find my face, cupping it.

Our noses brush.

Our lips barely meet.

And still — the tension pulls tighter.

“Oh, I missed you,” she repeats — barely audible.

And for a second I don’t know if she means me, or herself.

I kiss her again — hard — and flip us, laying her back gently, burying myself inside her to the hilt.

She gasps.

I swallow it.

I keep moving — deeper, slower, rougher — as if I could anchor myself inside her. My hand grips her thigh, lifting it higher around me, opening her wider. I watch as she flutters around me, how her jaw trembles, her brows draw together in that soft crease I once used to kiss just to make her laugh.

Her hands run down my back again — nails catching skin — and I welcome the sting.

We are sweating now, both of us — breath ragged, muscles twitching, her body shaking each time I drive into her.

And then —

The flickers come.

Not just flashes — but visions.

And in between all of it — I see us.

Flickers.

Her laugh in the rain.

Tears in her eyes at our vows.

Her hand smoothing my tie.

Her arms around my neck when I entered her the very first time.

The hotel balcony. Her body. My need. Our joy.

It hits me so hard I still.

Buried deep.

And just… stay there.

Shaking.

Because she doean’t just feel good.

She feels like every moment I’d been trying to remember.

And she is still here.

Still mine.

Still home.

She pulls me down like a tide, and I drown.

My palm finds the familiar slope of her waist. That mark on her body. My mouth trails heat down her throat. Her gasp, her arch, the way her eyes flutter closed — like déjà vu wrapped in velvet.

Flash —

A white hotel room. Her in silk. My hands trembling, undoing vows with teeth.

“You’re mine now,” I’d whispered once. “Only mine.”

The memory is gone before I could hold it.

Her nails scrape down my back and I feel it — a pulse deep in my chest, raw, hungry. Not just arousal. Need. A need so rooted, so desperate, it almost hurt.

My body moves before my mind catches up.

The sounds she makes — they shatter me. Tiny, whimpering echoes of something I used to know. My name from her lips doesn’t feel like a name anymore. It feels like a command.

Another flash —

Her eyes under fairy lights. Wind in her hair. My thumb brushing her bottom lip before kissing her slow. Slow like worship. Slow like promise.

Her breath caught. Her thighs clenched around me. I held her tighter. Pressed deeper. My mouth found her shoulder, then her collarbone. She trembled. So did I.

I remember this.

Not in full.

Not in words.

But in flesh.

In how my body curves into hers like we ate made for this exact kind of silence. In how her fingers know to thread through my hair and tug — just there, just then.

Another flicker.

Her voice in the dark.

“I waited for you.”

My thrusts grow erratic. The heat coils tighter, higher. Her lips part in that way that used to ruin me. She is crying, maybe. Or breathing too hard. I don’t know anymore.

And I am not sure if I was trying to bring her pleasure, or pull her into my ruin.

All I knew was this:

I wanted to bury every lost second between us in her skin.

I wanted to forget the months we wasted.

I wanted to remember everything —

through her moans, her breath, her tears.

Through this.

My thrusts falter, chest heaving. She feels it. Feels me.

She cups my jaw, whispers something I couldn’t hear — or maybe didn’t need to — and I bury myself in her one final time, head falling to her shoulder, body quaking.

For a long moment, neither of us move.

Her chest rises beneath mine.

Our limbs tangle.

My name still echoes somewhere in the dark.

And when it hits me — when I come undone inside her, forehead pressed to her chest, her heartbeat thudding against my cheek — the flickers stop.

When she comes, her body clutches mine like an anchor, soft cries muffled into my shoulder.

When I slip out and lay beside her, pulling her into my arms — there is no space between us.

No need for words.

Just the scent of her hair pressed to my chest.

Just her fingers gently stroking my ribs.

Just the steady beat of her heart against mine.

She looks at me like I am everything she ever wants to remember.

And I kiss her like I am afraid of forgetting her again.

When I whisper her name, it cracks.

When she says mine, I almost break.

“I don’t ever want to lose this,” she says.

“You won’t,” I reply, and I mean it like a vow.

And something heavier settles.

A knowing.

A terrible, wonderful knowing.

That somehow, even without memory, I had chosen her.

Again.

And again.

And again.

The room was thick with the scent of her—jasmine and skin-warmed silk, the faint trace of vanilla from her shampoo tangles in the sheets, clinging to my fingers. My heartbeat hadn’t yet settled. The aftermath of loving her is quieter than I had expected, like a hush before a storm I hadn’t named yet.

She lays beside me, curled toward my chest, her breaths soft and slow. I watch the rise and fall of her body, my hand resting protectively on the curve of her spine. Her skin is warm beneath my touch, marked by me in places that only we would see.

I pull the sheets over us gently, brushing damp strands of hair away from her forehead. She stirrs slightly, sighing, and I kiss her temple without thinking. Something in my chest aches—not just from the depth of release, but from the softness of this. Of her. Of what she means. Or had meant. Or—God, I don’t even know anymore.

“Sleep,” I whisper. “I’ve got you.”

Her eyes blink open just enough to meet mine, glassy and dream-heavy. She nods the smallest bit, her hand trailing across my jaw before her lashes lower. Moments later, her breathing deepens. And she is gone.

I stay for a few seconds longer, then slide out from under the sheets quietly. Her warmth lingers on my skin, but the air feels colder now. I pad across the room, bare and quiet, grabbing a towel on my way into the bathroom.

The water is hot when it hits me. Scalding, almost. But I don’t flinch.

I lean both palms against the tiles, head bowed, breath coming unevenly.

And then—

It starts.

First, a flicker: My hands cupping her face the first time she told me she loved me.

Her voice breaking on the words, like she wasn’t sure she had the right to say them.

The way I’d kissed her—long, deep, reverent—because I had no idea how to say it back.

Then—her face lighting up as she burst through the locker room, waving a stupid “GO KYLIAN” banner she’d made herself.

Wedding night.

The night we argued in the kitchen, rain pouring outside, and I’d kissed her mid-sentence just to make her stop yelling. She kissed me back harder.

I stand under the water, gasping.

It doesn’t hurt. Not like it did earlier. It just... swells.

I gasp, teeth gritting as I try to breathe. But the weight of it all—what I had, what I’d lost, what I somehow have again—is too much. Too fast. Too loud inside me.

I could barely stand up. My hand flatten against my chest like it would somehow slow the rhythm thundering inside. The images don’t stop.

Her in white. My fingers trembling as I undo the buttons on her dress. Her eyes—God, her eyes.

And now they were here, again. Now. Mine again.

Putain.

My voice cracks around the word.

I wipe the water from my face, but it wouldn’t stop. Not the heat in my eyes. Not the ache in my throat. Not the tenderness.

I turn the water off, hands still trembling slightly as I reach for the towel. I pause at the door, breath hitching.

The door creaks as I open it slowly. Light from the hallway spills into the bedroom. She is still there. Asleep, soft and quiet, her chest rising beneath the sheet, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the sheet curles just above her thigh. Hair messy, lips parted. At peace.

And for the first time in weeks—

So am I.

I walk to her quietly, sit on the edge of the bed, and just look.

She stirrs, barely, her body shifting toward mine like instinct. And something cracks open in me.

Even when I didn’t remember her… I had chosen her.

And now, remembering— I am falling in love with her all over again.

Twice. Maybe deeper this time.

I brush her hair back with a gentle hand and kiss her cheek, whispering the words that come like breath.

„You were my everything... and somehow, you keep becoming my everything, over and over again.”

And this time, I let myself believe it.

Let myself want it.

Let myself rest.

And just like that… my lungs fill again.

Somehow, in the haze of heartache and rebuilding, things have started to feel… right again.

Not like before — not exactly. This is something new. Familiar, yes. But deeper. Softer in some places. Rougher in others. It's like he’s returned to you in pieces, but the version standing beside you now feels even more whole.

He’s present in ways he never used to be. Not just physically. His eyes find you across the room and linger. His hand reaches for yours while you’re walking, instinctively. He kisses you like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth all over again. And at night… there’s no hesitation.

There are kisses pressed to your collarbone as you fall asleep. Fingers threading into your hair just to hold you closer. There’s a hunger in him — not frantic or greedy, but certain. Like he’s no longer searching for something, but reclaiming it.

You’ve made love more times than you can count in the past few days. And each time, he touches you like he’s discovering a new kind of reverence. Like he’s whispering I’m still yours with every breathless moan against your skin.

And maybe he is.

Sometimes you catch him looking at you like you’re a miracle. Like you’re the one who made the darkness a little less unbearable. He doesn’t say much. Not about what he remembers, not about what it means — but his hands speak volumes. So do the quiet sighs when you kiss his chest. The way he buries his face into your neck and just breathes you in.

The weight that used to sit between you is lighter, almost gone. He laughs more easily. Touches you without hesitation. Kisses you like he’s been starving for years. Sometimes you catch him looking at me like you’re his favorite memory returning home after too long.

He doesn’t talk too much about the past, but you can feel it — pieces slotting back into him. There’s something softer in his gaze, something more sure in his hands. He’s remembering. Slowly. Quietly. Not in floods, but flickers. And every time, he chooses you again.

It’s in the way he breathes around you now. Like you ground him. Like this is where his pulse steadies.

You cook again, sometimes in silence. You shower together. You kiss for no reason at all. He teases hout about how you overwater the plants. You scold him for always leaving the light on in the hallway. It’s ridiculous and mundane and everything you missed.

He still trains like his life depends on it. But when he comes home, his arms always find you. His mouth always remembers yours.

And maybe you don’t talk about everything — not yet. But his hands, his eyes, his presence… they tell you he’s still yours. And maybe even more than before.

He’s still Kylian. But softer. Sharper. Maybe even more yours.

The weights clanged into place, the cold steel biting into my palms as I push through another set. The gym smells of chalk, iron, and effort — the kind of sterile focus I usually crave. Not today though.

My body moves like clockwork, but my mind... Isn’t here.

“Kyks,” Jude nudges as he passes, towel slings over his neck, “you’re scarily upbeat today.”

I don’t answer. Just grab the bar and begin another round of squats.

“You’ve been glowing,” Brahim adds from the stretching zone, a smirk in his voice. “La vie conjugale treating you too well?”

That earns a few laughs. Someone whistles low.

I exhale through my nose and crack a dry smile. “Just trying to earn my contract,” I mutter, deflecting. My voice is light. My grip tightens.

Because the truth is too thick in my throat to joke about.

Every rep, every stretch of strain across my legs, is an attempt to shake the weight that has nothing to do with training. I haven’t told her yet. Not the thing that matters.

I love her.

Again.

Still.

All over.

It’s been nearly two weeks since that night — the soft click of the balcony door behind her, the way she cried like she’d been holding her breath for months, the way I kissed her like it was the last thing I had left.

And the memories — they hadn’t returned in a grand flood. No. They came in pieces. Like tiny cuts I didn’t notice until they stung. Her hand in mine at a café. The way she surprised me outside a match once — eyes sparkling, wearing my jersey like it was stitched into her skin.

But even without all of them, my body had chosen her long before my mind caught up. That’s what haunted me. That I could fall in love with her twice.

No. That I did.

Tonight, I need to tell her.

Because she deserves to know that my love for her isn't borrowed from memory. It’s born again. Fiercer. Deeper. With the full weight of knowing what it means to lose her.

And maybe I’m scared.

Because saying it makes it real.

Because what if she hesitates? What if she doesn’t believe it?

But I’ve waited long enough.

I finish the set, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with exertion. My legs tremble slightly as I rack the bar. I wipe my face with the hem of my training tee, glancing at the mirror.

My reflection stares back — a man not trying to win back time, but something far rarer.

Her trust. Her heart. Again.

Tonight, I tell myself. No more waiting.

I stretch, muscles humming from exertion, the cool metal of the bench pressing into my spine. Then my phone buzzes on the towel beside me.

I grin. Hoping it’s her.

One glance at the screen and my lungs pause.

Unknown Number. Paris.

My chest tightens — not out of paranoia, just a sudden awareness. I grab the phone, wipe my hand, and answer.

“Allô?”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Mbappé. This is Me. Laurent, your legal counsel. Apologies for the unexpected call — I tried your assistant first.”

My brows furrow. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, nothing urgent… just that we’ve sent over the annulment paperwork you requested a few months ago. I understand your situation has evolved, but for protocol, we still had to forward it. The contract terms have been reviewed and—”

“The what? What??” I shake my head. Maybe I am not hearing this right.

“I apologize for the disturbance. I will keep this brief. A physical copy was delivered this morning to your primary residence.”

The word struck like a knife to the ribs. I blink.

“Wh—?”

“I imagine this is now irrelevant, but it was a standing request on file,” he continues, unbothered. “If you’d like us to void it, I’ll need you to sign a formal withdrawal—”

I end the call before he finishes.

Words hitting my brain in waves of shock.

Annulment.

Delivered this morning.

My mouth goes dry. My pulse roars in my ears like stadium lights switching on at once. I don’t even say goodbye to the guys. Just throw on a hoodie, shove my things into my duffel bag, and walk out like something is chasing me.

Because something is.

Her.

Us.

That damn letter.

The gym noise fades into a low static.

“The annulment terms have been sent to your residence, as requested.”

Requested.

I stare at my screen. The word echoes, distorts.

Requested??

I never—

No. No, no, no.

No, I didn’t.

…I think.

My legs are moving before I can stop them. Someone calls out behind me, maybe Jude or Joselu — something about plans, dinner, I don’t know — but I toss a rushed “Later” over my shoulder and keep walking.

Out of the gym. Into the car. Fingers trembling as I fumble my phone. My pulse is loud in my ears, like a war drum against the inside of my skull.

As requested.

The words blur together.

She doesn’t know.

She couldn’t have known.

There’s no way in hell she—

But what if she does?

I call her. It rings. But she doesn’t pick up. My palms sweat. Every red light feels like a slap. My thoughts are stuttering, looping, not making any goddamn sense.

And then — halfway home — it hits.

Not a full memory, not all at once. Just a sudden, savage punch of emotion.

I see myself.

In my residence. Some dull Tuesday. Months ago.

He sat at the edge of the armchair. My lawyer. Hands folded. Voice low.

He kept glancing at the bandage on my head. The ice on my shoulder.. A laptop open.

And me — cold, stone-faced, detached — whispering through gritted teeth:

“If I don’t remember her, there’s no point in staying married. Just… just handle it.”

The image vanishes as fast as it came, but my chest seizes. I lean forward, my forehead hitting the cold leather seat from the back of the front seat, my hand presses into my ribs like I can somehow squeeze the breath back in.

I asked for it.

It was me.

Before I remembered her laughter. Her touch. The way she breathes my name at night like a prayer she’s been reciting for lifetimes.

I asked for the end.

Because I forgot how the beginning felt.

The door creaks open before I even realize the car stopped.

The house is too quiet.

And then I see it — the envelope. On the floor. Torn open. The contract inside, its pages limp and cold, scattered where it fell.

She read it.

My heart thunders.

I barely notice I’ve dropped my keys.

I just stand there. Staring at the wreckage I set in motion.

My own ghost, unraveling.

He’d nodded. Said he’d draft it. No rush, just options.

I never followed up.

Didn’t think I had to.

Now the letter was real.

And so was the damage.

What have I done?

Oh, what have I done?

A/N: We are so sorryyyyy

[masn-mount]

Summer snaps ☀️ - with Kylian Mbappé

[masn-mount]

Secrets.06

“You Called?”

He is in another country for a match

Content : +18 content ahead and…idk JUST PURE LOVE? + kylian being under stress.

This series offers a closer, more honest look at Kylian Mbappé. By exploring his habits, routines, and subtle reactions IF HE WERE YOURS, it aims to reflect the real Kylian as accurately as possible: always human.

Inside Kylian’s Head :

I don’t know why I called her.

Well… that’s a lie.

I called her because tonight feels heavier than usual. Because the silence in this damn hotel room is louder than the press, louder than the fans, louder than even my own thoughts. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

She’s in another country. Probably asleep, busy, tired. Its past midnight in her time zone,

But I press her name anyway.

My Y/N ♡ Ringing..

It rings once.

Twice.

Three times.

I almost hang up.

Then—

“Ky?”

Her voice.Soft. Sleepy. Mine.

“…Did I wake you?” I ask, knowing full well I did.

“Of course you did,” she mumbles, but there’s no edge in her tone. Just concern. Warmth. “But I don’t care. What’s going on?”

My chest tightens. My hands are already shaking, and I haven’t said anything yet.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I whisper. “I feel like I’m… slipping. Like something inside me is unraveling and I don’t know how to stop it.”

She’s quiet, listening. I picture her, hair messy, eyes half-closed, phone pressed to her cheek. And I hate how far she is. How much I need her right now.

“Training was a disaster. I couldn’t focus. I snapped at Bellingham . Coach lost it on me. Then I had to walk past a wall of cameras just to get into my own building, and they—” I pause. Swallow the bitter taste. “They said I’ve changed. That I’m arrogant. Me being in real madrid is a mistake and useless.”

I let out a dry laugh. “And maybe they’re right.”

She still doesn’t say anything. Just breathing. Letting me fall apart without judgment. Always knowing how much I don’t need advice, I just need someone to listen, she’s always been my perfect listener.

“I don’t feel like me anymore, Y/N. Not the version of me you used to love. Not the one who used to make you laugh over burnt pancakes and kiss your forehead like it was holy.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, press my hand to my chest.

“Do you still love me?” I don’t mean to ask. But I do.

“Because sometimes I wonder if I’m still the man you chose. Or if I already lost him somewhere along the way.”

I bite down on my lip. Hard.

“Would you still love me if I wasn’t Kylian Mbappé?”

Then her voice, like an anchor, finally interrupting my overthinking.

“I never loved Kylian Mbappé. I loved you. You Kylian.”

“ The one who talks too fast when he’s nervous. The one who apologizes too much, even when he doesn’t need to, because he never wants to be the reason someone else hurts. The one who can’t hide his pride. The one who always gives all of him in everything. The one who loves stupid cliché memes. The one who sends me reels & tiktoks even when he is out with his friends. The one who texts me every tiny detail of his day, even when he knows I’m too busy to reply, just so I don’t miss a moment of him. The one who calls me at midnight even though he’s scared he’s being a burden.” She chuckles at the end , making me smile through my chest ache and then continued.

“I still love you. Not less. Not from far. Not because you’re perfect. But because you’re real. You are human Ky, you can’t be perfect and you don’t have to be. You’re my love, my best friend, my man.”

My chest caves. I press the phone tighter to my ear like I can hold her through it.

“…Can you stay on the line?” I whisper. “Just… until I fall asleep. I don’t wanna feel alone tonight.”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course amour.”

And somehow… even from here, I finally breathe.

I wake up to sunlight pouring through the windows, sharp and almost offensive.

My phone’s still in my hand.

It takes me a second to remember, the call. Y/N. Her voice in the dark.

I check the screen. Battery almost dead. The call ended hours ago. I don’t even remember falling asleep, but I must’ve drifted off with her still on the line. I hold the phone for a second longer than I need to. Like maybe I’ll hear her again if I just listen hard enough.

God, I miss her.

I rub my eyes, drag myself to the kitchen, make a half-assed cup of coffee I don’t really want. The apartment’s still too quiet. The weight on my chest is lighter than last night , but not gone.

Then my phone buzzes.

Voice message from My Y/N ♡.

Sent 7 minutes ago.

I press play.

Her voice fills the room. Soft. Calm. But there’s something else there, something I can’t place yet.

“Hey, mon cœur… You looked so tired last night. I could hear it in every word. I wish I could’ve held you for real. I hated being so far. I hated not being able to do more than just… stay on the line.”

She pauses.

“You don’t have to be perfect for me to love you, Ky. You never did. You’re allowed to feel heavy. I just want to be the one who helps you carry it.”

Another breath. Then, softer:

“Anyway… don’t get used to waking up alone. Not for long.”

I blink. Wait—

Don’t get used to waking up alone?.

I’m still processing it when there’s a knock at the door.

I freeze.

No one ever knocks this early. My mind runs wild, press? Delivery?

Another knock. Then—

“Ky? Open up.”

Her voice.

Real.

Her voice. At my hotel door.

I swear I stopped breathing.

I run, actually run ,across the hotel suite, nearly trip over the damn rug. I fumble with the lock, fling the door open—

And there she is.

Hair in a loose ponytail. A hoodie way too big for her, mine. A suitcase at her side and eyes already glassy, like she’s been crying too.

I just stare.

She gives me the tiniest smile. “Surprise.”

I don’t even answer. I just pull her into me. Hard. Like if I let go, the world will start falling apart again.

She wraps her arms around my waist and presses her face into my chest.

I bury my nose into her hair and whisper against her skin:

“You came.”

She nods against me.

“I couldn’t stay away. Not when you needed me.Not when you called like this yesterday”

I close my eyes.

For the first time in days, maybe weeks…

I breathe easy.

She’s lying in my bed like she’s always belonged, hair messy, eyes soft, hoodie too big for her body, and somehow, still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.

I’m semi above her, fingertips brushing across her cheek, her jaw, her lashes. I’m trying to memorize her again, like I haven’t seen her in years, not just weeks.

She looks up at me, gently. “You okay?”

No. I’m not. I’m not okay. I love her too much.

“You dropped everything,” I murmur. “For me.”

“I wanted to,” she says, running her fingers through my barely grown curls.

“But your job. Your meetings. The conference. The people counting on you—”

Her hand moves to my cheeks. “You’re the one I choose, Ky. Always.”

I can’t hold it in anymore.

I start kissing her face. Her cheeks. Her nose. Her eyelids. Her chin. Her forehead. Again and again. One after the other, slow, desperate, like if I stop, I might fall apart again. Hearing her giggles heals me.

“I didn’t know how bad I was getting until I heard your voice last night,” I whisper against her skin. “You made everything quiet. You’re the only thing that ever does.”

Then I see it.

Her hand, resting on my chest now.

The glint of the ring on her finger.

My ring.

The one I gave her when I promised forever and proposed.

And something inside me just… breaks wide open.

I reach down, gently take her hand in mine. My thumb brushes over the ring , and I swear I feel the earth tilt.

I look at her.

Really look.

Eyes wide. Lips parted. That face I want to wake up to for the rest of my life. I don’t want her to be my fiancée anymore.

“We need to get married,” I say, my voice low and shaking. “This month.”

She blinks. “What?”

“I can’t wait anymore, Y/N. I know we said next year, or after the season, when things calm down. But I don’t want to wait. I’m done pretending time will make me readier. This—you—you’re all I’m sure of.”

I press her hand to my chest, right over my heart.

“Every time I’m away from you, I feel like I’m bleeding out slow. And every time you leave, I start counting the minutes until you come back.”

I kiss the ring, gently. “So let’s stop pretending we need more time.”

Her eyes start to fill. “Kylian…”

“Marry me. This month. I want to say ‘wife’ instead of “fiancée” when I talk about you. I want to come home to you. I want to have family with you. I want you to grow my kids. I want to love you till my last breath ”

I lean down, my forehead pressed to hers.

“I can’t take another night without you beside me.”

She smiles, that kind of smile that feels like sunrise. Her thumb brushes my cheek, and she nods, her voice barely a whisper.

“Okay.”

“This month.”

I kiss her then. Fully. Deeply. Slowly.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel lost anymore.

Her “okay” still lingers in the space between us, but the second our lips meet again, it dissolves into something deeper , something raw, aching, and infinite.

Our mouths move slowly at first. Like we’re relearning each other’s rhythm. But the tension’s been simmering too long ,days, weeks, maybe even months ,and it spills out of us in desperate kisses, in breathless gasps between words we don’t say.

Her legs are wrapped tight around my waist, pulling me in. Her body fits against mine like it was made for this , like there’s no version of me that ever existed without her. I push the hoodie off her shoulders, kiss every new inch of skin I uncover. Her collarbone. The curve of her shoulder. The soft underside of her jaw. She’s warm and alive and trembling beneath me.

“Kylian…” she breathes, my name already sounding like a plea.

My hands roam her body, slow, reverent ,like I’m committing every contour to memory. I palm her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple, and she arches into my touch like she’s starving for it. I take it into my mouth, sucking gently until she moans, until her fingers tangle in my curls and pull. I can feel the heat radiating from her core, even through the thin fabric of her panties.

“I missed this,” I murmur, voice husky. “Missed you.”

She bites her lip, watching me with glassy eyes as I trail kisses lower,over her stomach, down the line of her hips. I press my lips to the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate, feeling her legs tremble on either side of me.

“Don’t tease,” she whispers, breathless.

I hook my fingers around her panties and slide them down, watching the damp fabric cling before it lets go. She’s already soaked. The sight alone makes my cock twitch painfully. I lower my mouth to her center, my hands gripping her thighs as I finally taste her.

She gasps,sharp, broken,as my tongue slides through her folds, slow and deep. I circle her clit, sucking gently, then harder when her hips buck into me.

“Kylian—oh God—don’t stop—”

I won’t. I can’t. I eat her like it’s the only thing I know how to do, like the answer to every one of my questions lives between her legs. She rides my tongue with growing desperation, hips rocking in time with my rhythm, fingers buried in my hair as she falls apart.

I slide two fingers into her, curling just right. She cries out, thighs shaking around my head, her whole body clenching as her orgasm crashes over her. I feel her pulse against my tongue, her back arching off the mattress as she gasps my name again and again.

When she finally collapses, breathing hard, I kiss the inside of her thigh one more time before crawling back up her body.

“You’re shaking,” I whisper, brushing hair from her face.

“You wrecked me,” she says giggling , smiling through the aftershocks. “You always wreck me.”

She reaches down then, when i was slipping my pants off, wrapping her hand around my cock, slow strokes, firm and certain. I groaned low in my throat, the sound guttural, almost animal.

“I want you,” she says. “Please.”

I line myself up, she didn’t even need to say anything, I would have gone insane if I didn’t have her right god damn now, the tip of me brushing her entrance. I meet her eyes, searching for hesitation. There’s none. Only need.

“Look at me,” I whisper as I slide in.

We both moan ,low and deep, as I fill her, inch by inch, until I’m buried to the hilt. She’s so tight, so warm, gripping me like she never wants to let me go.

I still for a moment, forehead pressed to hers, trying not to lose it too fast. Her legs wrap around me again, heels digging into my back.

“Move,” she pleads. “Please.”

So I do.

I start slow. Deep, grinding thrusts that make her breath hitch, that make her cling to me like she’s drowning and I’m the only thing keeping her afloat. Her nails rake down my back. My mouth finds her neck, her shoulder, her lips.

We lose ourselves in the rhythm, in the slap of skin against skin, in the slick heat of her wrapped around me, in the way our bodies find each other again like they never truly parted. Every thrust feels like a promise. Every gasp a vow.

She comes again with a sharp cry, her body clenching hard around me, pulling me deeper. I’m barely hanging on, teeth gritted, sweat beading at my brow as I push through the wave.

“Fuck— Y/N —I’m gonna—”

She grabs my face, eyes wild and full of something deeper than lust. “Come inside me. I want all of you.”

That’s all it takes. My hips stutter. My jaw locks. I groan her name like a prayer as I spill inside her, deep and hot, our bodies trembling together. It feels endless ,like I’ve emptied every part of me into her and still crave more.

We stay tangled like that for a long time — sweaty, breathless, undone. I kiss her shoulder, her temple, the damp skin behind her ear. She smiles against my mouth, soft and lazy.

“I love you,” I murmur, still buried deep inside her.

She kisses me again. “Always.”

And just like that… the world outside fades.

[masn-mount]

gentle reminder: you are loved and appreciated by so many people

[masn-mount]

Always. Mine ~ KM10

Genre ~ smut(18+) / angsty

Summary ~ when you’re on your way to a friends party but kylian thinks you look too good, so you end up staying home to get rid of his attitude.

Warning ~ jealousy, overprotective kylian, subby kylian, little argument, slight ownership talk.

A/N ~ finally posting it

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I had reminded Kylian this morning that I was going out tonight for my friend’s birthday.

I was sitting at my vanity, doing the last touches to my makeup. Kylian walked in, looking me up and down. Eyeing my dress a little.

“You look pretty my love.” He complements me. “Don’t you think that dress is a bit much for a little celebration?”

I give him a look. “No, Bella said it was a nice bar. Wanted to look nice.”

“A bar?” Kylian questioned.

“Yes a bar Kylian.” I roll my eyes and walk past him to the kitchen to get my purse and phone.

He was quick to follow you. “You didn’t mention it was a bar.”

I let out a huff of air. “Didn’t think I had to.”

“Why are you acting like that?” He asked getting a little frustrated. “You’re going to a bar dressed like that, without me…guys are gonna hit on you.”

“And? Kylian I’ll blow them off.” I said, double checking my purse. “Are you saying I can’t look good without you?” I look at him, hand on my hip.

“Well…no.” He mutters.

“Are you jealous Kylian? Going to play the overprotective boyfriend because I’m going out like this without you?” I press him.

Kylian starts to get angry, I can see it in his eyes. “Come on admit it, you’re jealous.”

“Fine! I am! Happy?” He snapped a little. “Go to your stupid party then.”

I roll my eyes. “God, you’re so childish.”

“I’m not! I just don’t want you going to a bar dressed like that with drunk guys?!” He yells. “I’m done with this bullshit, go to your party and have fun.” Kylian walked off to the bedroom.

I bite my lip. I do not like his little attitude he’s got going on.

I take my phone shooting a quick text to Bella. ‘Hey girl, sorry but something has come up and I can’t make it. Have a great night tonight, tell the girls I say hi and love them. We’ll hang out soon I promise💗💗.’

I set my phone on the kitchen counter, walking to the bedroom.

I pushed the door open forcefully. Kylian sitting on the bed, sulking.

“I don’t like your attitude mister.” I stand in front of him.

“Thought you left?” He grumbles.

“Told Bella something came up.” I said crossing my arms. “I gotta take care of your pissy attitude, now lay back.”

Something switched in Kylian when I gave him that order. He nodded and laid back on the bed.

I then climb onto his lap, straddling him. “You wanna have a bad attitude, I’ll fix it for you then.” I said as I pull off his shirt.

Kylian tries to grab my hips. I grab his hands and pin them above his head.

“Not unless I say.”

His eyes darkened, jaw slack. “Okay.”

I kissed him, slow and soft at first, until he opened under me—hungry, desperate, giving in.

When I pulled away, his lips were swollen, pupils blown wide. “Please,” he whispered.

I dragged my nails down his chest, watching the muscles twitch under my touch. “You don’t get to beg yet.”

I then get off him and sit next to him.

I reached down, tugging at his waistband. “Take these off.”

He did as he was told, kicking his pants off onto the floor. His boxers strained with how hard he already was.

I trailed my fingers over him through the fabric, light and teasing.

He gasped, head falling back.

“Sensitive already?” I teased.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Always with you.”

I leaned forward, mylips brushing against his ear. “Good. Then don’t hold back.”

I slipped my hand inside, wrapping my fingers around him, slow strokes making his thighs tense.

His breath stuttered. “God…”

“You want more?”

He nodded frantically.

I take my hand away, slowly pealing my dress off. Revealing my matching lace set.

I then straddled him again. “You wanna touch me don’t you?” I tease, running a finger down his chest.

Kylian nodded eagerly.

“You like being good for me?”

“Yes. Always.”

I smirk, moving down, until I was laid between his legs.

He watched me with hooded eyes as I pulled his boxers off, freeing him. He was already leaking, hard and flushed and so desperate it made me ache.

“Please,” he whispered.

I gave him what he wanted. Slowly. Torturously. My tongue flicked along his length, my hand stroking what my mouth didn’t reach. He cried out, his hips twitching, but I pinned him down with a hand to his stomach.

“You stay still,” I said. “Let me take care of you.”

He moaned, loud and broken. “Yes, yes—please, don’t stop—”

I didn’t. Ikept him right on the edge, backing off every time his hips bucked too hard or his moans got too loud. I kissed up his stomach, lips grazing his chest, then moved back to his mouth and kissed him deep.

He was barely holding it together.

You leaned in, whispering, “Do you want to come, baby?”

He nodded against your lips. “So bad. Please let me.”

“You want to come for me? Just for me?”

“Yes. Please. I’ll be good. I’ll be so good—”

I take my bra and panties off. I moved over him, guiding him inside me with one slow, delicious slide. His head slammed back into the pillow, a choked gasp falling from his lips.

“Oh my God—”

I rode him slow at first, hands planted on his chest. His eyes rolled back, fingers clawing at the sheets, trying to resist the urge to move, to thrust up into me. He didn’t. He let me have him. All of him.

“Look at you,” I whispered. “Completely mine.”

“Yes—yours,” he cried.

I picked up the pace, hips rolling, the sound of skin against skin echoing in the room. His moans got louder, breath more frantic.

“Say it,” I ordered. “Say who owns you.”

“You,” he gasped. “You do. I’m yours.”

And when he came, it was with a cry that echoed off the walls, back arching, hands gripping the sheets so hard his knuckles turned white.

I followed soon after, collapsing onto him, breath tangled with his.

We both took a few minutes before I slowly took myself off him. Going to the connected bathroom, cleaning myself up and then going back out there to clean him up.

Helping him get changed into boxers and sweatpants. I just wore panties and one of his shirts.

Now comfortable in bed and cuddling.

I kissed the curve of his jaw, smiling softly. “Feel better?”

He gave a breathless laugh. “You have no idea.”

I nuzzled into him. “So dramatic, baby.”

“I know.” He kissed my forehead. “I’m sorry I freaked out.”

“I get it,” I whispered. “But next time, just tell me what’s bothering you. Don’t go acting like you can control me.”

“I don’t want to control you,” he murmured. “I just… never want to lose you.”

I lifted my head to look at him. “You won’t. Ever.”

A pause.

Then I smirked. “Besides… the party wasn’t even at a bar.”

His brow furrowed. “What?”

“It was at a restaurant.. that had a bar.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” I grinned. “Just wanted to see what you’d do.”

Kylian groaned, dragging a pillow over his face. “You are evil.”

“You love it.”

His voice came muffled. “Unfortunately.”

I giggled, pressing a kiss to his chest.

“Still jealous?” I whispered.

He peeked out from under the pillow. “Always.”

And honestly, I didn’t mind that one bit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N ~ thank you to @kymb-10 for the help in making this idea for me. Also first time doing angst and idk how I feel about it…

[masn-mount]

‘Slow Burn’

Summary: Hidden in Provence, surrounded by fields of lavender and the golden haze of early summer, you leave behind Paris to take a job as a private chef at a secluded chateau, craving nothing more than the quiet comfort of your craft working for a non disclosed athlete. But when the door opens, it’s not just any athlete...it’s Kylian, his presence as magnetic as the heat rolling off the stove. You tell yourself to stay composed, to keep your heart steady, but feelings bubble over like water left too long to boil. He’s nothing like you expected, beneath the charm and fame are delicate layers, soft and surprising, much like the croissants you make him each morning. And as storms sweep across the countryside, trapping you in the warm glow of him, you realize some fires aren’t meant to be controlled, they’re meant to consume you. [Kylian Mbappé x Reader]

Index:

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you for reading! Be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series, s'il te plaît !!

Chapitre 1- 'The Storm' | 'Slow Burn'

word count - 15k

[Kyky2Bondy -Hamza] (sorry I couldn't not)

Paris was already sweating, even in late May. The windows of Kylian’s penthouse were cracked to let in what little breeze the Seine offered. It didn’t help. Heat clung to his skin like the season had shown up early and uninvited, settling in his bones. A bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck as he leaned back on the sofa, head tipped toward the ceiling, his black tank clinging to his chest. He didn’t move when his manager, Antoine, entered.

“Kyky,” Antoine said, stepping around his coffee table with the faintest edge of hesitation. “Before you leave for Provence.”

“Is it necessary?” Kylian didn’t open his eyes. Exhausted by whatever was about to be asked of him.  

“Standard. We need the staff at the chateau’s contracts to be signed ahead of time. Last one. House chef.” He cracked an eye open.

“So euh new chef?” He asked but his voice was flat, disinterested. The idea of someone fluttering around his kitchen while he tried to forget the world didn’t interest him. 

“Mmh, ouais… Staff’s trimmed down this year. You said you wanted quiet,” his manager assured. 

“Yeah. But just one chef?” Kylian sat up a little. 

“No teams this summer. We’ve hired someone different. Private, solo, she handles everything herself.” That got a glance. She. 

“One person for the house?” He said, eyes narrowing but not long before they dropped, picking up his phone. Antoine gave a small shrug. 

“One person for you.” He corrected Kylian with a smug smile. “She’s not flashy, but the kind that turns heads without trying. Clients ask for her by name. That should tell you something.” Kylian raised a brow, half-scrolling. 

“She a name I’d know?” He asked.

“Non. And that’s the point. Keeps a low profile. Knows how to handle discretion.” That got a little nod. Kylian looked away again. Antoine continued, “Plates like a dream. Eats like something you didn’t know you missed.” Something about that line made Kylian blink, just once. His thumb paused on the screen. “There’s a warmth to her,” Julien added. “Guests relax around her. Even the difficult ones.” His tone softened. “There’s something grounded about her, like she remembers why people fall in love with food.”

“Bon,” Kylian murmured, voice a little dry. “You applying for her PR?” He quipped. Antoine smirked. 

“Just saying. Don’t underestimate her.” But Kylian was already tossing his phone onto the sofa cushion beside him, rubbing a hand across his jaw. A chef was a chef. He wasn’t planning to make conversation over soufflé. He hummed noncommittally, stretching his legs out. “Just sign it, Kyky.” Kylian sat up a little more with a sigh, reaching for the folder that had been tucked under Antoine's arm. The pages slid apart easily, a soft shuffle against his thigh. The document was plain. Legal language, standard phrasing. But then…His gaze caught on a name. Your name. He stared a second longer than necessary. Not because it meant anything. But because he was tired. Burnt out. Frayed at the edges from a season that asked too much of him, left him wanting things he didn’t know how to name. He thought about sun, about silence, about disappearing into olive trees and late mornings with no cameras. He thought about peace. He didn’t think about you. Not yet. He dragged the pen across the dotted line, quick, careless. That signature, fluid, familiar, sealed the page. His initials scrawled in the corners like muscle memory. He pushed the folder back into his manager’s hands and stood.

“Let me know if my toast burns.” He didn’t mean it as anything. A smirk barely touched his lips. But that signature? That idle swipe of ink on paper? It would be the last thing he did indifferently. Because in less than a week, that name he didn’t pause on would be the one he whispered into the hollow of a kitchen at midnight. The one that undid him. The one that would make him forget who he was before you, unraveling him bite by bite. And he wouldn’t even see it coming.

—

The duffle sat open on your bed, half-packed, the contents carefully chosen; your Chanel flats, worn in just enough to be comfortable but still pristine; a stack of white T-shirts, soft from years of washing; duplicates of favorite Kaité jeans, the ones that fit just right. You tucked in your grandmother’s knit sweaters, thick and familiar, carrying the scent of home. Next came your tools; your Wüsthof knives, wrapped meticulously, each blade an extension of your hands. Then, the notebook, its pages filled with your mother’s handwriting, recipes, advice, little reminders in the margins. You ran your fingers over the ink before folding it carefully into the bag. The initial email had been brief. A private client, a trial run, two weeks in a town in Provence. If it went well, there’d be more; travel, exclusivity, a generous salary. The only catch? You had no idea who you’d be cooking for. His, the pronoun used in the email for the client, management had reached out, the contract was airtight, and the non-disclosure agreement left no room for questions. But you didn’t hesitate. This was the kind of opportunity that didn’t come twice. Cooking for France’s elite meant doors opening, connections being made. It meant, eventually, potentially a path towards your end goal, your own restaurant, your name on the door, a place people whispered about in hushed, reverent tones. So, you packed, leaving behind the city’s chaos. 

–

The ‘client’ had offered to fly you there. A private plane. No hassle, no waiting in long lines at Charles de Gaulle, just a quiet departure from Le Bourget. It was an offer you couldn’t refuse. But they also didn’t give you a chance to. The need for control already bleeding through emails. The flight was seamless. An hour and a half in the air, barely enough time to process what you were stepping into. The landscape shifted below, Paris disappearing, the sprawl of the countryside taking over, golden fields and winding roads weaving toward something unknown. Then, the car. The drive felt long but hypnotic, the road curling through rolling hills, past vineyards and sleepy villages where shutters were drawn against the afternoon sun. And then, finally, the château. For a moment, your body completely stilled. You had no idea what you were walking into, well you did, a job. But it felt different this time. Something was different here. Either way you knew, this was exactly where you were meant to be for work… or for play.

—

[Pas d’ici -Ehla]

The estate had appeared like a mirage, hidden, surrounded by cypress that swayed in the golden afternoon light. Stone walls, sun-warmed and ivy-covered, stretched along the hillside. Beyond them, rows of lavender spread out toward the horizon. The cicadas hummed in a ceaseless symphony as you wound your way up the gravel road, the scent of lavender thick in the late afternoon heat. The sleek Bentley Continental you weren’t expecting to be in, crunched to a stop before a sprawling estate tucked into the hills of Les Pinchinats. The château wasn’t ostentatious, no gaudy excess, but it was wealth grouted together, effortless in its quiet luxury. Big stone walls softened by time. Beyond the gates, the groves stood in patient patterns, and somewhere in the distance, you could hear the faint trickle of a water. You climbed out, nerves tight in your stomach, adjusting your top. You still didn’t know who had hired you. Only that a private client, wealthy, well-connected, and notoriously private, had hired a personal chef. He always did. And every time, discretion was essential. No questions, no names. But god were you curious now because this, the place you’d be for the next two weeks, was secluded.

— 

A woman was waiting as you pulled up, sleek, professional, impatient. She didn’t introduce herself. Her presence was both harsh and gentle, the perfect embodiment of someone very, very Parisian, who was further away from their city than they’d like. She didn’t offer a warm greeting, but there was no rudeness in it either, just efficiency, a quiet authority that told you she had worked here for years and knew exactly how things should be done. You followed her into the château. A man appeared and took your bags without a word and you didn’t have time to say one in return. It was like a perfectly run machine. Clinical. The air inside was cool, quiet, the kind of silence that settles into grand homes, heavy with history, remodeled by fame. Outside, gardeners moved through the hedges with quiet precision, a man skimmed the surface of the pool with practiced ease, and as you walked past the grand staircase, a housekeeper carrying fresh linens offered you the softest smile before disappearing upstairs. The woman led you straight to the kitchen. It was massive, a breathtaking mix of old and new, thick limestone walls, worn from time, but balanced by state-of-the-art appliances, sleek and untouched. A cast-iron range, an expansive marble island, shelves stocked with copper pots that gleamed under the light. It was a dream. She walked you through everything quickly, where the dry goods were kept, how to access the wine cellar, where you’d find the fresh produce from the garden. Then, she turned to you, arms crossed.

“You’ll have the kitchen and a guest room. You’ll prepare all his meals. He eats on his own schedule. He doesn’t like repetition.” Her tone was clipped, efficient. “He’ll let you know if he needs anything else.” You opened my mouth, but she was already moving to the next thing. “He will arrive tonight…most likely.” Her voice was smooth, but firm even in vagueness. “You have time to settle, but prepare for breakfast tomorrow.” A pause. “Euh… don’t be caught off guard if you’re asked to make something well into the evening. Il boit deux verres et direct il démonte le frigo.” [Two drinks in and he’s tearing the fridge apart.]  You nodded. She studied you for half a second, then hummed, a sound of mild approval, or maybe just acknowledgment, before leaving you alone in the space that would be yours for the next two weeks, disappearing into the cool shadows of the house. So, that was it. You were on my own. You took a slow breath, turning in place, taking it all in. There were fresh herbs and vegetables outside, sun-drenched and fragrant. A basket of fruit sat on the counter, ripe and waiting. The refrigerator was stocked, but only with the basics, good butter, eggs, cheeses, bottles of chilled water, a few cured meats. You’d need to go shopping. You reached for your notebook, flipping to a blank page, pen tapping against your lip as you started a list. Not just what you’d need, but what you’d want. What you’d hope this athlete would want. And then, not for the first time, you paused to wonder… Who was he? Why did she not tell you? A retired footballer, maybe? A former Olympian who found solace in the quiet countryside? You couldn’t quite picture someone like Wembanyama living here, alone, wandering through vineyards. He was too fresh. It didn’t feel right. This was lived in. But whoever he was, you’d be cooking for him. And that? That was all that mattered… for now. 

——

After a lengthy shopping list was written, left to your own defenses, you figured it was time to go find your room. The hallway stretched ahead of you, dim and unfamiliar, the only light spilling in from the tall windows along the stone walls. The sun was sinking, casting the space in hues of deep gold and soft amber, but the shadows clung to the edges, thick and unmoving. You didn’t know where the light switches were, didn’t even know if you were headed in the right direction, the château was a maze of quiet corridors and heavy doors, and you were guessing your way through it. Then, you stopped. The doors before you were different, larger, heavier, imposing. They should’ve belonged to someone important, someone at the top of the household hierarchy. It seemed too grand for you, too much for a guest room. But she had told you the doors on the right, hadn’t she? And so, you pushed them open. The moment you stepped inside, a gasp broke the silence. The femme de ménage, the one you had seen earlier carrying linens upstairs, whirled around, her hands still mid-motion as she adjusted the pillows on the massive bed. She jumped, her wide brown eyes landing on you, startled. She was older, maybe forty, but effortlessly beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with vanity. She could’ve been fifty but her face didn’t say that. Her posture did. Her skin was fresh, untouched by makeup, her features warm yet sharp, exuding that quiet, commanding presence only French women seemed to master.

“Ah! Mademoiselle, non, non, c’est la chambre de Kylian. Allez! Allez!” [Ah! Miss, no, no, this is Kylian’s room. Go! Go!] Your stomach plunged.

“Oh… pardon… je suis Y/N. Je suis un peu perdue.” [Oh… sorry… I’m Y/N. I’m a little lost.] You let out an awkward sigh, stepping back, hands raised slightly in surrender. Her face softened, a small, knowing pout forming on her lips, a clear sign of understanding, the silent empathy of someone who had once been new here too.

“Oh, ma chérie. Toi sommes à gauche et à un étage plus haut. Ne t’inquiète pas. Tu t’adapteras.” [Oh, darling. You're on the left and one floor up. Don't worry. You'll adjust.] You nodded, exhaling in relief. So you weren’t completely useless.

“Désolé, je suis nerveux.” [Sorry, I’m nervous.] A small, nervous giggle escaped you as she reached for your arm, firm yet gentle, guiding you out of the room like a mother steering a distracted child. But, out of the corner of your eye, something caught your attention. A framed photograph on a shelf. Two boys. One young, maybe ten, grinning with the wide, toothy smile of someone untouched by the weight of the world. And beside him, the older one, eighteen, maybe?, a smile just as bright but carrying something deeper, a quiet confidence, a knowledge of what lay ahead. And between them, The World Cup trophy. You didn’t need to second-guess. You knew exactly what it was. What it meant. Your heart stuttered. The women nudging you firmly into the hallway.

“Je dois continuer à me préparer pour Kylian. C’est un garçon adorable mais il est particulier. I will have to bring you the bread he likes one day to get on his good side.” [I have to keep getting ready for Kylian. He’s a lovely boy, but he’s particular.] She gave you a soft but pointed look before disappearing back inside, shutting the doors with purpose. And suddenly, everything clicked. Kylian. That name. Your mind raced, piecing it together, filling in the blanks. Kylian Mbappé. You were here to cook for Kylian Mbappé. The realization sent a cold shock through you, a jolt straight to your chest, making the hallway around you seem larger, heavier, quieter. Your breath caught, fingers curling slightly at your sides. Kylian, the golden boy of France, the footballer the world couldn’t stop watching, a man whose life existed under relentless scrutiny, whose every move made headlines. And you? You had just walked straight into his bedroom. Your lips parted, a stunned breath escaping as you turned, mind still scrambling to catch up. What the hell had you just signed up for? You stood frozen in the dimly lit hallway, the housekeeper’s words echoing in your mind. You had expected someone important. Maybe a former athlete, someone who had long since retreated into the peace of the countryside, a man who wanted nothing but fresh air, good food, and an escape from the world. But not him. Not one of the most recognizable faces on the planet. And not one your age. You turned slowly, glancing back at the large wooden doors, now firmly shut. The photo. The World Cup trophy. It had been right there, held between the two boys, one barely an adult himself yet, but already a champion. You swallowed hard. The château suddenly felt bigger. The air, heavier. You were not just cooking for an elite client. You were cooking for a man whose life was spent under a microscope, who had the power to make or break reputations with a single word. You exhaled sharply, pressing a hand to your forehead. It was fine. You were fine. You weren’t here to impress him with anything other than your food. He didn’t need to like you, just your cooking. Maybe the bread would help though.  Still, as you turned and climbed the stairs to your actual room, your nerves prickled. Because now, it wasn’t just about getting this job right. It was about proving, to him, to yourself, that you belonged here.

—

The wind had picked up. It howled against the old stone walls, rattling the window panes as you curled deeper into the blankets on your bed, phone pressed to your ear. Outside, the rain lashed against the pool’s surface, sending frantic ripples across the water. The sky, once painted in soft golden hues, had turned an ominous shade of gray, thick clouds rolling in like an omen. You exhaled slowly, watching as the tall oak tree outside swayed violently, its branches scraping and smacking against the glass. The storm had come out of nowhere, transforming the quiet countryside into something almost eerie.

“So, you don’t know who he is… and you’re just in that house alone?” Madeline’s laugh crackled through the phone, full of amusement.

“I don’t know yet!” you insisted, shaking your head as if she could see you. “I mean, I have a guess, but I’ll report back. If I can. This storm outside looks terrifying. I could die here without ever meeting him.” You smirked, half-joking, but the thought sent a shiver down your spine.

“I mean, you’ll be fine.” Madeline teased. “If he has maids and a chef… you’re not exactly going to die there.”

“No, very true. But I don’t think they all stay. It seems like it’s just me here right now.” As if on cue, another gust of wind slammed against the house, the sound echoing through the vast space. You tensed, fingers tightening around the blanket. “I need to charge my phone, Mads. And check the weather. This is like… not good.” You muttered, unease creeping into your voice.

“‘Course!” she said, a little softer now, picking up on the shift in your tone. “And text me! You’re going to kill it. Promise.” Then, in a teasing lilt, “You making croissants for him tomorrow? Careful, he’ll fall in love if you do.” You chuckled tiredly.

“I will text you. And no, he will not fall in love. This could be someone’s dad, Madeline!” You reprimanded her. 

“Or it could be…” She sang.

“Don’t.” You cut her off before she could say any name. The name that had been swirling in your mind since earlier. The name that had made your heart skip a beat when you saw that photograph. You huffed, pushing a hand through your hair.  “I had planned on making croissants… but I don’t know if I will. I need to make jam… ugh merde, I have so much to do. I have to go.” Madeline laughed. 

“Bonsoir, chef.” You ended the call, staring at the now-black screen of your phone. 

—

In the stillness of the château, you crept downstairs, the cold floor beneath your feet the only sound in the silence. A pair of leggings, and a tiny tank top barely covered your torso, but it was enough for some night work in the kitchen. The house was dark, and you moved quietly, careful not to disturb the peaceful air that seemed to hang in the vast space. You needed to prep for breakfast, sure, but you also needed to be ready in case the athlete, your client, or boss, really, potentially arrived tonight. The kitchen greeted you with its familiar coolness, the smell of butter and flour from the earlier dough still lingering in the air. You had begun the laborious process of preparing croissants, the delicate layers forming slowly. Now, you were on to the second stage: wrapping the dough tightly in plastic wrap, placing it on a sheet pan to freeze overnight. Just as you slid the sheet pan into the freezer, you heard the front door open, followed by a soft, wet footstep, the sound of trainers on the marble floor. Then, a laugh. It hit you like a thunderclap, a beautiful, light laugh that made your chest ache for reasons you couldn’t quite understand. The kind of laugh that shakes the air and lingers in your bones.

“Je te vois le mois prochain, mon frère!” [I'll see you next month, my bro!] The words came in a lilting, familiar accent, warm and friendly. You froze mid-motion, your hands still dusted in flour, the jam simmering dangerously on the stove. The bubbles began to rise, threatening to spill over, but your body was paralyzed, your mind completely focused on the voice. Your stomach flipped, and a cold shiver ran through you. There was a shift in the air, something subtle yet heavy, he was here. You had no words, no time to prepare yourself. And then, he rounded the corner. He had a presence about him. It wasn’t loud or domineering; no, it was the type of presence that quietly commands attention, like gravity. You felt it immediately, like an electric pulse that prickled the back of your neck, making every hair on your body stand to attention. His eyes were squinted, as if he were sizing you up, playfully inquisitive, dissecting who this young woman in his kitchen was. But there was something else, a glazed look to his eyes. It wasn’t immediately clear if he was drunk or just… somewhere else. 

He was lean, made for the open air, for linen and sun and he wore it like he was a part of the very landscape around him. His skin was tanned, his face sharp and handsome, the kind of face that could belong to an artist. It was his gaze, though, that made you hesitate. His gaze was unreadable, flickering from you to the room, as though trying to place you or make sense of the situation. And then it hit you tenfold, the bolt of recognition. You had seen him before. Not just on a screen or in passing, but in real life, on billboards, plastered across TV screens. He was one of the most famous men in France. Kylian Mbappé. Your pulse raced, and the room felt even larger now, even more intimidating. This was him. The man you had unknowingly agreed to cook for, standing in his kitchen, alive, breathing, taking up more space than you had ever anticipated. For a moment, you couldn’t move. You were caught in that liminal space between the professional and the personal, the world you had imagined and the world that now was.

“Kylian?” Your voice stumbled out of your mouth, soft and uncertain, but his name felt foreign on your tongue, as if it didn’t belong in this moment. He tilted his head slightly, studying you with an amused look, his lips pulling into a cheeky smile, the kind that suggested he found your presence endearing, or maybe just funny. He took a slow step forward, extending his hand toward you as if this was a professional meeting, a handshake between two business associates, not an encounter at 1 a.m. in his darkened kitchen. The storm raged outside, the wind howling against the windows, its howls the only sound in the room, making the silence between the two of you feel almost too heavy. Your heart was thudding so loud you were sure he could hear it. There was a sudden warmth flooding your chest, your throat. He let out a low laugh, warm and easy, as if the world was a little less serious when it was him in it. His hand stayed out, waiting for you to respond, and when you didn’t, his eyes sparkled with mischief. He raised a brow, the playful grin deepening.

"Ça va?" He laughed again, this time heartier, his tone carefree. When your hand finally met his, it was almost like a shock to your system. His hand was large, engulfing yours in a way that made your skin burn, the softness of his touch almost startling. He held onto it just a second too long, the space between you both a little too close. The laughter subsided, and he straightened up, leaning in slightly with curiosity, that mischievous glint still in his eyes. “So you’re in my kitchen because… pourquoi?” His smile was warm, but there was something calculating behind his words, a slight amusement playing at the edge of his voice. Your stomach flipped as you shook your head, the nerves bubbling up. 

“I’m your… chef. So…” Your words trailed off, embarrassingly inadequate. You looked down at your bare feet on the cold tile, the nervousness flooding your veins. This wasn’t exactly how you had imagined your first meeting with him. His brows shot up in surprise, then delight, clearly charmed by your awkwardness.

“Ah,” he nodded, as if this was all making sense now. He leaned back slightly, and his gaze flicked over you. “You’re the chef…” Kylian’s voice rumbled low, rough, almost like he didn’t believe it. There was a subtle doubt, the way his eyes swept over the room as if trying to piece together how this young woman could possibly be the one tasked with feeding him.

“Ouais,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. You swallowed hard, managing a small laugh to mask your nerves, but it only made you feel more exposed. Kylian’s eyes flicked around the kitchen, noting the bubbling jam on the stove, the bowl of dough resting on the counter, the faint sheen of flour still dusting your hand. He nodded, taking a slow step forward into the space like he owned it. Because he did. He was so casual, as if he was used to walking into rooms and having everything arranged exactly the way he liked it. He opened the refrigerator with a practiced hand, peering inside without thought.

“Croissants aren’t ready?” His question was light, almost playful, but it hit you like a punch. You froze. Were they supposed to be ready by now? Your mind scrambled, panic creeping in. The dough was still in the second stage. You didn’t have the time to finish them. You couldn’t have. 

“I… euh…” You stammered, trying to find something to say, some way to explain, but your thoughts were a jumbled mess. The tension tightened in your chest. Had you already messed up?  Why the fuck were you so nervous? You were never nervous in a kitchen. You lifted your gaze back up to him. The angular cut of his jawline, the sharpness of his cheekbones, the way his dark eyes assessed you, flicking from your face to your body, it was like he could see right through you. There was a quiet challenge in his expression, the kind that said he wasn’t just taking you in physically but that he could read you, maybe even see the nerves that still rattled your frame. He smirked, his eyes glinting with a teasing light. 

“I’m kidding!” His words came as a sudden relief, as if he could read the panic in your face. “Good things take time, no?” You exhaled sharply, your shoulders dropping as the weight lifted. He didn’t expect perfection right away, thank god. His playful smile softened the air between you both, and for a moment, everything seemed a little less intimidating. He turned back to the fridge, casually grabbing a bottle of water and uncapping it with one smooth motion. Your breath finally returned to normal, your heart still fluttering but steadier now. You both stood there, silent for a beat, each caught in your own thoughts. But then, with a deafening crack of thunder, the lights overhead flickered. A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows, and the kitchen was swallowed by darkness.  The storm outside roared as the overhead lights sputtered and died in an instant, leaving you in near-complete darkness. Kylian was still standing there, his face unreadable, but his posture relaxed, as if he had lived through a thousand power outages. You couldn’t help but feel the shift in the air, as if everything that had just been simmering between you two was suddenly amplified in the stillness of the storm.

—

“Putain de merde!” you yelped, your heart leaping into your throat. The sudden loss of light, the roar of the storm, it was too much all at once. You stumbled back a step, your hand gripping the edge of the counter for stability. Across the room, Kylian’s voice came through the darkness, smooth and calm like the eye of the storm. The lights had snapped out with an audible pop, plunging the grand kitchen into darkness. The only illuminations came from the faint sliver of moonlight streaming through the tall windows, casting pale streaks across the tiled floor and the soft glow from Kylian’s phone, abandoned on the marble island, provided a dim halo, just enough to outline the edges of the room.

“Okay, bébé?” His words wrapped around you, low and steady, cutting through the chaos. You could barely make out his silhouette as he reached out toward you, his arm a shadow in the dim light. You froze, not sure what that gesture meant. Was he trying to steady you? Offer comfort? The uncertainty sent a jolt through you. You didn’t know him, not really. Not the way he carried himself in moments like this, the little nuances of his reactions. But the pet name, bébé, rang out clearly, lingering in the space between you. It wasn’t formal. It wasn’t distant. It was… something else. Your breath hitched, but you nodded quickly, even though he probably couldn’t see it. Fumbling with your phone, you managed to switch on the flashlight. The narrow beam cut through the darkness, landing on his face for just a second, sharp cheekbones, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable, maybe amusement, maybe curiosity. His hand was still slightly outstretched, relaxed now, as if he wasn’t in a rush to pull it back. Unbeknownst to either of you, outside the walls of the chateau, a tree had collapsed under the force of the storm. Its heavy branches had clipped a powerline somewhere down the long winding drive, severing the connection to the outside world. The chateau was now isolated in the dark, tucked away in its own little pocket of storm-lit silence. Inside, though, the air between you and Kylian felt charged, like the storm had crept in, flickering not just in the sky but somewhere beneath your skin.

“I’m so sorry,” you blurted out, your voice barely above a whisper, swallowed slightly by the distant rumble of thunder still echoing outside. You weren’t sure why you felt the need to apologize, maybe it was the darkness, the storm, or just the way his presence filled the room like he owned not just the chateau, but the air itself. Kylian turned slightly, his silhouette shifting against the faint glow of his phone.

“Sorry? It’s fine. It’s not your fault,” he replied, his voice smooth with the ease of someone who was rarely rattled. Then came the smirk, lazy, lethal, and devastatingly effective. “You control the weather?” Your heart stuttered. That smile, even half-lit by flickering shadows, was something else entirely in person. You’d seen his face splashed across ads, screens, articles, but up close, it was disarming. His features sharp and symmetrical, yet softened by the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, like laughter was something familiar to him.

“No. No, definitely not. I’m not that special,” you giggled softly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, hoping it would ground you somehow. Kylian’s eyes glinted, reflecting the faint glow as he tilted his head slightly.

“Maybe you can’t control the weather, but you might be special… I’ll let you know about that,” he murmured, his grin lingering just enough to send a ripple through your chest. He moved around the dark kitchen with a kind of effortless confidence, opening cabinets you hadn’t dared to explore yet, as if the darkness was no obstacle for him. His steps were quiet, assured, like the house responded to him in ways it never would to you. Moments later, he returned to the island with a small bundle of candles and a box of matches in hand. You watched in silence as he struck the first match. The sharp scent of sulfur mingled with the faint sweetness of the jam still simmering faintly on the cooling stove. One by one, he lit the candles, their soft flames casting flickering golden halos that danced across the marble countertops and up the tiled walls. The warmth of the light crept outward, pushing back the shadows, but it was his gaze, when he flicked those dark eyes back up to you, that made you shiver. You weren’t cold. You knew that. But under the soft glow, his gaze felt like it saw more than just the flour-dusted hands or the bare feet on cool tile. It felt like it saw you, stripped of all the polite small talk, the forced professionalism. Just you. And despite the warmth of the flames, you felt utterly bare.

—

“T’as froid, bébé?” Kylian’s voice cut through the quiet, low and casual, but with an edge, a thread of something warmer, heavier, wrapped in curiosity. His eyes flickered over you, dark and sharp even in the golden flicker of candlelight. You didn’t notice until he said it, but your skin had prickled with goosebumps, your nipples straining subtly against the thin fabric of your tank top. His gaze had definitely noticed, though he was kind enough, or smug enough, not to point it out directly.

“Un petit peu,” you replied softly, instinctively wrapping your arms around yourself. The motion unintentionally pressed your breasts together, the delicate slope of your collarbones catching the glow of the candles, shadows dipping into the hollow between them. Kylian’s smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, lethal and effortless, like he knew exactly what effect he was having on you. His eyes drifted lazily from your face to the curve of your arms, then back up again. 

“You want a jumper?” The question was simple, but his tone made it feel like something else, like a dare wrapped in a generous offer. “What kind?” He stepped closer, the warmth of his body filling the small kitchen space, his presence undeniable, like gravity.

“What?” you stuttered, the word slipping out before you could catch it, your brain struggling to process something as ordinary as ‘jumper’ when your heart was racing like this. He chuckled softly, dark eyes gleaming under the flicker of candlelight. 

“A hoodie? Sweater? Anything,” he repeated, his voice smoother this time, teasing. And then his arm lifted again, his hand reaching out, impossible to miss this time. His fingers brushed against your bare arm, warm and gentle, tracing a slow path up and down, leaving a trail of goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold. Your breath hitched. You didn’t pull away.

“I brought one… fine, really,” you managed to say, your voice softer than intended, almost as if you didn’t want to break whatever spell had settled between you. You tried to sound casual, but the words felt too fragile, like they’d shatter if you looked him directly in the eye. Kylian didn’t believe you. That much was clear in the way his grin deepened, his fingers squeezing your arm just a little, his thumb brushing in slow circles against your skin. 

“You’ll be cold until you get there. My room’s on the way.” His words hung in the air for a second, heavier than they should’ve been, but before you could respond, his hand slid down your arm, fingers finding yours, lacing them together like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand was large, warm, his grip gentle but certain, pulling you along as he turned to leave the kitchen. And you let him. You didn’t know why, but it felt like you couldn’t say no. The thought of pulling away never even crossed your mind.

—

You’d barely made it three steps when a flicker of practicality crept into your haze. You stopped abruptly, tugging his hand slightly to halt him. He turned back, brows lifting in surprise, lips parting like he was about to ask what was wrong.

“Blow these out first, ouais?” you murmured with a small, bashful smile, nodding toward the candles still burning on the island. For a heartbeat, he just looked at you, his head tilting slightly, the curve of his grin softening into something else, something quieter. Then he nodded, his fingers slipping from yours, though his touch lingered like an echo on your skin. You leaned over the marble countertop, lips pursing as you blew out the candles one by one. The flickering light danced over your face, casting fleeting shadows along your neck and down your spine, the soft fabric of your tank top stretching slightly with the motion. The room grew darker with each flame snuffed out, until only one remained. Kylian didn’t wait. Before the final candle flickered away, he moved, soft, silent, closing the space between you with an ease that made your heart skip. His hand found yours again in the dim light, his fingers intertwining with yours just as darkness swallowed the room whole. But it didn’t feel like you were in the dark anymore. Because this time, you were holding his hand. And neither of you let go.

—

Kylian’s hand was still loosely wrapped around yours as he guided you through the dim hallway, the faint glow from his phone’s flashlight casting long shadows on the walls. The house was eerily quiet, save for the soft creak of floorboards under your steps and the occasional rumble of distant thunder. When he pushed open a large door, you found yourself in his bedroom, a space as expansive as it was understated, but it was the adjacent room that caught your attention. Calling it a wardrobe felt almost insulting. It was another room entirely, lined wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling with shelves, racks, and drawers brimming with luxury clothing. You hesitated at the threshold, blinking against the surreal sight. It was like stepping into a boutique, no, a stockroom. Rows of perfectly folded jumpers, sweatshirts, hoodies, each meticulously arranged as if they were part of some personal collection that blurred the line between necessity and indulgence. Kylian walked ahead, the beam from his phone slicing through the semi-darkness, guiding him with ease. He stopped at one of the shelves, casually glancing back at you with a subtle nod, silently telling you to pick one. You blinked. 

“Oh mon Dieu, Kylian, do you have one for every day of the year?” you teased, a soft giggle slipping out before you could stop it. The sound felt oddly loud in the quiet space. He shrugged, a playful glint in his dark eyes, nodding again with an expectant tilt of his head, clearly insisting. You hesitated, fingers hovering over the rows of fabric, feeling strangely pressured by the ridiculous idea of choosing the right jumper, as if it mattered. “I don’t want to pick the wrong one,” you joked nervously, laughing at yourself. But Kylian just stared at you, an impatient but amused look on his face, his eyebrow arching slightly like he couldn’t believe this was even a debate. Resigned, you reached out randomly, your fingers grazing over soft cotton until they wrapped around what looked like a simple black hoodie. You tugged it free, only to realize under the faint glow that it was actually dark gray with a discreet Dior logo stitched on the chest.

“That’s my March 5th one,” he said, his voice light, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. You paused, holding the sweatshirt up as if it had suddenly gained monumental importance. 

“Oh wow… very, very special, huh?” you quipped, shooting him a cheeky smile. “Sure it’s okay?” Kylian didn’t miss a beat. 

“Hmm, course,” he replied with an exaggerated nonchalance, stepping closer, his fingers brushing against yours as he reached for the sweatshirt directly underneath. “You can have March 5th. I’ll take the 6th.” You giggled, shaking your head, amused by his effortless charm. He wasn’t what you expected, not that you knew exactly what you’d expected, but this version of him, so relaxed, so cheeky, so normal, threw you off balance. Here you were, standing in a football superstar’s home, in a closet that could rival high-end department stores, yet he joked like you’d known each other for years. Like none of it, the fame, the house, the absurdity of the moment, mattered. As you pulled the hoodie over your head, the soft fabric falling comfortably around you, you caught Kylian watching you. His smile had softened, his gaze lingering for just a second too long before he glanced away, pretending to fuss with the sleeves of his own jumping into the vastness of his walk-in closet. The words felt casual, unimportant, but they lingered in the still air. You hummed in response, unsure what to say. You moved deeper into the space, your steps slow, the plush carpet muffling the sound of your feet. He tossed his phone, abandoning it on the bed, its flashlight aimed lazily at the high ceilings, casting long, soft shadows that stretched across the walls. The room was dim, the only light a small, flickering beacon that made everything feel more intimate than it probably should have. Then, without warning, Kylian tugged his shirt over his head in one fluid motion as he walked. The fabric of it slid up his torso, revealing taut, defined muscles, the smooth lines of his back flexing slightly with the movement. His toned arms lifted, veins subtly visible under his skin, and for a second, you just stared. It was so casual, so natural, like he did this all the time in front of people. And despite the warmth of the hoodie, a shiver ran down your spine.

“Actually quite cold now. Never realized the heat here did anything,” Kylian muttered, his voice soft but carrying through the quiet as he walked. Your heart stuttered. You weren’t prepared for the suddenness of it, or the fact that he looked like he’d stepped straight out of some unattainable fantasy. His skin glowed softly under the faint light, shadows dancing along the curves of his muscles. It wasn’t just that he was fit. It was the effortlessness of it. Like he didn’t even realize what he was doing to you. “This is not a pass, ma chérie,” he said casually, his voice low and amused as he grabbed a fresh t-shirt from a nearby chair. “But do you think body heat actually is a thing for preservation? I’ve always wondered… You ever watch those shows?” You blinked, momentarily disoriented. Body heat? The man was half-naked, and he was asking about survival tactics like it was the most natural thing in the world. You let out a soft laugh, the absurdity of the night hitting you all at once.

“It was a pass,” you teased, your voice light, though your heart was still racing. And the smirk he gave you made it nearly break. “But erm… yeah, I think so.” You moved to sit on the boucle ottoman at the foot of his bed, the soft texture grounding you. You didn’t want to seem like you were trying to stay, but you also didn’t want to seem like you were in a rush to leave. The in-between felt safe. For now. “I always think of, like, when you sit next to someone on a plane, t’sais? I hate that,” you added, your fingers tracing invisible patterns on your thigh as you spoke. “It’s just too hot if someone’s too close. Like, their body heat is suffocating.” Kylian’s brow lifted slightly, his lips quirking into a curious smile as he pulled the jumper he’d grabbed over his head with finality. 

“Oh… right.” He hummed. You giggled, realizing what you’d just said. Of course. Kylian Mbappé probably hadn’t sat next to a stranger on a plane in nearly a decade. His life had been private jets, first-class lounges, and chartered flights for years. The thought of him crammed in coach beside someone’s sweaty uncle was almost laughable. “No, no, no, I know, I know,” he said quickly, his grin widening as he tried to backtrack. But then a boyish giggle slipped out, soft, genuine, unguarded, and your heart squeezed at the sound of it. It was rare to hear someone so untouchable laugh like that, like he wasn’t carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He flopped onto the bed with zero grace, sprawling out like it was his personal playground. The March 6th sweatshirt bunched slightly around his waist, revealing a teasing sliver of skin above the waistband of his joggers. He looked ridiculously comfortable, his smile lazy and perfect.

“Sure,” you replied, raising an eyebrow, unable to hide your grin. You tucked one leg under the other, leaning forward slightly, your elbows resting on your knees. He looked so real like this, no cameras, no crowd, just a boy in his room, talking about body heat. And yet, he still radiated that magnetic pull, the kind that made your skin buzz with awareness. “So,” you continued, tilting your head slightly, “are you like… into MythBusters or something? Or is this just a random little inquiry Kylian was curious about tonight that I am privy to?” Kylian’s smile grew, his dimples deepening as he propped himself up on one elbow to face you. His eyes gleamed with mischief, dark and warm under the faint light. 

“Just a random thought,” he replied with a shrug, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the blanket beneath him. “Guess you’re lucky to be the chosen one for my scientific curiosities tonight.” You laughed, the sound filling the room, soft and genuine. Your gaze lingered on him, how his hoodie clung to his broad shoulders, the way his lashes curled just slightly at the ends, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. He was dangerously beautiful, but in this moment, he was also just Kylian. And that was what made it harder. Because you wanted to crawl across the bed. You wanted to feel the warmth of his skin, to run your fingers along the curve of his jaw, to kiss the smile off his face. The air between you felt charged, like static before a storm, thick with words unspoken and glances held a second too long. But instead, you stayed where you were, your heart pounding in your chest, talking about body heat and plane rides. And maybe that was its own kind of intimacy.

—

[Dive - Victoria Money]

The storm outside had settled into a steady rhythm, rain tapping against the windows like impatient fingers, wind sighing through the cracks in the walls. The faint glow from Kylian’s phone, laying on the bed, cast soft shadows that danced across the wooden beams overhead. Thunder rumbled in the distance, low and rolling, like the earth itself was exhaling. The air between you felt heavier than it had moments ago, thick with something unspoken. Kylian’s gaze was unwavering, dark eyes tracking your every move, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and something deeper, something that made your chest tighten. His voice lingered in the space, the way he’d said your name, slow, deliberate, as if tasting it for the first time.

“Y/N…” It wasn’t just the sound of it. It was the way he said it, like it meant something more. Like you meant something more. You looked at him, heart pounding louder than the rain, hopeful without meaning to be. But then, “It’s getting late.” Simple words, soft even, but they landed like a stone in your stomach. You sat up straighter, as if that would somehow protect you from the sudden sting of embarrassment. Right. This wasn’t anything. You were here because of the storm, because the lights had gone out, because you cooked for him. That was it. Nothing more. You shouldn’t have let yourself get so comfortable, shouldn’t have teased him about not flying commercial or laughed so easily at his dumb little questions about body heat. You looked away, out the window where the rain streaked down in silver ribbons against the glass. You wished you could dissolve into it, slip through the panes and vanish into the night. But then, “You want to sleep here with me?” The words were quiet, almost hesitant, but they sliced through the noise of the storm, sharp and clear. Your heart stuttered. You turned slowly, unsure if you’d heard him right. His face was open, unguarded. No smugness, no expectations. Just… genuine. “Stay warm,” he added, his voice softer now, like the words might break if he said them too loudly. You swallowed, trying to keep your face neutral even as your heart raced. 

“Okay,” you said, your voice coming out calmer than you felt. His lips curled into a small smile, something gentle, as if your answer mattered more than he’d expected it to.

“Tu as l’air effrayée,” he murmured, the words smooth and warm, slipping through the shadows like silk. [You look scared] You shook your head quickly, even though it wasn’t entirely untrue. You weren’t scared of him, not really. You were scared of what this felt like, of how easy it was to fall into this moment with him, of how natural it felt to be here, like you belonged. You turned toward the bed, placing your hands on the cool duvet, the fabric soft under your fingers. You hesitated for a beat, then lifted your knee, crawling onto the mattress because there was no other way to do it. But the act felt intimate in a way you hadn’t expected, like crossing an invisible line. Kylian didn’t look away. He was leaned back against the headboard, legs spread just enough to make your breath catch, his sweatshirt rumpled slightly, still exposing a sliver of toned skin above his waistband. His smile was lazy, a little crooked, like he knew exactly what he was doing to you without even trying. Making you crawl to him. You could feel the heat of his gaze, tracing the curve of your back, the shift of your hips, the way your hair fell forward as you moved. The storm outside felt distant, like the real electricity was here, pulsing between you. “Don’t want you getting lost in the dark,” he murmured, his voice low, tinged with amusement. You let out a breathless laugh, shaking your head slightly. Then, softer, almost a whisper…“C’mere, ma chérie.” It wasn’t a command. It was an invitation. And your body moved before your mind could catch up. You crawled closer, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight, your heart pounding in your chest. His eyes didn’t leave yours, dark and warm, flickering with something you couldn’t quite name. When you reached him, he shifted slightly, his hand lifting as if to touch you but stopping short, hovering near your face. The hesitation made your breath hitch, the space between his fingers and your skin electric. 

—

The storm outside was relentless now, the wind howling softly rattling the shutters. Rain lashed against the windows in steady sheets, blurring the dark landscape beyond. Inside, though, it was warm, a fragile kind of warmth, built not just from the cozy glow of the bedside lamp but from the invisible tension thrumming quietly between the two of you. You sank deeper into the throw pillow, pretending to adjust it as an excuse to glance at him again. Kylian was on his side, facing you, his arm tucked under his head, muscles shifting beneath the thin fabric of his jumper. His eyes found yours immediately, dark and warm, his gaze lingering just a little too long, like he was memorizing the details of your face.

“So these flights you’ve been taking… not enjoying the company?” he asked, voice low and smooth, threading through the space like velvet. You shook your head, biting back a smile. 

“Non,” you exhaled, the faintest giggle slipping out. “Rubbing arms with strangers? You’re not really missing out on anything.” His smirk was quick, charming, his dimple shadowed by the dim light. 

“Ah là là… Firstly, don’t act like I’ve never been on a regular flight,” he teased, voice rich with amusement. “Lately, yeah, usually by myself. But I don’t mind meeting new people.” His grin softened slightly, something more genuine flickering beneath the words. You rolled your eyes playfully, your smile growing. 

“Kylian…” You dragged his name out with a soft laugh. “I’m not meeting them. They’re strangers, and for however long I’m there, I’m forced to awkwardly touch them, hear them, smell them. It’s awful.” His laughter broke free then, a warm, easy sound that filled the room, mingling with the distant rumble of thunder. It was the kind of laugh that made you feel like you’d done something right, like you’d slipped past some invisible barrier and landed somewhere closer. When the laughter faded, his eyes found yours again, and the room felt smaller, quieter.

“Can I be honest with you, Y/N?” His voice was softer now, the playful edge replaced by something more sincere, more careful. You nodded, your breath catching somewhere between your chest and throat. “Lucky them.” He murmured, his gaze dipping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. “I’d be thrilled if I got to sit next to you... Pray it’s a flight all the way to Australia.” The words settled between you like an unspoken confession, warm and charged. You felt the shift immediately, like the room had tilted slightly, pulling you toward him. Your heart thudded, loud in your ears.

“I wouldn't mind sitting next to you on a flight to Australia,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could stop them. Your hand moved instinctively, fingers gliding over the duvet toward him, stopping just short, close enough to feel the heat radiating from his skin, but not touching. His breath hitched, subtle but undeniable. His eyes flickered from your hand to your face, something dark and intense flickering in them.

“It’s long,” he murmured, his voice a shade deeper, like the words carried more weight than he intended. You swallowed hard, shifting slightly on the bed. His eyes followed the movement, his jaw tightening just a fraction. The tension felt like it might snap, stretched too thin between you.

“That’s okay,” you whispered back, your voice low, trembling with anticipation. “I can handle it.” You weren’t talking about flights anymore. His lips twitched, a flicker of a smile tugging at the corner, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, burning with something unspoken. You felt it, he felt it, that invisible line between you blurring with every second that passed.

—

“Should maybe get to bed,” you whispered, your voice softer now, almost a breath. You reached for his phone, your fingers brushing his as you handed it to him. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it sent a jolt through you both, a sharp spark that left your skin tingling. His fingers lingered for a second longer than necessary before he pulled away, setting the phone on the bedside table with a quiet thud. He shifted, moving the pillows, his movements slower now, more deliberate. The muscles in his arms flexed slightly as he adjusted, and you tried not to stare, but your eyes betrayed you.

“Do you need anything?” he asked gently, his voice rougher around the edges now, like he was trying to clear the weight from his throat. You shook your head ‘no,’ your voice lodged somewhere deep, unwilling to rise. The space between you felt impossibly small. Kylian laid back fully, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting loosely over his stomach. His fingers tapped idly against his ribs, a quiet rhythm that filled the silence. You mirrored him, turning slightly onto your side, your face angled toward his, your heart thundering beneath your ribs. Outside, the storm rolled on, the wind howling like it was trying to get in. But in here, the world felt suspended, held together by nothing more than quickened heartbeats and the electric current humming between two people who weren’t supposed to feel this way. He spoke again, his voice softer than before, like he was afraid to break whatever fragile thing had settled between you. “Tu sais que t’es belle?” [Do you know you’re beautiful?] he murmured, the words slipping out like a secret, his eyes half-lidded, but still burning with something that made your breath hitch. You didn’t reply. You couldn’t. Instead, you let the silence hold it, let it stretch and pulse until it was too heavy, until your body felt like it was leaning into gravity itself, drawn to him like it had no choice. You didn’t know who moved first. Maybe it was both of you. But suddenly the space wasn’t there anymore.

— 

Morning came slow, like it wasn’t quite ready to disturb the quiet of your sleep. A faint breath of lavender drifted in from the open window, the air still cool and damp from the storm that passed through overnight. The light, soft and milk-colored, slanted across the stone floors of the bedroom, catching the folds of the linen curtains that moved like whispers. Outside, the Provence hills still slumbered, mist curling along the vines, cicadas quiet after their night chorus. Inside, it was warm. Stifling, almost. Your skin stuck to his, bare legs tangled under the duvet, your bodies wrapped in the kind of sleep-induced embrace that felt instinctual. Natural. Like something your bodies had known long before your names were spoken aloud. You stirred first, not really awake but not fully gone either. Your cheek rested over his chest, where the steady rhythm of his heartbeat pulsed under your ear. His arm was low across your hips, the weight of it anchoring you. At some point in the night, the jumpers from his wardrobe disappeared. The oversized jumper he’d lent you had slipped away, left discarded somewhere beneath the sheets, leaving just the lace of your underwear, a tiny tank top, and the heat of your skin pressed against his. He made a low sound in his throat, soft and gravelly, and you felt him shift beneath you.

“Mmm…” he purred, dragging in a breath like waking up was a pleasure. His hand flexed instinctively at your waist before sliding down, slow and easy. He found the curve of your ass and rested there, palm open, fingers splayed. “C’est pas un foutu drap…” [Not a fucking sheet]  he muttered sleepily, smiling into your hair. “Bébé…” You let out a soft whine at the nickname, part protest, part encouragement. You weren’t even sure. His voice was half-asleep, but his touch wasn’t. It was lazy and greedy, the way his fingers curled just slightly into your skin. Like maybe he thought he was dreaming. Maybe you both did. You didn’t move away. You nuzzled deeper into his chest, felt the bare skin of his collarbone against your lips, and placed the softest kiss there, right where his neck curved. A sigh escaped him, low and delicious. “Tu m’réveilles comme ça tous les matins, je t’épouse,” he mumbled, smiling, half joking, but not really. [You wake me up like this every morning, I’ll marry you,] Your leg slipped between his, the friction too intimate for what this should be. And still, neither of you pulled away. You felt his hand slide a little lower again, fingers grazing bare skin beneath the duvet, no longer so innocent, never had been.

“Bébé…” you whispered into his neck, breath hot. It was half a warning. Half a question.

“I know,” he said, barely audible, his voice rough with sleep and something else. “I know.” But he didn’t move. And neither did you. The world hadn’t returned yet. The power was still out, the chateau silent, the morning not quite real, caught in the warmth of him, his scent on your skin, the beat of his heart under your palm, wanting to believe this wasn’t wrong at all.  The two of you breathing in tandem, too close for strangers, too tangled to still pretend. And then something shifted. Maybe it was the heat between your legs or the way his hand, already resting low on your back, flexed and pulled you even closer. His breath hitched against your temple. A low, involuntary growl escaped his throat as his hips pushed into yours. He was hard. Unmistakably. Undeniably. And he didn’t hide it. “Putain…” he whispered, deep in his chest. The word was more breath than voice, more want than language. His lips found your neck, kissing down slowly, deliberate and reverent, but aching. He nipped gently at the skin just beneath your ear, and your whole body shivered. You rolled your hips instinctively, helplessly, feeling the friction spark between you like striking flint to dry pine. His hand snuck between your bodies sliding over the hem of your panties, just enough to feel the curve of you there. Enough to make you gasp.

“Kylian…” you whined, again your own voice startling you with how it sounded, desperate and broken open. It snapped you back. The air shifted. “I’m so sorry,” you whispered, breathless as you began to pull away. “This is so unprofessional.” But he didn’t let you go. Not fully. His hand stayed at your hip, his forehead pressing to your jaw.

“Non. It’s not.” His voice was hoarse, low, lips brushing against your neck. “It was very professional. The power was out. I just…” he kissed lower, just above your collarbone, his words stitched between each press of his mouth, “I didn’t want you getting hurt.” Your eyes fluttered closed. The tension melted for a second, your head falling gently to the side. 

“Okay…” you breathed, soft and unsure. Letting him kiss you. Letting yourself believe maybe this was okay. That this was something real. Then… Creak. A slow, familiar step on the stairs.

“Bonjour, Kyky… il est neuf heures, tu es réveillé?” Céline’s voice sang up the corridor, sweet and motherly, lilting with inquiry. Normally Kylian was up, out of the house, on the move… but not today. [It's nine o'clock, are you awake?] The sound struck like a bell. You froze. So did he. Your limbs locked, breath held between your teeth, your skin still flushed from everything nearly undone. His hands stayed on you. Your breath still tangled with his. But neither of you moved. Just the pulse of heat between your hips, the echo of a growl in your ear, and the taste of something that couldn’t be taken back.

“Fuck, she’s gonna…” you hissed, wide-eyed and breathless, voice barely a whisper as footsteps padded closer down the hall. You looked at him, panic flickering in your chest, heart pounding like it might give you away. But Kylian didn’t flinch, just pulled the blanket higher, your bodies slipping deeper under the covers.

“Shh, bébé. Just stay right here,” he whispered, his breath hot at your temple. His arm wrapped around you, anchoring you to him. His voice, steady and low, settled something inside your panic. You should’ve been terrified, you could lose your job, your reputation, but against his body, warm and solid and radiating heat, you felt… calm. His hand stayed under the blanket, fingers splayed across your hip, thumb moving in slow circles over your bare skin. That subtle, steady rhythm, his silent way of saying you’re okay. Of keeping you tethered to him, in more ways than one. A soft knock. “Mmh,” Kylian let out a sleep-heavy noise, dragging his other hand lazily from under the sheets and lifting it above the blanket to give a sleepy wave.

“Kylian mon pauvre chéri, tu dors encore?” Céline’s voice melted through the room like the warm smell of bread. [Kylian, my poor darling, are you still asleep?] She peeked in, her eyes softening when she saw him tucked in, clearly out of it. “Thought you’d be on a run or in the gym?” She asked sweetly, already backing out with the door still halfway open. “I’ll let you rest. I’ll be downstairs.” Kylian just mumbled something incoherent, head still pressed to the pillow, eyes squinting at her like he’d just cracked them open. She chuckled under her breath and pulled the door gently closed. Click. You exhaled sharply against his neck. His hand was already finding its way back to you. Both hands back on you like they had never left. The silence between you pulsed hot. His skin was flushed and your breath ghosted over his throat. You were trembling a little, not from fear now, but from restraint. You don’t know why, maybe you're a masochist, maybe he was magnetic but your mouth found his neck. You bit softly, not hard enough to mark, but hard enough to make him grunt through his nose. His hand gripped your waist again, dragging your hips into his.

“Kylian, this is… ” you gasped, lips brushing up the curve of his jaw unable to will yourself away.

“Shh,” he hummed, voice deep and dark with need. “She’s still downstairs. And I still want you in here.” And that was it. Your mouths crashed together, hot and messy, teeth scraping, tongues tangling. The blanket tented over you like a secret, catching the heat between your tangled limbs. He rolled you onto your back, your legs spreading instinctively for him. You could feel him, hard and pulsing through his briefs, grinding into the soft heat between your thighs. Your hands slipped up his spine, nails dragging up his back, hips rocking. Every movement was a stifled moan, a swallowed plea, mouths muffling each other. This was insane. This was inevitable. And as he kissed you deeper, rolling his hips in slow, desperate grinds, you knew, this wasn’t just a mistake anymore. It was the beginning of a very long two weeks.

—

The heat between your bodies crackled, unbearable now. His mouth was all over you, your jaw, your collarbone, the sensitive skin just below your ear. Your legs were tangled with his, your hands curled at the nape of his neck, clinging, desperate. He hovered over you, breath warm against your lips, his body a cage you didn’t want to escape, until, with a low groan, he rolled, shifting you on top of him, hands at your hips like he couldn’t wait to watch you take control. But your heart stuttered, not just from desire, but fear.  You pulled back just slightly, your lips still brushing his, voice trembling.

“Wait, wait… we can’t.” He didn’t stop. His mouth found yours again, needy. You didn’t resist. You kissed him back like your life depended on it. His big hands held you firm against him, anchoring you to the heat of his body, the swell of your hips finding a slow, temptress rhythm, each roll of you a quiet sin, every breath between you charged and ragged.

“I know,” he whispered into the kiss, his words fraying at the edges. Subconscious memories of that stupid NDA buried in the back of his mind. Your breath hitched.

“It’s my job… I’m here for two weeks…” You whined, forehead pressed to his, eyes fluttering shut like if you couldn’t see him, maybe this wouldn’t hurt.

“I need you,” he breathed, the words pulled from somewhere deep, husky and wrecked. His hands moved greedily, up your sides, anchoring you to him like he couldn’t bear the thought of letting go. But you shook your head, pulling your mouth from his with effort like peeling yourself out of warm water. 

“I need this job…” you whispered, heart pounding as you slid slightly off of him, chest still rising and falling from the fever of it all. You felt him still. His breath caught. And then he stilled completely. He let his head fall back onto the pillow, eyes wide to the ceiling as he swallowed. You saw it then. That flicker of something unfamiliar behind his eyes, like rejection was foreign to him. Like your pulling away didn’t just cool the fire but knocked the wind from him. He looked… broken. Not angry. Just stunned. Wounded in a place he hadn’t expected to be touched. You sat up slightly, brushing the edge of the blanket back over your bare thigh. You looked at him with softness, regret laced with truth.  “I’m sorry. You’re very sweet…” You paused. “And very sexy.” You gave him a sad smile, trying to land gently on whatever raw nerve had exposed itself. His lips twitched. Not quite a smile, something crooked, something self-deprecating. Then he exhaled and dragged a hand down his face.

“Fuck,” he mumbled with a stupid grin, the kind you wear when you’ve been caught wanting too much. “What did you just do to me, bébé?” You bit your lip, chest still heaving, nerves still zinging beneath your skin. You didn’t answer. He rolled to his back, his arm resting over his eyes like he needed to shut out the world, or maybe just your silhouette still trembling beside him. The air between you was thick and heavy, all the things you almost did still humming in it.  You sat up with the same sad smile still pulling at your lips, the sheet sliding off you, exposing the delicate strap of your tank and the curve of your spine. The air was quiet, thick with what you didn’t say. His eyes stayed on you, trailing your form like he was committing it to memory. “Guess not sexy enough, non?” he teased, voice low and gravel-soft, a flicker of his old grin curling at the edge of his mouth.

“Non. Too,” you purred, a coy lilt to your voice as you leaned back toward him. Your hand found the rise of his chest, your fingers tracing lightly over the lines of his collarbone, the rise and fall of his breath. His eyes darkened. His own hand moved slowly, grazing up your ribs beneath the soft fabric of your top, the other sliding up your bare arm, so light, so reverent, like he wasn’t sure you were real. Your faces hovered close enough to kiss. You felt the shape of his breath on your lips. But you spoke first. “I have to go make you breakfast, hein?” you whispered playfully, nose brushing his. Your lips glistened, but you didn’t kiss him. Not yet. You smiled like sin and spun sugar, teasing. And that was when he pulled you in, swift and certain, hand behind your neck as he kissed you like he couldn’t stop himself. Like you were a craving he’d never shake. You gasped softly, melting, your body folding into his like it had always belonged there. His lips moved over yours, slow and claiming. Nothing rushed. No need to prove anything. Just a kiss deep enough to make your stomach flip, to make your fingers curl against his chest, to make you wonder how on earth you’d go back to pretending this wasn’t everything. He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead to yours. Both of you breathless. Stunned by sweetness. You smiled against his lips. “Let me go make you food,” you whispered, your fingers now brushing over his temple.

“Not hungry for pastries.”  He gave you that boyish, devastating grin.  Your eyes narrowed, mock scolding.

“Stop,” you giggled, swatting at him, crawling gently out of bed. But he watched you move, your bare legs, pulling on your leggings, the sunlight catching your silhouette like art. His smile softened into something molten, something reverent. You were halfway to the door when he called after you.

“I’ll still be hungry.” You paused in the doorway, heart beating fast, and looked over your shoulder.

“I know,” you murmured with a knowing smirk, before disappearing into the morning light. And god, did he wish he could follow.

—

You scampered up the stairs like a little girl, your bare feet barely touching the stone steps, heart pounding louder than your footsteps. Your breath caught in your chest somewhere between a breath and a gasp, was that kiss real? Had he really said that? Had you actually kissed him like that? The second your door clicked shut behind you, you let out a stifled squeal, hurling yourself onto the bed in a dramatic sprawl. Then, all at once, you curled into yourself like a storm folding inward, pulling the cool white duvet over your head, your knees tucked to your chest. And there, beneath the covers, you screamed silently. A laugh trapped in your throat. Your hands clutched at the sheets, your legs kicking like you needed to release the electricity shooting through you. You were smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your skin still hummed with him, his hands on you, the taste of him, the way he looked at you like you were something he’d dreamt up. You peeked out from under the duvet, blinking up at the ceiling like the moment might’ve been imagined. Then groaned, diving back under the blanket again like it could hide you from how stupidly smitten you were.

“Oh my God,” you whispered into the pillow. You were so unbelievably screwed. And you’d never felt more alive.

—

It wasn’t long though for that ‘oh my god’ to morph into something cynical as you began to spiral… Did he do this with every girl that works for him? The thought struck you like cold water as you paced your room in a daze, trying to will your heartbeat back to something resembling normal. You tugged on cotton shorts [ref index] with shaky hands, your baby tee clinging soft and tight, your stomach bare, breath caught in your chest. This was a mistake. It had to be. You’re a professional, you reminded yourself. You’re here to cook, not to kiss your boss in his bed like some cliché. You pressed your palms into the bathroom sink, staring at your reflection like it could talk you down. Lips kiss-bruised. Neck flushed. Your skin still smelled faintly of him, warm, clean, expensive. That subtle something that had clung to his sheets. By the time you made it downstairs, the morning light was thick and dappled, streaming through the open doors with that dreamy golden hush unique to Provence. The scent of rosemary and baked stone filled the air, and for a second, the world felt absurdly normal again. Céline was already in the kitchen, folding a tea towel, her expression sweet and easy as always.

“Ah te voilà!” she smiled. “Lucky for you, Kylian is still asleep. Or pretending, who knows with that one.” She winked playfully, as if this were nothing more than another sleepy summer morning. You laughed softly, too softly, and busied your hands with gathering ingredients, needing something to hold. Anything to ground you. But her words stuck in your head like a burr. Lucky he slept in. Were you? Lucky he pulled you into his arms like that? Lucky to feel like you were losing your footing over someone who lived in a different world? You didn’t feel lucky. You felt like you were falling. And you had no idea where the ground was.

—

The sauce was simmering, but you weren’t. You were buzzing. The kitchen felt hot in a way that wasn’t just stove-induced. You tugged at the collar of your tee, the fabric clinging to your stomach in the summer haze. Everything in this chateau was sun-warmed and scented, buttered, crushed lavender on the breeze. It made you feel drunk even though you weren’t.  The kitchen was thick with steam, your sauce barely bubbling, just as it should. You set the lid askew and wiped your palms down your thighs. The storm passed leaving the hills heavy outside. The stone tiles beneath your bare feet were cool, but the air pressing in from the open French doors was warm, wet with sun. It was delirious, this Provençal heat. Heavy and golden, like honey left too long in the sun. You needed air. Or at least a moment. You stepped out onto the terrace, tipped your sunglasses down your nose, the cicadas humming like a fever dream, and called Madeline.

“Enfin,” Madeline said, picking up. “I was starting to think you died out there in the vineyard.”

“Technically a chateau.” You spun in a slow circle, panning the camera toward the view.

“Ugh. I hate you.” She rolled her eyes. “Being a chef is so much better than corporate. Trade with me?” She sighed. You laughed, eyes darting toward the open kitchen behind you. 

“Honestly… maybe I’ll trade because listen…” You paused taking a deep breath. The reality of kissing your client settling in as fact, not fun, was harrowing. “I need to tell you something, and you can’t scream.”

“Why would I scream?” Madeline narrowed her eyes. 

“I’m here last night, right?” you began, chewing your nail. “Power goes out. And the person I’m cooking for…”

“Yeah?” Madeline leaned in closer to the screen eager. You hesitated.

“Kylian.” You whispered his name. There was a beat of silence.

“Hein?” Her voice dropped an octave. “Kylian as in…”

“Mhmm.” You nodded quickly, bracing. You bit your lip, eyes wild, the words on the edge of a scream. “Mads. Last night…” You pressed your fingers to your lips, cheeks burning.

“What happened last night.” Her eyes went wide on screen. 

“We slept together.” You whispered it. She froze trying to piece it all together. 

“Sorry, sorry… you slept who?” Madeline blinked, completely in shock.

“Kylian.” You repeated quieter but more clearly pronounced. You looked over your shoulder to see if anyone was nearby but all you could see were rolling clouds. Ominous gray and fast approaching. “Well I slept in his bed and then this morning we kissed.” She didn’t respond. Her jaw just dropped open. And then…

“You kissed KYLIAN FUCKING MBAPPÉ?!” She shrieked! You slapped the volume down with your thumb. 

“Ferme-la, Madeline!” You scolded her. Too late. Her voice had carried. Loud. And clear. Across the garden, the gardener, a man you hadn’t seen, mid-trim, looked up sharply. You panicked. “Désolée! Un insecte!” you blurted in choppy, swatting the air as if battling some giant invisible wasp. The gardener blinked, then slowly nodded, mildly entertained.“C’était gros.” The gardener blinked, then nodded, bemused, and returned to his hedge. 

 “A bug?! Really?” Madeline’s laughter crackled through the speaker.

“I panicked!” you hissed. “This is not funny. I slept in his bed. Mads… I was on top of him.” 

“Girl. You’ve been there one day.” She taunted you. 

“I know.” You whined.

“And you kissed him.” Madeline’s grin turned knowing, a little smug. You sank down on the stone steps, pressing your hot face into your hands. 

“And now I’m making him breakfast and I’m more concerned about how I look than how my bechamel is and I don’t even know what’s he’s going to think.”

“You’re living a fever dream and I hate you.” You peeked through your fingers. 

“It was a really good kiss.” You smiled, a little smitten despite the chaos.

“Obviously it was a good kiss. You’re in a fucking chateau with Kylian Mbappe playing house.” She shook her head teasing your circumstances. 

“Mads…” You pouted not particularly loving the joke so she pivoted. Ever agile. 

“Okay, question one: was it one kiss or like… capital-K Kissing?” You exhaled like it hurt. 

“Kissing. With an ‘ing.’ Bold capital letters.” You admitted. 

“In his bed?” Madeline asked. 

“In his bed.” You confirmed. Her mouth dropped open in a silent scream. You buried your face in your hand. “It was… so good.” Madeline was feral now. 

“I can’t believe you made out with your boss!”  You glared at her. “I’m kidding! I’m kidding!” she giggled holding up one hand in innocence. 

“He’s not my boss… I mean not really. I don’t know.” You groaned. “We were under the covers and it was dark and I don’t know how it happened but it felt like… it made sense in the moment.”

“Girl, you’re supposed to be professionally slicing peaches, not kissing in bed!” She teased.

“I know! It’s so unprofessional. I’m panicking. I can’t lose this job. I just needed someone to tell me I’m not crazy.” You looked at her pleadingly. Madeline took a deep breath.

“You’re absolutely crazy. But also, you’re kind of living right now. I love this for you” You laughed, the sound bubbling up despite yourself. The oven timer beeped inside. Your head whipped toward the door.

“I have to go,” you whispered, heart racing. “He’ll probably come to eat soon”  Madeline shrieked at the mention of him again and you had to hang up before the gardener could hear any more.

—

The call with Madeline still echoed in your ears, her shrieks and gasps more dizzying than the night you’d just lived. You slipped your phone into your pocket, bare feet brushing the cool stone as you padded into the kitchen. Outside, the sky had turned strange again, low clouds blooming dark and heavy over the hills. You stood by the wide window, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the kind of rain that didn’t come all at once, but built in tension. It started as a shimmer, then thickened into a hush, then a downpour. You’d thought the storm had passed that last night was the climax, that this morning was a calm beginning. But no. That was only the eye. The heart. The quiet between thunderclaps. This, this aching pulse in your chest, the thick heat curling through the chateau, the sudden slap of rain on the terrace, this was the second surge. And then, as if summoned by the sound, you saw him. Kylian. Jogging up the path from the trees, soaked through. Shirt clinging, buzzed head gleaming with rain, eyes cast down until he looked up, and even through the glass, you felt it. The storm wasn’t coming. It was already here.

—

[Mutt - Leon Thomas]

The oven hummed low, the scent of rosemary and butter just beginning to brown. You’d cracked left the terrace doors for air, the thick summer heat hanging like a silk veil over your skin. A glass of iced tea sweated on the table beside you, condensation slipping down your fingers as you swirled it in slow circles. You watched him in slow motion returning from the run he was meant to be on earlier while you were in his bed. Down the garden path, Kylian jogged up through the cypress, the breaking rain caught him mid-run. The storm had returned as quickly as it left, drenching him. His shirt clung to every contour of his torso, soaked through and transparent, darkened with rain and sweat. Lashes wet. And that grin, that smug, knowing, maddening grin when he caught sight of you watching him from the terrace. God, he was unfair. You sipped your tea slowly, trying to act unfazed, but your eyes stayed fixed on him as he slowed to a walk, tugging the hem of his drenched shirt. And then, like a scene from a film he somehow knew how to cast himself in, he peeled it off in one smooth motion, revealing all of him: taut stomach, golden skin, the light trail of hair down his navel you had absolutely not meant to notice. You blinked hard and shook your head, cheeks already heating. Get a grip. Still barefoot, you grabbed a spare tea towel slung over the chair and stepped out toward him, waiting in the doorway just under the porch overhang pretending this was normal, pretending you weren’t burning inside. He stopped at the edge of the terrace, water dripping from his forehead onto his collarbones. You held the towel out between you like a peace offering. He didn’t take it right away.

“Is this the part where you offer to dry me off?” he asked, voice deep and lazy from the run, from the thrill of teasing you. You rolled your eyes. 

“This is the part where I walk away.” But you were already smiling, even as you turned on your heel, face burning. Behind you, you heard him laugh under his breath, soft and rich.

“Tu rougis pour moi, bébé?” [Are you blushing for me, baby?] He teased. You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Not when your blush said everything. Back in the kitchen, you leaned against the counter, iced tea forgotten, chest rising a little too quickly. The oven ticked softly. And left at the door, you could hear the slow rhythm of water droplets falling from him onto the warm stone as he finally toweled off. This was going to be a long day.

—

The rain hadn’t stopped since that morning. Not really. It had pulled back just long enough to fool you, to let in a whisper of calm, a little sunlight slanting through the terrace like maybe the night before had been a fever dream. But the storm never passed. You’d only slipped into the eye of it, warm, quiet, disarming. And now, it raged again. Outside, the sky bruised purple. Rain swept sideways across the windows like fingers searching for something to grasp. The wind sang against the shutters. Inside, it was quiet. Too quiet. You moved through the chateau with a sort of careful pace, barefoot on cold tile, pretending to be busy. Tidying, tasting, adjusting little things that didn’t need adjusting. Avoiding. Not really. But maybe you were. You hadn’t seen him since earlier, since your voice whispered his name half-asleep against his chest. Since he teased you after his run. Since his eyes looked at you like it meant something. Maybe it did. Maybe that was the problem. You’d stayed in the kitchen longer than needed. You didn’t check if he was in the living room. You didn’t pass the rooms you knew where he might be. You didn’t walk too loudly in case he heard you. And Kylian, Kylian noticed. He felt the silence like thunder. Every absence of your footsteps, every chair that stayed tucked, every plate you left for someone else to clear. You weren’t running. Not exactly. But you weren’t close. And the storm hadn’t passed.

—

The wind had picked up. You moved to close the window before the storm got worse, but it resisted, the frame swollen in the heat. You tugged harder, frustrated, bare feet pressing into the cool tiled floor. The linen of your shorts clung faintly to your thighs in the damp air, and your thin cotton tee twisted under your arms with the effort. And then, you weren’t alone. You felt him before you saw him. The quietest step, the shift of air behind you, a presence filling the space. You didn’t need to turn. Your breath hitched. Kylian. He came up behind you slowly, his voice soft, almost amused. 

“You’re fighting it like it insulted you.” You exhaled, not laughing, not speaking. Just… still. He was too close, and not close enough. Your hand was still on the latch when his reached forward, covering it with his own. He smelled of something you wanted and warm skin, the faintest trace of cologne, soaked into the collar of his t-shirt. You could feel the heat rolling off him. Together, without a word, you pulled the window shut. The click echoed, quiet and final. But neither of you moved. You could feel the space where your shoulders brushed. His breath touched the top of your spine. His fingers, still lightly over yours, trembled once. You turned slowly, too slowly. Your back met the closed window, and he didn’t back away. Your eyes met his in the dim, storm-lit room. The silence was a tension. A held note. And the storm outside was only echoing what thundered in your chest. His eyes scanned your face, then lower, your lips, your neck, the soft rise of your chest beneath your tank. And then he looked away, just for a second, jaw tightening like he’d caught himself in a thought too dangerous to say out loud.

“Merci,” you whispered, breath catching. He looked back at you. Something in him softened and sharpened at once.

“You should be more careful,” he murmured. “Open windows like that…”

“What about them?” Your brows lifted, earnest, although maybe taunting. 

“Someone might find their way in.” His voice dropped. The air was too thick now. His hand was still near yours. Not touching. But your skin burned from where he had been.

“There’s no one out here… We’re forty-five minutes outside Aix en Provence.” You tilted your head earnestly. 

“I know… just me and you here.” He purred, padded by a crack of thunder. Rain continuing to patter lightly against the glass behind you. And just like that, he stepped back. Only a few inches. But enough. You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. And he gave you a look that felt like a question he didn’t expect you to answer. Then he turned, slow, deliberate, and left the room. You stood there a moment longer, hand still on the window, chest rising and falling too fast. This was dangerous. This was nothing. This was everything.

•

Thank you so much for reading! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and look forward to what's ahead!

Be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think, s'il te plaît !!

Next Part - Chapitre 2 | Coming Soon!

⚜️🍽️🥖🌾 🪿🧈🤍🍾✨

[masn-mount]

‘Slow Burn’

[Kylian Mbappé x Reader]

Summary: Hidden in Provence, surrounded by fields of lavender and the golden haze of early summer, you leave behind Paris to take a job as a private chef at a secluded chateau, craving nothing more than the quiet comfort of your craft working for a non disclosed athlete. But when the door opens, it’s not just any athlete...it’s Kylian, his presence as magnetic as the heat rolling off the stove. You tell yourself to stay composed, to keep your heart steady, but feelings bubble over like water left too long to boil. He’s nothing like you expected, beneath the charm and fame are delicate layers, soft and surprising, much like the croissants you make him each morning. And as storms sweep across the countryside, trapping you in the warm glow of him, you realize some fires aren’t meant to be controlled, they’re meant to consume you.

Fashion Index: For all Y/N's looks! No more bad links!

Index:

Chapitre 1- 'The Storm' | Coming Soon✨

Warnings: This series is 18+ MDNI [ smut, drinking - not sure what else really… if i miss anything please lmk!]

Note: Thank you so so much for reading! I really hope you enjoy my first Kyky fic! Be sure to like, comment, or message me what you think of the series s'il te plaît !!

I love love love to hear from you!!

⚜️🍽️🥖🌾 🪿🧈🤍🍾✨

[masn-mount]

Girls Need Love: A Kylian Mbappè x Original Character Erotic Series.

18+ Minors DNI

Chapter 34

A last-minute invite to sit courtside at the NBA Summer League finals cut Kylian and Giselle's time in Georgia with her family by two days.

As one of Nike's biggest ambassadors and a face transcending football, his presence was intentional and came at a hefty sum.

The final between Chicago and Los Angeles was to be held in the city of angels, a place that Giselle called home yet hadn't stayed in for longer than a few weeks at a time in months since meeting Kylian.

“It feels strange having you here,” Giselle smirked, her eyes narrowing playfully as she observed Kylian occupying her space. He lounged in an armchair across from her, the top half of his body bare, while wearing only a pair of Calvin Klein boxers and basketball shorts that hung low on his hips.

Giselle's eyes roamed appreciatively over Kylian's muscular physique, a slow smile spreading across her face. "We’re always together, but I've gotten used to being in your space in Madrid and Paris."

The sight of Kylian sprawled out in her living room, his chiseled abs and broad shoulders on full display, sent a flutter through Giselle's chest. She loved how at ease he was, even in a place that was still somewhat new to him.

She set her mug of herbal tea down on the coffee table and rose gracefully from the couch, her body moving with a sensual rhythm as she approached him. The silky robe she wore clung to her curves, the deep V-neckline offering a tantalizing peek at her ample cleavage.

Giselle approached Kylian with a confident sway in her hips, her hazel eyes gleaming with a playful spark. As she reached him, she placed a hand on his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his sun-kissed skin.

"But you're always welcome to come and hide out in my little corner of the world," she purred, crawling into Kylian's lap so she could straddle him.

Kylian's breath hitched as Giselle's warm body pressed against his, her curves fitting perfectly into the contours of his own. His hands instinctively found her backside, fingers digging into her soft flesh as he pulled her closer, the heat of her seeping through the crotch of her thong.

Kylian's eyes darkened with desire as Giselle's body melded against his, her warmth igniting a fire within him. A low, approving growl rumbled in his chest, and his grip on her hips tightened possessively.

"Mmm, I like the sound of that, mon amour," he murmured, his voice rough with want as he raised his hand, lazily smacking it on her ass.

Giselle let out a soft gasp as Kylian's hand connected with her ass, the sharp sting sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core. She rolled her hips, grinding against his growing arousal, a satisfied smile playing on her lips.

"I enjoyed spending time with my family," she whispered, her breath hot against his ear. "But I like having you all to myself, with no interruptions, no distractions. Just you and me, in my living room, wrapped up in each other."

Giselle's hands roamed over Kylian's chest, her nails lightly scratching against his skin as she traced the defined muscles of his abs. She leaned in, her lips brushing against his in a featherlight kiss, her tongue darting out to tease the seam of his lips.

Without warning, Kylian tugged at the sash of Giselle's robe, untying it to reveal her beautiful body beneath as he pulled the silk from its loops.

“You’re so beautiful,” he drawled, pushing the robe off her shoulders and leaving her in nothing but a thong.

Kylian's eyes roamed hungrily over Giselle's exposed body, drinking in every inch of her flawless skin and tantalizing curves. The sight of her, bare and vulnerable in his lap, made his pulse quicken and his arousal throb with need. He could feel the heat radiating from her, the soft swell of her breasts rising and falling with each breath, begging to be touched and tasted.

"At my mercy" he whispered, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear, as he bucked his hips up into hers as he ground his ever-hardening cock against her thong-clad pussy.

“Can you squat on me, mon amour?” Kylian drawled, his mind running wild with possibilities.

Giselle's breath hitched as Kylian's words sent a jolt of excitement through her. The way he commanded her, the rough timbre of his voice, it all set her body ablaze with desire. She nodded eagerly, her hazel eyes darkening with lust as she began to rise from his lap.

Giselle's heart raced with anticipation as she positioned herself above Kylian, her knees bracketing his hips as she slowly lowered herself onto his lap. The rough fabric of his basketball shorts grazed against her sensitive skin, igniting a fire within her as she settled onto his firm thighs.

She could feel the hard length of him pressing against her core, the friction sending tremors of pleasure coursing through her veins. Giselle's hands found their way to Kylian's broad shoulders, her nails digging into his skin as she began to move, rolling her hips in a slow, sensual rhythm over his clothed cock.

“Fuck,” Kylian groaned, deep and gruttal as his hand snaked between Giselle's thighs and over her covered pussy, relishing in the wetness and warmth of her.

Kylian's fingers deftly worked the damp fabric of Giselle's thong to the side, exposing her most intimate folds to his touch. He let out a low, appreciative growl as he felt her slick arousal coating his fingertips, his cock twitching in response.

"Already so wet for me, mon amour," he rasped, his voice thick with desire as he spanked her pussy.

Giselle gasped, her back arching as Kylian's hand connected with her sensitive flesh, the sharp sting of the spank sending a jolt of pleasure straight to her core. Her hips bucked involuntarily, seeking more of his touch.

"Yes, always for you," she breathed, her voice a needy whimper as she ground herself against his hand, her slick arousal coating his fingers. "I'm yours, Kylian, only yours."

Giselle's head fell back, her hair cascading down her back as she surrendered to the pleasure, her body moving instinctively, riding his hand with unrestrained lust.

“Mine to fuck and play with?” Kylian drawled.

Giselle's breath came in short, needy gasps as Kylian's fingers worked their magic, stoking the flames of her desire to an inferno. The combination of his rough touch and the filthy words that tumbled from his lips sent her spiraling towards the edge, her body trembling with the force of her impending release.

"Yes, Kylian, yours," she panted, her hips moving in a desperate rhythm, chasing the pleasure only he could give her. "I'm yours to play with, to touch, to tease. Do whatever you want with me."

Kylian's lips curled into a wicked smirk, his eyes darkening with lust as he watched Giselle unravel beneath his touch. He could feel her slick arousal coating his fingers, her body quivering with need as he brought her closer to the brink.

"Such a good girl, so eager to please," Kylian growled, his voice a low, seductive purr. "Go and get the vibrator from your nightstand and bring it for me,” he smirked knowingly.

Giselle's breath hitched at Kylian's command, a delicious tremor of excitement coursing through her body. She eagerly complied, sliding off his lap and padding towards the bedroom, her body moving with a sensual rhythm. Her mind raced with anticipation, the thought of Kylian's hands and mouth on her, combined with the vibrations of the toy, made her core tighten.

She returned moments later, the vibrator clutched in her hand, a sultry smile playing on her lips. "Got it," she purred, sauntering back to Kylian, her hips swaying seductively.

“I want you to play with yourself for me,” he explained. “Show me how you make that perfect little pussy cum when you're alone.”

Giselle's eyes widened at Kylian's request, a flush creeping up her neck and settling on her cheeks. The thought of pleasuring herself in front of him, of baring her most intimate desires, sent a thrill through her body. She bit her lip, nodding slowly as she climbed back onto his lap.

With trembling hands, Giselle brought the vibrator to her lips, kissing it softly before trailing it down her neck and chest. She circled it around her hardened nipples, arching into the sensation as a soft moan escaped her lips. Kylian's intense gaze followed her every move, his pupils dilated with desire.

Slowly, Giselle guided the toy lower, over the flat plane of her stomach and between her thighs. She spread herself open with one hand, revealing her glistening folds to Kylian's hungry eyes. With a press of a button, the vibrator hummed to life.

Giselle gasped as she pressed the buzzing tip against her clit, circling it slowly.

Her back arched, pushing her breasts forward as she lost herself in the intense sensation. "Oh, Daddy," she moaned, her voice breathy with need. "This feels so good, knowing you're watching me."

Kylian's eyes were riveted, his pupils dilated with lust as he watched Giselle pleasure herself. The way she writhed and moaned, completely lost in ecstasy, was the most erotic sight he had ever seen. He could feel his arousal throbbing, straining against the confines of his shorts.

"Put it inside, mon amour," Kylian growled, his voice rough with desire. "Let me watch you fuck yourself."

Giselle's breath hitched at Kylian's command, a jolt of excitement coursing through her. With a shaky hand, she guided the vibrator to her entrance, gasping as she slowly pushed it inside.

"How does it feel, mon amour?” he quizzed.

Giselle's eyes fluttered shut, her body trembling as she slowly pushed the vibrator deeper, stretching her tight walls. "So good," she whimpered, her voice breathy and laden with desire. "But I want your cock.”

Kylian's eyes darkened with lust as he watched Giselle slowly impale herself on the vibrator, her tight walls stretching around the buzzing toy. The sight of her, lost in pleasure, was enough to drive him wild with need.

"Greedy little thing, aren't you?" Kylian growled, his voice a low, seductive purr. "You want my cock, mon amour? Want me to fill that tight little pussy with my thick, hard cock?"

Giselle's breath hitched, a whimper escaping her lips as she nodded eagerly. "Yes, Kylian, please," she begged, her hips moving in a desperate rhythm, fucking herself on the vibrator. "I need you inside me, filling me, stretching me. I need to feel you, all of you."

Kylian's cock throbbed at Giselle's words, his arousal straining against his shorts. With a low growl, he tugged at the waistband, pushing his shorts and boxers down, freeing his thick, hard length.

"Take it out and put it in your mouth," he commanded, his voice rough with desire.

Giselle eagerly complied, her eyes locking with Kylian's as she slid off his lap and onto the floor. She crawled towards him, her body moving with a sensual grace, the vibrator still buzzing between her legs.

"Mmm, like this, Daddy?" Giselle purred, her voice a breathy whisper as she licked her lips, her eyes never leaving his. She reached out, her delicate fingers wrapping around the base of his thick shaft, stroking him slowly as she leaned in, her hot breath ghosting over his sensitive skin.

Kylian groaned, his head falling back as Giselle's soft hand wrapped around his cock, her touch sending electric jolts of pleasure through his body. "Fuck, yes," he rasped, his hips bucking slightly, seeking more of her touch. “Make a mess on my cock.”

Giselle's tongue darted out, swirling around the tip of his cock, lapping up the bead of precum that had formed. She hummed in approval, the vibrations sending a jolt of pleasure straight to Kylian's core.

Slowly, teasingly, Giselle took Kylian's thick length into her mouth, her soft lips stretching around his girth as she took him inch by inch. She maintained eye contact, her hazel eyes dark with lust as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper with each pass.

"Mmm," Giselle moaned around his cock, the vibrations of her voice sending waves of pleasure coursing through Kylian's body. She swirled her tongue around his shaft, her hand pumping what she couldn't fit in her mouth.

Kylian's hand tangled in Giselle's hair, guiding her movements as he thrust his hips forward, fucking her mouth. The sight of her, on her knees, the vibrator still buzzing between her legs as she pleasured him, was enough to drive him wild with desire.

"Fuck, mon amour, you look so beautiful with your lips wrapped around my cock," Kylian growled, his voice rough with pleasure. "Such a good girl, taking me so deep."

Giselle moaned, the vibrations of her voice sending a jolt of pleasure straight to Kylian's core. She could feel the heat building in her body, the buzz of the vibrator between her legs driving her closer to the edge.

"Mmm, yes, Daddy," Giselle purred, her voice muffled around his cock as she bobbed her head, taking him deeper as a combination of his arousal and her saliva dripped from her chin onto her chest, her throat constricting around his thick length. She could feel his hips thrusting, fucking her mouth, and it only served to fuel her desire.

With a low growl, Kylian tugged Giselle off his cock, a string of saliva connecting her lips to the tip. He pulled her up, crashing his lips against hers in a searing kiss, his tongue delving into her mouth, tasting himself on her.

"On the couch, now," he commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Giselle eagerly complied, her body moving with a sensual grace as she crawled onto the couch, positioning herself on her hands and knees. She looked back at Kylian over her shoulder, her eyes dark with lust, her body trembling with anticipation.

"Come and take what's yours, Daddy," Giselle purred, her voice a seductive whisper as she arched her back, pushing her ass up, presenting herself to Kylian. "I need you inside me."

Kylian's eyes darkened with lust as he drank in the sight of Giselle, her body on display, ready and waiting for him. He could see her slick arousal coating her thighs, her pussy dripping with need.

With a low growl, Kylian moved behind her, his hands gripping her hips possessively. He positioned himself at her entrance, his thick cock nudging against her wet folds.

"Beg for it, mon amour," Kylian commanded, his voice a rough rasp as he rubbed the head of his cock against her clit, teasing her, stoking the fire within her. "Beg me to fuck you, to fill this tight little pussy with my cock."

Giselle's breath hitched, a desperate whimper escaping her lips as Kylian's cock teased her entrance, instead of begging verbally, she reached back spreading herself open for him.

“Stay just like that,” he groaned, catching his bottom lip between his teeth as he tapped the heavy tip of his cock directly on her entrance, her arousal coating him.

“Fuck,” Kylian roared as he inched forward, slowly filling Giselle to the hilt as she reached for a decorated Hermes couch pillow, biting down on the luxurious thread count.

Kylian's thick length stretched Giselle deliciously, filling her completely as he bottomed out. She gasped around the pillow, her fingers digging into the plush fabric as she adjusted to his size.

"Daddy," she moaned, her voice muffled by the pillow as she pushed back against him, eager for more. "You feel so fucking perfect."

Kylian groaned at Giselle's words, reaching for her so she could pull her body up from the sofa. His hand splayed across her taut stomach as he held her in place, fucking her from behind as the other pushed the pillow to the floor.

Guiding Giselle to her feet as he stood, Kylian led from behind, his cock buried inside of her as they moved together back into Giselle's bedroom.

He took a seat on the end of her bed, sitting directly across from the full-length mirror mounted on the wall, and pulled her into his lap.

Kylian positioned Giselle so she was facing the mirror, her back pressed against his chest, his thick length still buried deep inside her. He wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close as he gazed at their reflection.

"Spread your legs," he murmured, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

Giselle’s breath hitched as Kylian’s words sent a shiver down her spine. She didn't need to be told twice. With a slow, deliberate movement, she widened her legs, showcasing the curve of her hips and the fullness of her breasts and the stretch of her pussy around his cock.

Giselle's breath hitched as Kylian's hands roamed her body, his fingers trailing over her sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. She could feel his cock throbbing inside her, stretching her deliciously as he ground against her back, his eyes locked on their reflection in the mirror.

"Look at us, mon amour," Kylian growled, his voice rough with desire as he thrust up into her, his hands moving to cup her breasts, kneading the soft flesh. "Look how perfectly we fit together, how your body takes me so well."

Giselle's head fell back against Kylian's shoulder, a soft moan escaping her lips as he filled her completely. The sight of their bodies joined, the way his hands roamed her curves, sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her core.

A chill ran the length of Giselle’s spine as his fingers found her clit, rubbing in a slow circle before bringing them to her lips.

Giselle's breath hitched as Kylian's words registered, a thrill of excitement coursing through her. She eagerly complied, lifting her legs and placing her feet on his thighs, opening herself even further to him. The new position allowed him to go even deeper, the tip of his cock kissing her cervix with each thrust.

"Oh, fuck," Giselle gasped, her eyes fluttering shut as she savored the intense sensation. "Kylian, you're so deep."

Kylian groaned in approval as Giselle lifted her legs, giving him an even better angle to plunge into her tight pussy.

Everything about the sight of them in the mirror's reflection was pornographic, it was a game of give and take, surrender and control.

Kylian's hands gripped Giselle's hips tightly as he thrust into her, his pace becoming more urgent and desperate. The sight of her legs spread wide, her back arched as she took him deeper, was driving him wild with lust.

"Look at you, taking my cock so well," Kylian growled, his voice a low, seductive purr. "Such a good girl, spreading yourself open for me like this."

Giselle's breath came in short, needy gasps as Kylian filled her, his thick length stretching her walls deliciously. The pleasure was overwhelming, the combination of his words and the sight of their bodies joined in the mirror pushing her closer to the edge.

"Ah, Kylian, yes, just like that," Giselle moaned, her voice breathy and laden with desire. "Your cock feels so good inside me."

Her hands roamed over her body, cupping her breasts, tweaking her nipples as she ground down on Kylian's cock, meeting his thrusts with a desperation that bordered on feral.

The sight of them in the mirror, the way their bodies moved in sync, was the most erotic thing Giselle had ever seen. She could see the pleasure etched on Kylian's face, his eyes dark with lust as he watched her, as he claimed her, owned her.

"Fuck, mon amour, you're so tight," Kylian growled, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper into Giselle's dripping cunt. "Your pussy feels like heaven."

His hands moved to her clit, rubbing the sensitive nub in slow, teasing circles, sending jolts of pleasure shooting through Giselle's body.

"Come for me, Giselle," Kylian's voice was a low, commanding growl, his fingers moving faster, more insistently on Giselle's clit. He could feel her walls tightening around him, her body trembling as she climbed higher, closer to the edge.

Giselle's breath came in short, desperate gasps as Kylian's fingers worked her clit, the pleasure building to a crescendo. Her nails dug into her thighs, her hips moving in a desperate rhythm as she chased her release.

"Yes, Kylian, yes!" she cried out, her voice echoing off the walls as her orgasm crashed over her. Her back arched, her head falling back against Kylian's shoulder as wave after wave of ecstasy washed over her, her pussy contracting around his cock, milking him, begging for his release.

Kylian groaned, the sensation of Giselle's pussy tightening around him pushing him closer to the edge. He could feel his release building, his hips snapping forward, driving his cock deeper, chasing his pleasure.

"Fuck, Giselle, you feel so good," Kylian growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back.

His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips as he pounded into her, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room, mixing with their moans and gasps of pleasure.

"Cum with me, mon amour," Kylian demanded, his voice a rough rasp as he felt his orgasm approaching. "I want to feel your pussy milking my cock, squeezing every last drop of my cum."

Giselle whimpered, her body still trembling from the aftermath of her release, but the sound of Kylian's voice, the feel of his cock stretching her, was enough to reignite the fire in her belly.

"Yes, Kylian, yes!" she cried out, her hips moving in a desperate rhythm, meeting his thrusts, urging him on. "Fill me, Daddy. Fill me with your cum. I want to feel you, all of you."

Kylian's grip tightened, his fingers leaving bruises on Giselle's skin as he drove into her, his pace becoming more erratic, more desperate.

"Fuck, Giselle, I'm going to cum," he growled, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of trying to prolong the exquisite pleasure that was building within him.

Giselle could feel Kylian's cock throbbing inside her, the veins along his shaft pulsing against her sensitive walls. The knowledge that he was so close, that she was the one driving him to the brink of ecstasy, sent a fresh wave of arousal coursing through her body.

"Yes, Kylian, yes!" she cried out, her voice a desperate, needy moan. "Cum inside me, fill me up. I want to feel your hot seed filling my pussy, marking me as yours."

Her words seemed to be the catalyst Kylian needed, his body tensing, his hips snapping forward one last time as he buried himself as deep as he could go.

"Giselle!" Kylian roared, his voice a guttural groan as his orgasm crashed over him.

His cock pulsed and throbbed, his hot seed spilling deep inside her, filling her, marking her, just as she had begged him to do.

Giselle's body convulsed as she felt Kylian's hot cum filling her, the sensation of his seed coating her walls, claiming her, pushing her over the edge once more. She cried out, her voice a desperate, needy moan as her pussy squeezed him, milking him, wanting every last drop.

"Yes, Daddy, yes!" she gasped, her body trembling, her breath coming in short, desperate pants. "Fill me up."

Their bodies remained locked together, Kylian's cock still buried deep inside Giselle as they both rode out the aftershocks of their intense orgasms.

Slowly, their breathing returned to normal, their heart rates slowing, the sweat cooling on their skin. Kylian pressed soft, gentle kisses along Giselle's shoulder, her neck, her jaw, before capturing her lips in a tender, loving kiss.

Giselle melted into the kiss, her body still tingling with the afterglow of their passionate encounter. She could feel Kylian's strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close, and she savored the intimacy of the moment.

As they slowly came down from their high, Giselle felt a sense of contentment wash over her. She turned in Kylian's embrace, her arms snaking around his neck as she gazed into his eyes, a soft, satisfied smile on her lips.

"That was incredible, baby," she murmured, her voice a breathy whisper. "I love you."

Kylian's eyes gleamed with a playful spark as he brushed a stray lock of hair from Giselle's face, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

"I love you too, my sweet Giselle," Kylian murmured, his voice warm with affection. He placed a tender kiss on her forehead, then slowly, reluctantly, withdrew from her warmth.

“Lie back on the bed, I want to watch my cum drip out of you,” Giselle's breath hitched at Kylian's words, a fresh wave of arousal coursing through her at the erotic image he painted. She felt a delicious ache between her thighs, her pussy still fluttering from the intensity of their lovemaking.

"Yes, Daddy," she breathed, her voice a sultry purr as she slowly lowered herself onto the bed, her legs parting, giving Kylian an unobstructed view of her dripping, wellfucked pussy.

Kylian's eyes darkened with lust as he took in the sight before him, his cock already stirring back to life. He could see his cum seeping out of Giselle's well-used hole, a small trickle of white running down her inner thigh. The sight was almost too much to bear, and he felt a primal urge to claim her all over again.

"Look at that, mon amour," Kylian murmured, his voice a low, seductive rasp as he ran a finger along the trail of cum, gathering it on his fingertip. "Look at how well I've filled you."

Giselle's hazel eyes shone with a blend of love and lust as she gazed up at Kylian, her voice a breathy whisper. "Softly, baby," she murmured, her hands coming up to cup his face, her fingers tracing the strong line of his jaw.

Kylian's heart swelled at the tender touch, at the soft, loving look in Giselle's eyes. He felt a wave of emotion wash over him, a deep, abiding love for this incredible woman who had captured his heart so completely.

"Softly," he echoed, his voice a gentle caress as he leaned down, pressing a tender, loving kiss to Giselle's lips as he took her again.

Hours later Giselle and Kylian buzzed around her apartment as they prepared for the summer league final, and despite the sated hum her body still possessed from the earlier tryst, her mind ran wild.

Kylian had been invited by the NBA to attend the Summer League Final, a very public event, in which they’d both been given courtside seats.

There would be an abundance of cameras and media outlets present, and while they were both completely secure in their relationship, the idea of it becoming common knowledge as two people in the public eye was undeniably a little daunting.

Kylian looked up from tying his shoelaces, a small smile playing on his lips as he watched Giselle move about her apartment taking in the curves of her delicate waist in the simple crop tee and low-rise baggy jeans she wore, her hair in soft waves, and her makeup soft and subtle.

The gentle sway of her hips as she moved from one room to another caught his attention, and he felt a familiar warmth spread through him. There was something about Giselle, the way she carried herself with confidence and grace, that always drew him in.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice low and teasing as he leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.

Giselle turned to him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Almost,” she replied, a playful grin spreading across her face. “Just need to grab my purse and we can head out.”

Kylian watched as she darted into her living room, and he couldn't help but admire the way her jeans hugged her curves. The image of her splayed across the bed, glowing in the aftermath of their sex, flashed through his mind, and he felt his desire stir once again.

But as he looked at her his smile faltered, as he felt nerves radiating from her as she stepped past him.

“Giselle,” he murmured softly, his hand wrapping around her wrist as he caught her.

She turned to him, her expression a mix of surprise and uncertainty. "What is it?" she asked, her voice softening as she met his gaze.

Kylian could see the flicker of anxiety in her eyes, the weight of their public appearance looming over her like a shadow. He felt a swell of affection and protectiveness wash over him. "You don't have to pretend with me, you know," he said gently, his thumb soothingly brushing over her wrist. "If you're feeling overwhelmed about tonight, we can take a moment."

Giselle exhaled slowly, a hint of a smile returning to her lips as she appreciated his thoughtfulness. "It's just... a lot of eyes, Kylian. The cameras, the media... people are going to find out about us, it will be impossible to hide."

On paper, the matchup between an international football superstar and a model/actress ticked all the boxes, but Giselle knew well.

The was a constant scrutiny that Kylian was constantly under, the weighted burden that came with being Kylian Mbappe and the last thing she wanted was to add to that pressure.

Kylian's expression softened, his grip on her wrist tightening ever so slightly in a show of support. "I know it can be scary, but above all; I love you and I want you, and if you are comfortable with it, I'd like the world to know.” He stood up, gently pulling Giselle closer as he pressed his lips to hers.

Giselle melted into the kiss, feeling the warmth and reassurance of Kylian's words wash over her. His lips were soft against hers, igniting a sense of calm within her amidst the swirling nerves.

"I love you too," she murmured against his mouth, her heart swelling with affection. "I just want to make sure we're ready for this. It's a big step."

Kylian pulled back slightly, his gaze searching hers as he nodded in understanding. "We’ll take it one step at a time. Together," he promised, his voice steady and reassuring. "And if it becomes too much at any point, we can walk away. Just say the word."

Giselle smiled, feeling a wave of gratitude for his unwavering support. He made her feel safe, even in the face of potential scrutiny. "Okay," she said softly, her confidence bolstered by his words. "Let's do this."

With a final shared kiss, they stepped away from each other, both ready to face the world hand in hand. Giselle grabbed her purse and slung it over her shoulder, and together they made their way out of the apartment, the anticipation of the night ahead buzzing in the air.

As they arrived at the venue, the excitement was palpable. The atmosphere was electric, filled with fans milling about, the sounds of basketballs bouncing, and cheers echoing through the arena. Kylian and Giselle navigated through the crowd, his hand firmly clasped around hers, grounding her amidst the chaos.

They made their way to the courtside seats, and Giselle took a deep breath as they settled in. The camera flashes were instantaneous, capturing the moment they arrived. She could feel the weight of the lenses on them, but Kylian seemed unbothered, his focus on her as he leaned in close.

"Just be yourself," he whispered, his breath warm against her ear. "I’m right here with you."

Giselle nodded, drawing strength from his presence. She could feel the excitement bubbling within her, and as the game began, she found herself getting lost in the action on the court. Kylian was animated beside her, cheering for his favorite team, and she couldn't help but smile at his enthusiastic spirit.

As the game progressed, Giselle let go of her nerves, allowing herself to be swept up in the moment. The energy of the crowd, the thrill of the game, and the warmth of Kylian's arm around her shoulders made her feel alive.

But it was during halftime, as they both took a moment to breathe and sip on drinks, that the reality of their relationship hit her all over again. Cameras flickered around them, fans pointing and whispering, and Giselle suddenly felt vulnerable.

Kylian must have sensed her shift in mood, as he turned to her, his expression serious yet gentle. "Hey, look at me," he said, tilting her chin up so their eyes met. "No matter what they say or do, remember that you are incredible and I’m proud to be with you. You’re not alone in this."

His words settled her racing heart, and she nodded, a genuine smile breaking through. "Thank you, Kylian. I really appreciate you."

They shared a tender kiss, momentarily blocking out the world around them. When they finally pulled apart, Giselle felt a renewed sense of confidence. She was ready for whatever the night would throw at them.

As the second half of the game commenced, the two of them cheered for the players, laughed at the antics of the crowd, and shared playful banter. The chemistry and connection between them were undeniable, and it was clear to anyone watching that they were utterly captivated by one another.

By the time the final buzzer went off, signaling the end of the game, Giselle felt exhilarated. The Chicago team had won, and Kylian was ecstatic, jumping up and down, cheering loudly.

Giselle laughed, caught up in his excitement, and as they celebrated together, she realized that this was just the beginning of their journey. No matter the challenges they faced, they would face them together, and that made all the difference.

Hand in hand, they exited the arena, ready to embrace whatever came next, fully aware that their love was worth every moment of scrutiny and attention.

After dinner at one of her favorite Chinese restaurants in the city, Giselle and Kylian returned to her apartment stripping out of their clothes and crawling back into Giselle’s bed, falling into each other in a tangle of lips and tongues.

“You taste good,” Giselle hummed against Kylian’s lips before sitting up in the bed, straddling his lap while his hands rested on her bare thighs as she bundled into one of his hoodies.

“You feel good,” Kyliam lazily drawled. “Being out with you felt good,” he continued.

“Even with all the cameras?” Giselle asked, raising an eyebrow and teasingly biting her lip. She leaned forward, letting the fabric of his hoodie slide down her shoulder, exposing a tantalizing glimpse of skin.

Kylian smirked, the corners of his mouth lifting as he gazed into her eyes. “Especially with all the cameras. You made it all worthwhile.” He placed a hand gently on her cheek, his thumb brushing across her lips.

[masn-mount]

SECRETS. 05

“Shattered Pieces”

How he acts when he is jealous

This series offers a closer, more honest look at Kylian Mbappé. By exploring his habits, routines, and subtle reactions IF HE WERE YOURS, it aims to reflect the real Kylian as accurately as possible: always human.

Content : Jealousy x Angst x Fluff

Kylian’s P.O.V

I knew I shouldn’t have come. Hell, I shouldn’t have let her come in the first place.

But no, brilliant move, Kylian. Hand-deliver your fiancée to reunite with an old university “friend” and then sit there like a damn fool while they relive their glory days. Genius. Truly.

Round of applause for the idiot fiancé.

From the moment I walked into that restaurant and saw her greeting him , hand lightly brushing his arm as she laughed, something in my chest tightened.

Her laugh is mine.

Now it felt like a performance I hadn’t been invited to.

I slid into the seat beside her, but she barely acknowledged me. Her attention was glued to Yohan, who hadn’t seen her in what? Two years? Three?

Apparently that was enough reason for him to sit across from us like he still had a place at her table, and for her to let him.

“You haven’t changed at all,” Yohan said, grinning at her like they were in some cheesy throwback montage. “Still ordering that boring fettuccine pasta.”

She laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear. “Some things are just timeless.”

He winked. “Like your laugh. I swear I heard it from across the room and thought, yep, that’s still her.”

She blushed. Blushed.

Right in front of me.

I forced a laugh through gritted teeth. “Timeless pasta. Classic topic.”

Neither of them noticed. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care.

Yohan kept going. “Remember that one time you nearly got us kicked out of lecture for sneaking donuts in your bag?”

“Oh my god, yes!” she said, lighting up like he’d just recited her favorite memory. “And you blamed it on me!”

“You were the guilty one,” he teased, scrunching his nose at her playfully.

They burst into laughter, like gravity was pulling them together.

I stared at my glass of water like it might save me from drowning.

“You two were something else,” I muttered under my breath.

Yohan raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I said, too sharply. “Just enjoying the… nostalgia trip.”

He smiled, oblivious. “Uni days were the best, huh?”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice flat. “Especially when an old friend is third-wheeling a date.”

Her head snapped toward me then, widening her eyes at me. “Kylian—”

I didn’t even look at her. I couldn’t. The way she was glowing for him, this soft, breezy version of herself I hadn’t seen in weeks, it gutted me. And worse, it was all for someone else.

They talked through the entire dinner. Not once did she reach for my hand. Not once did she ask if I was okay.

I was invisible, just there to foot the bill and watch her give another man the parts of her I’d fought to hold on to.

When he stood to leave, he pulled her into a hug. Tight. Familiar. Way too long.

“You were always the best part of uni,” he murmured, not even whispering. “Still are.”

I waited for her to step back. To roll her eyes. To flinch, at least.

But she smiled.

She actually smiled.

I swear something inside me cracked.

And now we were home.

If this suffocating quiet and thick air tasted anything like home, then maybe I didn’t want it anymore.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said softly, almost like a peace offering, slipping off her heels with that unbothered grace that drove me insane. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong? Is she serious??

I looked at her like she was a stranger , or worse, like I was. My heart was hammering. My thoughts weren’t just cruel, they were venomous.

“You really have to ask?”

She frowned, caught off guard. “Kylian—”

“You were all over him.”

“What?” she said, the disbelief in her voice almost laughable. “Yohan? We were just talking—”

“You didn’t even fit me in,” I snapped, stepping toward her. “You ignored me the entire night.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, what’s not fair,” I cut her off, voice louder than I meant it to be, “is sitting across from the girl I love while she throws herself into someone else’s past like I was never part of her present.”

Her lips parted, but no words came , only a flicker of raw pain flashing across her face, the kind that said she’d just realized, from my voice alone, that this wasn’t a small thing. It cut me.. deeply.

Still, I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. The part of me that bled jealousy and insecurity had taken the wheel.

“You let him talk to you like that,” I bit out. “Like he had a chance. And you just sat there, smiling, laughing, eating it up like you missed being wanted by him.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel like that Ky, I am sorry…” she said quietly, voice cracking on the edges. “I didn’t even think—”

“No, you weren’t thinking,” I hissed. “You were doing what you always do. Needing attention and validation. Craving them. From anyone who looks your way.”

Silence. The second the words left my mouth, I knew.

God, I knew.

Her body went rigid, like I’d slapped her. Her breath hitched ,not a gasp, not a sob, just a broken little inhale that sounded like the wind had been knocked out of her. Her eyes shimmered, and in that instant, I saw it.

I hadn’t just hurt her.

I’d shattered something.

Something soft. Something sacred. And she didn’t even speak. She didn’t have to. Because the look on her face said it all.

I hadn’t just lashed out.

I’d humiliated her.

And worst of all?

A part of me wanted her to feel that exact kind of ache…Until , until I saw it.

Until it was too late.

“Wow,” she whispered, barely audible. Her voice sounded like it was breaking in two. “You really think that’s who I am?”

I froze. Useless. Paralyzed by my own cruelty.

She turned away, like facing me any longer would shatter her entirely. But the tears came anyway, silent and merciless. She wiped them quickly, trying to stay composed, like she was afraid of giving me the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

“I left that dinner early because I saw how upset you looked,” she said quietly, still not turning around. “I knew something was wrong. I came home wanting to fix it. I was ready to apologize, hell I actually did apologize … even though I didn’t do anything.”

Each word was a dagger in my gut.

“But you didn’t want to fix it,” she continued, shaking her head. “You wanted to punish me. You waited until I let my guard down… just so you could hurt me.”

“I didn’t mean it,” I said instantly, stepping forward. “I swear—”

“You meant it,” she said, finally facing me again , her eyes red, her voice cracked open. “You wouldn’t have said it if you didn’t believe it. You didn’t just doubt me… you disrespected me.”

I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That I’d said it because I was scared. Because I was drowning in my own insecurities and too stubborn to say so. But all I could do was stand there …exposed, ashamed, guilty.

“I would never do what you accused me of,” she said, her voice trembling with more anger now. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just devastated. “Because when I love, I give everything. I lose track of the world around me. That’s how I love you. And not once, not once, have I ever made you feel like you had to compete for me.”

She wiped another tear away, but this time it didn’t help. Her whole face said I’m tired. “But tonight, you just said what you truly felt about me ..out loud”

“No,” I said quickly, stepping closer. “Don’t say that. Please don’t—”

She laughed bitterly, and I hated it more than anything. It was the sound of someone who had stopped hoping. “You really think I wanted attention from him? The only person I was checking for all night… was you. I told every story hoping you’d chime in. I laughed and glanced at you, wishing you’d smile back. But you didn’t. You just stared at me like I was already guilty.”

Her tears came harder now, but she let them fall.

“You sat there waiting for me to mess up,” she whispered, voice breaking. “And when I did , or you thought I did, you went for blood.”

I stepped forward again, and this time, she didn’t move.

“I didn’t mean it,” I said softly, almost choking on the words. “I was angry. Jealous. Scared you’d leave… and I made that your fault.”

She looked up at me , finally. Her eyes were wrecked. Her mascara had smudged, her lips trembling. And still, somehow, she looked like the most beautiful person I’d ever seen.

“You should’ve just said you were scared,” she said. “Instead of making me feel worthless.”

That was it. That line cracked something wide open in me.

I reached for her face, gently brushing away the tears I caused on her beautiful cheeks . “You’re the kindest and the most beautiful person I’ve ever known,” I whispered, my voice barely holding together. “And the only one who makes me feel this much. I’m so sorry I used that to hurt you.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t pull away. But she didn’t lean in either. The silence between us felt like a judgment.

“I’ll spend the rest of my life undoing the damage I did tonight… if you let me.”

Her lip trembled. Finally, she looked at me, truly looked at me. She didn’t react, my words didn’t move her, she stayed silent.

God, she stayed silent. The wall was already built. I lost her.

The final kind of heartbreak , the kind that doesn’t slam doors.

It just… closes them. Quietly. Without mercy.

And I felt something in me shatter.

Because she pulled my hands down softly from holding her wet cheeks and turned away, not to leave the apartment, but to go upstairs.

To our bedroom.

To end the conversation, with a silence that felt worse.

Each step she took to the staircase echoed like a countdown to something irreversible.

I knew it. If she walked up to that room, shut that door behind her with all those unspoken words buried in her throat, there’d be no undoing it tomorrow.

The space between us would stretch. Harden. Go quiet.

No.

God Damn it Kylian No.

We can’t end this madness like this.

“Wait,” I breathed , a sound torn from my chest, not a word. Just pain.

She didn’t stop.

My heart kicked against my ribs like it was trying to claw its way out.

I saw the back of her , shoulders rigid, fists clenched at her sides like she was holding herself together with thread.

“Please… don’t end this conversation this way” I said again, louder now, my voice breaking open. “Don’t go upstairs and shut me out like this.”

Because if she went into that room, if the night ended with the weight of this silence pressing between us, then that would be it.

Something would snap. And it wouldn’t come back.

I moved before I thought. Took the stairs in two long strides and caught her wrist gently. My hand trembled. Not from anger. Not anymore. From panic. From sheer, skin-burning regret.

Her back was still to me, but her body froze. Like the sound of me following shattered something in her spine.

“Please,” I whispered, my voice thick, desperate. “You’re the only thing in my life that feels real. I ruined tonight. I ruined us. But I swear, I’ll spend the rest of my life putting you back together. Just let me try.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t turn around. Just stood there on the staircase, a breath away from our bedroom door. From shutting me out completely.

“I know I don’t deserve it,” I said, voice catching. “But I’ll earn it every damn day. If you just give me that chance.”

She didn’t speak. But her shoulders started to shake. I don’t know if it was from the weight of what I said or from all the hurt she’d swallowed to protect herself from me.

And then, finally…

finally…

she turned.

Her eyes were red. Her cheeks wet. Her lips parted, but no words came. Just this look, this god damn look, like she was barely holding herself upright.

I stepped forward, my hand still holding hers.

I looked at her, at the wreckage I caused. And without thinking, without asking ,I leaned in…

And I kissed her.

Not softly. Not carefully. But like I was begging her to still be mine, to forgive me for whatever I said in anger.

Like I didn’t deserve it ,because I did not, but I needed it all the same.

My lips found hers like a confession, a breakdown, an apology. She tasted like tears. Like pain. Like home.

And when she kissed me back, just for a second, I felt her heart breaking in my hands.

When we pulled apart, our foreheads stayed pressed together.

She didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just breathed me in like it still hurt.

“I didn’t want to end the conversation like that” she whispered, voice hoarse. “But you didn’t give me a reason to stay either.”

My heart cracked down the center.

“I’ll give you reasons to stay,” I whispered, my forehead resting against hers. “One by one. Every day. Until the wondering stops and all that’s left is certainty.”

She exhaled, not quite a sigh, not quite relief. Something in between. Something quiet. Fragile.

This time, I reached for her hand. That small, delicate hand I’ve always adored. My fingers wrapped around hers like I was holding something sacred. And in that moment, I knew.

I’d broke the only thing that kept me breathing.

God, I’m an idiot.

I’ll never forgive myself for today.

But I’ll spend forever trying to fix what came out of my mouth.

Without another word, I swept her into my arms, lifting her effortlessly as we moved toward the stairs. She didn’t resist , just looked at me with that faint smile I’d missed like air.

“You know I have legs, right?” she murmured against my chest.

“I know,” I said, my voice low. “But you also have mine , so you don’t walk unless I’m not breathing anymore to carry you.”

“Don’t say that,” she whispered, wrapping her arms around me, burying her face in the crook of my neck.

And just like that, the ache and guilt in my chest softened.

God, I love this woman.

YAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY , I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT MUAH.

[masn-mount]

Pieces Of Us | Ch.III. — A Different Kind Of Proof

Plot: After a horrible accident, Kylian Mbappé loses one whole year of his memories. Turns out it was the year he met and married you in. Will you be able to win him back?

Trailer: here by the talented @jkkyks

Taglist: @jkkyks @jkkymb-10 @hood-jabi @haartemis

Warnings: none

A/N: I love this fic so much. And I love you even more ❤️

You followed him downstairs. helped him get ready.

And you were both worried.

You knew the questions were coming. The press conference wasn’t just about his return to football. It was about everything. Headlines hadn’t been kind.

You stood behind the doorframe of the media room, half-shadowed, your arms crossed tightly, watching him.

Kylian wasn’t wearing a suit — no polish, no pretense. A black training jacket, zipped halfway, Real Madrid crest sitting bold on his chest. He looked... sharper today. More put together. Less like the man who flinched at light and sound and memory.

You hated how proud that made you.

But you hated even more how far away he still felt.

He checked his phone, ran a hand on his scalp once, then left saying: „Wish me luck!”

You stared at the door long after it clicked shut.

You sat, knees tucked to your chest, screen resting on the coffee table. His voice echoed through the speakers — quiet, calm, rehearsed.

Questions flew. About the injury. About training. About readiness.

He answered like he always had: measured, firm, focused.

Until someone pushed further.

“What about your relationship with your wife?”

Your breath hitched.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look startled. But there was something in the way his jaw shifted, subtle. Like his teeth had pressed together a second too long.

Then he leaned into the mic, and said—

“I don’t see how my relationship with my wife is any of your business.”

Sharp. Final.

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

There was no emotion in his voice, but there didn’t need to be.

Because he could’ve dodged it. Laughed. Brushed it off with a practiced joke.

But he didn’t.

He drew a line.

For you. For both of you.

And something about that — quiet as it was — made you feel seen again.

Not remembered. Not yet.

But not erased either.

The mug is warm between my palms, its weight grounding me in a world that still feels like it tilts sideways sometimes.

Steam curls up slowly, vanishing into the morning light slanting across the table. I stare at it, not really seeing. The playlist she’d put on plays low in the background — something soft, in French, unfamiliar, but... comfortable.

I don’t speak. Don’t need to.

She is there. Moving quietly across the kitchen, folding laundry I don’t remember wearing, tidying up a space that had once been ours — and for me, is now just haunted by echoes I can’t reach.

I breathe in slowly.

Her perfume lingers in the air. Soft. Warm. Something floral, something that pulls me in before I can help myself. It wraps around my ribs like a memory I am not sure is real.

I’d caught it on the edge of a pillow once. On a night dress near the door. And now it fills the space like a thread tying the room — and me — back together.

Her scent had settled into every inch of this house — sweet and powdery with that subtle, floral warmth that always hits me before I see her. It doesn’t just smell nice. It feels like something. Like a whisper across my skin. Like home — but one I haven’t found the keys to yet.

At first, it had unsettled me. Like standing in a life I wasn’t sure I’d lived. But lately, it had begun to sink in differently — like muscle memory. Like my body knew what my mind couldn’t.

When she passed by me — just a moment ago — it brushed over my senses and I couldn’t stop myself from inhaling. A little deeper. As if I needed more of it to keep my chest steady.

As if she kept me breathing.

I glance down at the tea mug again, but it is just a prop — something to hold because if my hands were empty, they might shake.

I hate how much I notice it.

No — I don’t hate it.

I crave it.

It makes the silence less sharp. Less empty. Like the void in my mind isn’t so loud when she is near.

I look over at her just as she leans forward slightly, reaching for something on the counter. Her robe shifts. One shoulder bare. Hair a bit messy. The sunlight touches her like it knows her better than I do.

Something twists in my chest.

I blink, suddenly remembering the pile of shirts she had just folded.

“I don’t remember buying all these shirts,” I murmur, almost to myself. Voice quiet. Not looking at her.

But when I glance up — I freeze.

She is standing there, humming under her breath, folding one of my shirts. Her fingers smoothing the fabric in a way that feels... familiar.

Like she’d done this a hundred times. Like she belonged to the room.

To me.

A breath gets caught somewhere in my chest.

I don’t say anything else. Just let the silence settle again, softer this time.

My pulse calms. Or maybe it skips — I can’t tell anymore.

And for the first time in a while, the ache in my chest isn’t just from confusion. It is from want.

Wanting to know what we used to be.

Wanting to know what it would feel like to be that man again — the one she folds shirts for without thinking, the one she wants to smell good for.

I stare at her longer than I mean to.

Maybe too long.

Something softenes behind my eyes, uncoiling from the tight knot I’d kept since waking up in the hospital. And for a second, just one... I let it.

I let the warmth spread. Let myself admit how badly I want to keep this — whatever this is — close.

I set the mug down gently. Swallow past whatever knot is still in my throat.

“Okay,” I murmur. “Get ready, We don’t want to be late for lunch with mom.”

But even as I say it, my eyes stay on her.

And her scent — her presence — lingers.

It doesn’t fade.

It stays with me all the way out the door of our Parisian estate.

The restaurant is tucked away behind flowering trees and a stone walkway, quiet and elegantly lights in the early afternoon sun. You smooth down the fabric of your soft beige blouse as you step in, Kylian walking ahead just slightly, his hand grazing the edge of the host stand before tucking into his pocket again.

It has been a quiet drive there. Not uncomfortable — but quiet in that oddly tender way that has become more common between you lately. The kind of silence that isn’t empty, but careful. Still rebuilding its language.

You took extra care styling your hair this morning, picked the perfume he once gifted you on your last birthday — small things he probably doesn’t notice now, but you still do anyway. For him. For yourself. For the aching space in between.

You are seated by a window, the table already half-filled with light from the glass panels. Kylian slides into his seat, glances toward the entrance. “She’s probably stuck in traffic,” he says, but something in his voice doesn’t entirely sound convinced.

And then his face drops when he checks his mom’s text.

„She’s not coming.” He declares, looking at you in a pity. „Ethan wants her to accompany him to his club meeting.”

You pout and look to your side. „Awh.. That’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing her.”

Kylian lets out a breath — almost a laugh. It wasn’t loud. Just a warm, short exhale that comes with the smallest smile.

You notice it. Notice the way it softens him without him realizing it.

“What?” you ask, voice teasing, almost cautious.

He looks at you for a moment, then down at his hands.

“I noticed that you have a really good relationship with my mom.”

You pause.

It isn’t what you expected him to say. Your smile falters — not out of discomfort, but surprise. Because it isn’t just a comment.

It is the way he said it.

Like he isn’t just acknowledging a fact.

Like he is trying to remember what it feels like to belong to something. To someone.

You smile again, gentler now. “She made it easy.”

He glances up at you then, and for a second — just a second — you could swear you saw something shift in his eyes. Something thoughtful. Something unfamiliar and yet not.

And when you look away, pretending not to notice how he keeps watching you — you feel the shift too.

Your waiter brings sparkling water and menus. You were mid-way through choosing when you feel your phone buzz. A text. Fayza.

You’re welcome. Enjoy your time.

Your lips part slightly, heart catching in your chest. You blink down at the message, reading it again just to be sure. Fayza hadn’t intended to come at all.

Your throat tightens, but not from nerves. It is warmth. Unexpected, gentle warmth. You lock the screen and place your phone face down.

“Everything okay?” Kylian asks.

You nod, still adjusting to the sudden flutter in your chest. “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

You order. Simple things — pasta, grilled chicken, a shared dessert that he doesn’t object to this time.

Conversation starts light. Training. The team. The rhythm of his days at Real Madrid now.

He stirrs his water with the straw, lazily, before glancing at you. „Can I ask you something?”

You lean forward slightly. „Of course.”

He pauses, not looking at you right away. „What was the last thing I said to you... before the accident?”

Your breath hitches, eyes meeting his. You didn’t expect that. Not so directly.

You swallow. “You were tying your shoes. We were late. You looked up at me and said, ‘You stress more than the coach does.’”

He blinks, surprised.

You chuckle softly. “And then you kissed my forehead. Said something like, ‘Save the nerves for the final.’ And walked out with your earbuds in. That was it.”

Kylian leans back in his chair, lips parting in a faint, soundless breath.

“Sounds like something I’d say,” he murmurs, a sliver of amusement threading through the words.

“It does,” You agree, smiling faintly.

He looks down at the table. “It’s strange. Sometimes...”

He looks up suddenly, as if surfacing from somewhere deep. His gaze meets yours. It holds, longer than before.

“..Sometimes I think I feel things before I understand them.”

You tilt your head slightly. “What are you feeling?”

It isn’t a casual question. You don’t ask for fun — you ask because he had stopped pretending not to feel. And you are paying attention.

He doesn’t answer right away. He swallows, and then blinks like he hadn’t expected you to ask. His lips part slightly, then close again. You see it — the moment he debates lying or retreating into silence.

But then he lets out a breath and says,

“...That you’re easy to be around.”

It is so simple. So quiet. But the words settle between you with unexpected weight.

You don’t press. You don’t need to. You sit like that a while — slowly eating, sharing quiet glances, and something else far more fragile and unspoken.

A soft thread pulling you back together, word by word, heartbeat by heartbeat.

Outside, the wind picks up lightly through the trees. Inside, you feel something shifting in him. Maybe it isn’t trust yet. But it is no longer resistance either.

The door clicks shut behind you, the weight of the evening following you in like a second shadow.

Kylian moves ahead, taking off his cap and tossing the keys into the bowl by the console with a soft clatter.

The silence between you is no longer tense — but it isn’t quite easy either. It had changed shape. It lingers, thick with thoughts neither of you were ready to voice.

You toe off your shoes, the floor cool beneath your feet as you pad toward the kitchen. You need something to do — something to distract you from the hope you are feeling and afraid to lose.

When you come back with two glasses of water, Kylian is standing by the window. One hand resting on the curtain, eyes outside, but unfocused.

You watch him for a second longer than you mean to. There is something different about the way he stands now — less guarded, less stiff. But still distant. Still unsure.

“I know that silence,” you say softly, offering him the glass. “What’s in your head?”

He blinks, eyes shifting to you. He takes the water but doesn’t answer right away.

“You used to come to this window a lot,” you add, half-smiling. “When you were thinking. Or brooding. You always denied it.”

He gives a faint huff of amusement, lifting the glass to his lips. “Maybe I still do.”

You stand there beside him, your shoulder brushing his ever so slightly. His scent clings to the air — something spicy and sharp. But it is your perfume, warm and familiar, that grounds him. He doesn’t say it. But you notice the way his breath catches a little when you get too close. The way he doesn’t move away.

After a moment, he speaks again. “You know what’s weird?”

You look at him. “What?”

He stares out again. “You being here doesn’t feel strange anymore.”

Your heart stills.

He adds, more quietly, “It should. But it doesn’t.”

The words stuck somewhere between your chest and throat, soft and aching.

Instead, you look at him, really look. At the furrow between his brows. The faint circles under his eyes. The muscles in his jaw trying — failing — to stay locked.

And still, he stands beside you. Not reaching for you. But not walking away either.

A start. A crack in the wall.

She says something soft about getting changed. I nod, don’t turn around.

The street outside is still. Someone is walking a dog. A couple arguing, then laughing a few seconds later. Life carrying on. My forehead touches the glass. I don’t know why I feel like I am holding my breath.

There is this thing — this heaviness I can’t shake. Not grief, not confusion. Something… in between.

I could still feel the scent of her on my shirt from where she’d leaned against me earlier.

And damn it — I like it. And I hate it.

How it clings to me.

How her laughter lingers longer than it should’ve.

The phone vibrates in my pocket.

I don’t rush to it. But I know.

That dull pinch in my chest tells me what it is even before I pick it up.

Subject: Follow-up – Annulment Discussion.

“We haven’t heard back. Just checking if you’d like to schedule a meeting.”

My thumb hovers.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the words like they are foreign.

And then —

Delete.

I don’t open it.

Don’t even blink.

It is a reflex.

Or maybe defiance.

Or maybe something else entirely.

She walks out of the bedroom just then, drying her hair with a towel, barefoot now, in one of those soft spaghetti straps shirts she likes to wear at home. I catch a glimpse of her reflection in the windowpane, a little blurred.

She doesn’t ask me why I am still staring out the window. She just smiles when our eyes meet briefly in the glass.

And it feels... safe.

That is the part I can’t explain.

Not to myself. Not yet.

After 20 minutes the house had gone still again.

She is curled up at the other end of the couch, laptop open, glasses on — hair still slightly damp from her shower.

I sit with my legs spread, pretending to scroll through my phone. Truthfully, I haven’t been reading anything for the past fifteen minutes. I was watching her, mostly in glimpses — the way she furrowed her brows at the screen, or rubbed her temples when something annoyed her.

I don’t understand how it had gotten this easy.

This quiet… company.

A few weeks ago, her presence felt like noise. Too much color in a room I couldn’t see clearly.

Now, she is the only thing I don’t mind watching move. The only sound that doesn’t ache in my head.

She looks up. Catches my gaze.

Not startled, not questioning. Just... looks back.

„What?” She asks.

„What were we like?” I counter ask. „How did we spend our nights together?”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and speak without turning to her.

“Because there’s just no way we were always this quiet.”

A soft, short laugh escapes her. “We weren’t.”

I turn toward her. “I knew it.”

“Most of the time…” she adjusts her position, hugging one knee to her chest, “we weren’t quiet at all.”

I raise a brow. “So what, we argued a lot?”

“Not necessarily,” she smiles faintly. “Sometimes we did. But most of the time, we were just… loud in other ways.”

I tilt my head. “That’s not helping.”

Her gaze holds mine. “We were… very close, Kylian.”

I blink. “Close?”

She nods, her expression unreadable at first. “Like... physically.”

“Oh.” my face shifts — not shocked, but like the puzzle was just beginning to click. “You mean we… often?”

She hesitates, then says, “Almost every other night.”

I stare. “Seriously?”

She smiles, barely. “You used to say being around me calmed your mind, but touching me... that silenced it.”

I look away for a moment, like the thought brushed something just beneath the surface.

“I don’t feel like the kind of guy who says things like that.”

“You weren’t,” she says gently. “With everyone else.”

That sits heavily between us.

I rub my jaw. “It’s strange,” I murmur. “Hearing about who I was from someone who still sees me.”

She doesn’t reply.

“I think I’m more afraid of remembering than forgetting,” I add, quieter. “At least forgetting doesn’t hurt.”

The silence swells again.

Then, softer, she offers, “You didn’t just love me in memory, Kylian. You loved me out loud.”

I look at her — not with recognition, but something that nearly resembles longing.

„That’s good to hear.” I lean back in my seat. „Seems like I wasn’t a bad husband after all.”

Her lips curve at the corners. „You’re not.”

The door clicks softly behind us, shutting out the restless noise of the stadium. But inside, everything is still — too still. The weight of the semi-final defeat presses down on me, heavier than any opponent ever could. My chest tightens with a dull ache, the sting of failure sharp and raw.

She stands a few steps away, watching, but I can’t meet her eyes. Not yet. I’m drowning in a silence that feels like concrete, and words refuse to come. Not because I don’t want to say anything — I want to scream, to break something, to tear through the disappointment suffocating me — but because I don’t know how to say it without breaking.

My hands clench at my sides, fingers trembling, muscles taut. Every part of me wants to explode, but I swallow it down, brick by brick, locking it away behind a wall I’m too exhausted to tear down.

She shifts closer, tentative, but the hesitation in her steps tells me she knows. She knows I’m not ready. That pushing won’t help.

I drop heavily onto the couch, the world narrowing to the ache in my heart and the bitter taste of regret. The silence between us is thick, almost unbearable — but it’s the only thing I can bear right now.

Her breath is soft, steady, and it tugs at something deep inside me. A faint reminder of safety in the storm, but the storm refuses to settle.

I want to tell her I’m sorry. Sorry for the silence, the distance, the cold that’s creeping in between us. But the words stick in my throat, tangled in pride and pain.

She doesn’t say anything, just watches, and that quiet presence is both a comfort and a wound. Because I want to lean on her, but I don’t know how. I want to break free, but the pieces inside me feel shattered.

And so I sit there, fighting with myself, drowning in what I can’t say, and hoping — maybe foolishly — that the silence will one day speak for me.

She sits down beside me, fingers brushing against my hand like she is trying to reach through the distance I’d built around myself.

My eyes stay fixed on nothing — a blank, cold void. The silence isn’t peaceful. It is a wall I’d built, thick and unyielding.

“Do you want me to do anything?” Her voice is soft, fragile — like she is afraid of breaking something.

I swallow the urge to lash out. Instead, I say, low and clipped, “I just want peace and quiet.”

She leans in, presses a kiss to my cheek — but it feels like a lie. Like she is rubbing it in, reminding me of everything I couldn’t have back. Like this is some twisted victory for her.

She thinks she’s winning. That I’m broken enough to beg for her mercy. She doesn’t see how empty I feel. How this silence is a punishment I’m handing out to myself, but she’s the target.

I slowly pull my hand free from hers, the cold spreading like poison. My chest aches, but not enough to break the walls. I am tired — tired of pretending, tired of fighting. But mostly tired of feeling like a ghost in my own life.

Tonight, I want to disappear. Not just from her — from all of it.

You watch him as he settles onto the bed, his movements slow, almost mechanical. The room feels heavy—thick with everything left unsaid between you.

You reach out, brushing a hand lightly over his arm. “If you need anything, I’ll be up in my room,” you say softly, hoping the words don’t sound too desperate.

He doesn’t respond, just nods faintly and pulls the covers up. You can tell he’s trying to shut everything out—trying to find peace in sleep.

But as you close the door behind you and lay down, you realize you will not find rest tonight.

The silence feels endless, louder than any argument you’ve had.

You stare at the ceiling, your mind swirling with worry and helplessness. You want to reach him, to break through whatever’s closing him off, but you don’t know how.

You never did. You had always waited it out.

Sleep slips further away with every breath you take.

And you’re left lying there, aching in the dark, alone even though you’re just rooms apart.

You slip quietly out of the bedroom, careful not to disturb him. The hallway feels colder than before, the silence stretching out like a fragile thread ready to snap.

Stepping onto the balcony, the night air hits your skin—sharp, yet strangely calming. You wrap your arms around yourself, gazing out at the city lights blinking softly in the distance.

The world seems so vast and indifferent, but here, in this quiet space, memories flood in—snapshots of better days. Laughter shared over breakfast, whispered secrets in the dark, the way his eyes used to soften when he looked at you.

You bite your lip, fighting back the sting behind your eyes. It feels like those moments belong to another life, one slipping further away with every silent breath he takes upstairs.

Still, you hold onto hope. Maybe somewhere beneath all this pain, beneath his walls, the man you love is still there—waiting for you to find him again.

For now, all you can do is breathe the night in and wait.

With a shaky breath, you pull out your phone and unlock it, your fingers hesitating for a moment before scrolling through the photos of him. Each image stabs at your heart in a different way—his easy smile, the way his eyes light up after a goal, the rare candid moments when he’s completely himself, unaware of the world watching.

You pause on a video from before the accident—him laughing, carefree, standing in the sunlight. Your throat tightens. That’s the man you know, the one buried beneath the silence and shadows that have taken over lately.

A tear slips down your cheek, but you swipe it away, determined not to let the sadness swallow you whole. You trace the outline of his face on the screen, memorizing every detail like a prayer.

You bury your face in your hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. The grief, the fear, the helplessness—it all pours out in that quiet, dark night.

You look up, your vision blurred and cheeks wet, you trace his face on the screen with a trembling finger. “Please come back,” you whisper to the empty night.

The pain is raw, but beneath it, a fragile hope flickers, stubborn and alive.

You tuck your phone away, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand, staring out into the darkness—longing, waiting, loving.

I step out of the bedroom and the silence feels heavier, suffocating. Then, a sound breaks through — quiet, ragged sobs, barely more than a whisper. It’s her.

I don’t move at first. Just listen. The kind of quiet that haunts, like shadows flickering in the dim light of the balcony.

Her silhouette is there, fragile and broken in the pale glow. The air is cold, but I don’t feel it — all I can feel is the weight settling deeper in my chest.

I don’t say a word. I don’t move fast enough to startle her. Instead, I crouch down, close enough that the heat from my body bleeds into the cold night air.

She doesn’t turn. Her shoulders shake under the weight of all that she’s holding inside.

Her eyes meet mine — raw, searching, but there’s distance too. Like she’s both here and somewhere far away, somewhere I can’t reach.

I don’t speak. Words feel useless, fragile against the storm between us.

My fingers brush her cheek, trembling just as much as she is. Her eyes snap up to mine — wide, vulnerable, but there’s a flicker of something else too. A challenge, maybe.

I cup her face, thumb brushing the cold skin, wanting to do more — to fix what’s broken — but all I have is this moment.

She’s here, fragile and broken, the flicker of a flame struggling in the cold.

I lean in slowly, holding her gaze — that fierce, desperate look that says if she can’t have all of me, she’ll take what she can.

Our eyes lock — hers searching, filled with questions I’m not ready to answer. I hold that gaze, willing myself not to look away.

I don’t hesitate.

Slowly, I lean in, the space between us shrinking until her breath mingles with mine.

My breath catches. I take in the tremble in her lips, the shudder in her chest. My own hands tremble, though I don’t show it.

One last look — a silent promise hanging between us, heavy and electric.

Then my lips find hers, soft at first, like a whisper. A trembling touch, barely there, but filled with everything I’m too afraid to say.

She clings to me, her body trembling against mine, and I let the storm inside me roar quietly, controlled but fierce.

This kiss is more than comfort — it’s a desperate a silent vow.

If she can’t have all of me, then this—this small fragment—is hers to keep.

I taste the salt of her tears, feel her trembling hands clutching me, and I hold her tighter — as if by holding her, I can hold myself together too.

Inside, I’m a storm raging — anger, fear, guilt. But I swallow it all down, letting only this quiet strength show.

If I lose control now, everything falls apart.

The world narrows down to the ghost of every kiss we ever shared.

I remember the way her mouth used to fit perfectly against mine—soft but demanding, a fire that both burned and healed. How every touch was electric, how I’d get lost in the taste of her, the way she tasted like home and danger all at once.

Now, in the dark, her skin against mine feels like a fragile echo of that past—familiar, but distant, like trying to hold smoke.

My fingers itch to trace the curves of her face, to pull her closer, but I hold back, tethered by the weight of what I can’t say.

There was a time when these kisses tore through every doubt and fear. When they were loud, fierce, desperate—when we lost ourselves in each other until the world outside didn’t exist.

But now… now it’s different. It’s quieter, more broken.

And yet, beneath that silence, the fire still burns.

I lean in again, harder this time, needing to feel that connection, to reclaim a piece of what’s slipping away.

Her breath hitches, and I can hear the tremor in her chest matching my own.

For a moment, we’re not two broken souls circling the edges of something lost—we’re just two bodies remembering how to collide.

And even if it’s only for a heartbeat, that’s enough to keep me tethered to her.

I deepen the kiss, all caution shatters like glass beneath the weight of my need.

My hands find her waist, fingers digging in like I’m trying to hold onto a lifeline.

Every breath she takes burns into me, every shudder a plea I’m desperate to answer.

I lose myself in the heat of her mouth—hungry, claiming, searching—like if I don’t bury myself in her now, I might never get the chance again.

Her body melts into mine, and all the walls I built crumble, leaving only this—raw, fierce, desperate.

My heart pounds like a war drum, a chaotic rhythm that drowns out the silence that’s haunted us both.

In this moment, nothing else exists. No guilt, no fear, no distance.

Just us, tangled together, holding on through the storm we don’t know how to calm.

I taste the past and the promise of something more, all at once, and I doubt that my intention was to soothe her wounds. No. It was just an excuse to quench my own thirst blurs — I can no longer tell if I reach for her or to drown in that fire that roares beneath my own skin.

A/N: Penned from my deathbed—aka my couch, wrapped in three blankets, battling a fever that thinks it’s an emotional rollercoaster. If the words feel a little feverish, blame the germs, not me! 🤧

[masn-mount]

These pics always kill me cause why are the barbers always trying to serve face 😭

[masn-mount]

Girls Need Love: A Kylian Mbappè x Original Character Erotic Series.

18+ Minors DNI

Chapter 33

“Good morning, babies,” Giselle gushed to her nieces, wrapping her arms around Gia as she crawled into her aunt's lap, her thumb in her mouth as she turned her face into Giselle’s chest, shyly avoiding Kylian's gaze as he lay beside them.

“Happy birthday!” Anaya beamed handing Giselle a shiny pink gift bag before waving at Kylian.

Giselle's eyes sparkled with excitement as she opened the bag, pulling out an unmistakable Tiffany jewelry box. “Thank you, Anaya! You guys always make me feel special,” she said, her voice warm with gratitude.

“Mommy paid for it, but Gia and I picked it out,” the seven-year-old revealed as she watched her aunt open the box to find a beautiful silver bracelet.

“I’m sure she did,” Giselle laughed, making Kylian do the same.

“We were also sent to tell you guys that breakfast is ready,” Anaya said matter-of-factly.

Kylian watched the scene unfold with a quiet amusement, a genuine smile softening his features. The warmth radiating from Giselle as she interacted with her nieces was captivating. He admired the way she effortlessly shifted between playful teasing and genuine affection. He felt a comfortable ease settle over him, a pleasant contrast to the intensity of the football field.

He stretched slightly, feeling the satisfying pull of his muscles, and then turned his attention to Anaya. "What’s for breakfast?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep.

“Mommy and Nana made lots of food, I can’t remember everything,” Anaya said, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. “But I saw pancakes, bacon, and there’s even fruit! Do you like fruit?! My soccer coach told me I have to eat em’ if I want to get stronger.”

Kylian chuckled, “Your coach is right, you have to be healthy if you want to be the best.”

Giselle’s heart melted as she watched Kylian and Anaya go back and forth as they all climbed from the bed, allowing Giselle to make it up before they all headed down to the kitchen.

Anaya was right, between Giselle’s mother and sisters, a breakfast feast had been prepared for her birthday.

The table was laden with a colorful assortment of food, each dish more tantalizing than the last. Fluffy pancakes stacked high, crispy bacon, a vibrant bowl of fresh fruit bursting with colors and so much more that she couldn’t wait to tuck into. Giselle's stomach grumbled in anticipation as they took their seats around the table.

Walking into her father’s arms Giselle smiled widely as he hugged her tightly, overcome with the amount of love in the room.

“Happy birthday, Baby,” he whispered into her hair, pressing a kiss to the top of her head and releasing her from his hold so she could hug her mother, sisters, and brother-in-laws before going to take a seat beside Kylian.

“You’re getting old,” Ayesha grimaced playfully across the table, earning a chorus of laughter from everyone else as breakfast got underway.

“Kylian said the same thing last night,” Giselle blushed as her mind cast back to the night before, the way Kylian handled her body before they shared a sweet moment grabbing late-night ice cream.

“Is that all you said, Kylian?” Ayesha teased, a knowing smirk on her face as Kylian blushed, his eyes meeting Giselle's for a second before they both looked away from one another.

“Oh, Ayesha. Grow up,” their mother scolded in defense of their guest. “Giselle, I told guests to start arriving around 4 p.m. for the barbecue later,” she continued.

“Who did you invite?” Giselle asked her mom as she popped a piece of diced strawberry into her mouth.

“Your aunts and uncles, the cousins and I also extended the invite to a few friends of mine,” Eva explained to her youngest daughter.

Giselle nodded, her mind racing with the thought of the lively gathering that awaited her later in the day. “That sounds amazing, Mom! I can’t wait to see everyone,” she replied, her excitement bubbling over.

“Speaking of the festivities later on, I’ll need you to go and pick up your birthday cake while your sisters and I prepare the food.”

Giselle’s eyes lit up at the mention of cake. “Of course! Do you want me to get the one from that bakery we love up here?” she asked, always eager to indulge in the decadent treats her favorite local spot offered.

“Yes, please! I put in an order for the chocolate ganache cake,” Eva replied, her mouth watering at the thought. “Make sure to grab some candles too!”

“Got it!” Giselle said, already planning her route in her mind. “I’ll head out after breakfast.”

“Do you want me to come with you?” Kylian offered, surprising both Giselle and himself with the suggestion. Spontaneous trips to the bakery weren't really a thing in the world of Kylian Mbappé.

“Are you sure you want to?” Giselle asked cautiously.

“It feels different here, I feel free,” Kylian Giselle's heart fluttered at his words, a warmth spreading through her.

Eva watched the exchange between Kylian and Giselle in quiet contemplation. Even before meeting the football superstar it was evident in the way her daughter spoke so highly of him that she was in love.

But witnessing their connection first hand was entirely different. Eva felt a stirring of hopefulness as she observed the way Kylian’s eyes seemed to light up whenever he looked at Giselle. It wasn't just admiration; there was a depth to his gaze that spoke of something more profound—a bond that transcended lust or attraction.

As breakfast went on , the laughter and chatter filled the room, creating a comforting atmosphere that felt like a warm embrace. Giselle couldn’t help but steal glances at Kylian as he interacted with her family. He was effortlessly charming, engaging in conversations with her siblings and playing along with the playful jabs.

“Alright, everyone! Let’s not forget the birthday girl,” their father called out, raising his glass of orange juice. “A toast to Giselle! May this year bring you as much joy as you give to those around you.”

“Cheers!” everyone echoed, lifting their glasses in unison. Giselle felt a swell of happiness, her heart full as she looked around at the smiling faces of her loved ones.

After the toast, Giselle wiped a joyful tear from the corner of her eye and dove into her breakfast. Each bite was delicious, but her mind wandered to the cake and the excitement of the day ahead.

Once everyone had finished eating, Giselle and Kylian excused themselves to get ready for the trip to the bakery. She hurried into her room, her heart racing with anticipation.

Despite it being her birthday, Giselle wasn't in the mood to dress up, instead deciding on a grey zip-up hood and matching sweats, almost identical to the black sweatsuit Kylian had decided on.

Giselle took a moment to check herself in the mirror, running her fingers through her hair before turning to head downstairs. She was still buzzing from the festive mood that filled the house, and the prospect of spending time alone with Kylian sent a thrill through her.

Just as she stepped out of her room, she heard a soft knock on the doorframe. Kylian stood there, looking effortlessly casual in his black sweats, a spark present in his eyes that ignited a flutter in her stomach.

“Hey,” he said, a hesitant smile spreading across his face. “Are you ready?”

“I think so,” Giselle replied, her voice a bit breathless as she took in the sight of him. There was something about the way he looked—comfortable, yet undeniably enticing—that made her feel both shy and bold at the same time.

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. “You look good,” he complimented, his gaze lingering on her.

“Thanks, so do you.” A grin played on her lips, but her heart raced as she took a step closer. The space between them seemed to shrink, filled with a palpable tension that crackled in the air.

Kylian leaned in slightly, his voice low and teasing. “Great minds.”

Giselle laughed, the sound light and airy. “True,” she said as she wrapped her hand around his wrist, walking backwards as she guided him into her bedroom.

“Can I have some birthday kisses, Daddy?” she asked innocently, gazing up at him through her lashes as she eased the door shut softly behind him.

Giselle’s question hung in the air, soft as a whisper, but heavy with intent. The faint hum of laughter and clinking dishes drifted from downstairs, a reminder of the bustling house beyond her bedroom door.

She stood close to Kylian, their bodies almost touching, her hand still wrapped around his wrist, feeling the steady pulse beneath her fingers. His eyes darkened, a flicker of something raw passing through them as he took in her gaze, her parted lips, the quiet dare in her posture.

The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in with the weight of unspoken things.

Kylian's breath hitched as he gazed down at Giselle, her question hanging in the air between them, laden with unspoken promises. The soft light filtering through the curtains cast a warm glow on her face, highlighting the delicate curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lips. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding in his chest as he leaned in closer, their bodies almost touching.

"Well, since it's your birthday and all..." he murmured, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate through her. "I suppose I can make an exception."

He slid his free hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her bottom lip. Giselle's eyes fluttered closed as she leaned into his touch, a soft sigh escaping her lips. The air between them was electric, charged with a tension that made her skin prickle and her pulse race.

Kylian leaned in, his lips brushing against hers in a feather-light brush that made her toes curl. He deepened the kiss, his hand sliding to the back of her neck as he pulled her closer, claiming her mouth with a hunger that took her breath away.

Giselle melted into the kiss, her lips parting eagerly as Kylian's tongue slipped into her mouth, exploring and tasting. She could feel the heat of his body against hers, the hard planes of his chest pressing against her soft curves. Her fingers tangled in his hair, tugging gently as she pulled him closer, wanting to feel every inch of him.

He walked her backward until her back pressed against the door, his body pinning her in place. Giselle's breath hitched as she felt his hardness pressing against her stomach, a reminder of just how much he wanted her. She moaned softly into the kiss, her hips rolling forward instinctively, seeking more friction.

Kylian's hands roamed over her body, slipping to her thighs before he lifted her into his arms as if she were weightless. In three measured steps he was over by the dresser, placing Giselle down on it as he came to stand in between her legs.

Kylian's hands slid under Giselle's hoodie, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist as he explored the soft skin beneath. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake. Giselle's head fell back, her fingers gripping the edge of the dresser as she arched into his touch.

"Kylian," she breathed, his name a plea on her lips. "I need you."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he met her gaze. "I know, baby. I need you too."

With deft fingers, he unzipped her hoodie, pushing it off her shoulders to reveal the white tank underneath, er braless nipple pertruding through the soft cotton. Giselle shivered as the cool air hit her skin, her nipples hardening into tight peaks. Kylian's eyes darkened further as he took in the sight of her, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of her breast. "I want to worship every inch of you, but we can't right now.”

Kylian's hands slid under Giselle's hoodie, his fingers tracing the curve of her waist as he explored the soft skin beneath. He broke the kiss, his lips trailing down her neck, leaving a path of heat in their wake. Giselle's head fell back, her fingers gripping the edge of the dresser as she arched into his touch.

"Kylian," she breathed, his name a plea on her lips. "I need you."

He pulled back slightly, his eyes dark with desire as he met her gaze. "I know, baby. I need you too."

With deft fingers, he unzipped her hoodie, pushing it off her shoulders to reveal the white tank underneath, er braless nipple pertruding through the soft cotton. Giselle shivered as the cool air hit her skin, her nipples hardening into tight peaks. Kylian's eyes darkened further as he took in the sight of her, his hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing over the sensitive peaks.

"Fuck, you're perfect," he murmured, leaning down to press a kiss to the swell of her breast. "I want to worship every inch of you, but we can't right now.”

He trailed kisses along the curve of her breast, his breath hot against her skin. "We need to get going, but I promise I'll make it up to you later," he murmured, his voice rough with desire.

Giselle whimpered softly, her body aching with need, but she knew he was right. They couldn't linger, not with her family just downstairs and a whole day of festivities ahead.

Kylian loved the life he'd created for himself, but as he sat beside Giselle watching her drive, a Brent Faiyaz song playing softly through the speakers of her car, he couldn't deny how perfect such a normal moment felt.

He glanced over at her, the sunlight streaming through the windshield, illuminating her features in a golden glow. Giselle's hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she navigated the familiar streets. Every smile she flashed him sent a rush of warmth through his chest, and he couldn't help but feel grateful for this slice of normalcy in his otherwise hectic life.

“Are you excited for later?” Giselle asked, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between them. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Kylian found himself nodding in response, a grin spreading across his face.

“Absolutely! I can’t wait to meet everyone and celebrate you. Plus, I’ve heard your family knows how to throw a good barbecue,” he replied, his voice teasing as he recalled the delectable smells wafting from the kitchen that morning.

“Oh, you have no idea,” she laughed, a lightness in her voice that made his heart flutter. “My mom’s famous for her ribs, and my sister makes the best coleslaw you’ll ever taste.”

“Now I’m even more excited,” he said, leaning back in his seat and folding his arms behind his head, a relaxed smile settling on his lips. “I’m ready for a feast.”

As they approached the bakery, Giselle's demeanor shifted slightly. She parked the car and turned to him, her expression turning serious for a moment. “Kylian, can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” he responded, his curiosity piqued.

“What do you think about all this?” She gestured between them, the bakery looming in front of them, a backdrop for their conversation. “About us?”

Kylian felt a flutter of nervous energy in his stomach. It was a question he’d been pondering himself, especially after the kiss they’d shared just moments ago. He took a breath, searching for the right words. “I think… I think you were made for me.”

Kylian's words hung in the air, warm and sincere, and Giselle’s heart skipped a beat. She stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise and a burgeoning hope. The simple declaration felt profound.

"You think so?" she asked softly, testing the waters, wanting to hear him elaborate.

He reached out and gently brushed a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingers lingering against her cheek. "I know so," he confirmed, his voice low and earnest.

His touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she leaned into his hand, savoring the warmth of his palm against her skin. "I feel it too," she whispered, her gaze locked with his. "Like we fit together perfectly."

Kylian's eyes softened, and he leaned in closer, his forehead resting against hers. "We do fit together perfectly," he murmured. "In every way."

Their breaths mingled as they sat there, the moment suspended in time. The world outside the car seemed to fade away, leaving only the two of them in their own private universe.

“We’re here,” Giselle murmured softly.

Kylian blinked, pulling himself back to reality with a soft chuckle. The bakery's cheerful facade and th street outside snapped him back from the intimacy of their moment. He hadn’t realized how lost he’d been in her eyes.

“Right, cake,” he said, a playful grin returning to his face. He opened the car door and stepped out, extending a hand to help Giselle. "Let's get this birthday celebration properly fueled."

As they walked towards the bakery, Kylian found himself subtly mirroring Giselle’s movements – matching her pace, angling his body to keep her within his peripheral vision. It wasn't a conscious effort; it was just…natural. He felt drawn to her in a way he hadn't anticipated, a pull that went beyond mere attraction.

After picking up the cake, they stepped back outside, the sweet aroma of freshly baked goods wafting through the air. Giselle cradled the cake box carefully in her arms, her heart light with happiness.

“Mission accomplished!” she giggled, her eyes sparkling as they returned to the car. Kylian couldn't help but chuckle at her enthusiasm; it was infectious.

“Now, can we stop by the store for candles?” she asked, glancing at him with a hopeful expression.

“Of course. Lead the way,” he replied, opening the driver door for her with a playful flourish. Giselle giggled as she slid into the seat, her cheeks slightly flushed with excitement as she handed Kylian the cake box.

They drove to the nearby store, the atmosphere in the car filled with light banter and laughter. Kylian found himself lost in the moment, enjoying the simple pleasure of Giselle’s company.

“I’m sorry my life doesn't allow us the freedom to do this more,” he apologized as they strolled through the store, his arms slung around her shoulder as she pushed the cart.

Giselle squeezed his arm gently. “Don’t be. It’s okay. I understand your commitments. And honestly, moments like these are more than enough to make up for it.” She paused, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Besides, you're making an effort, and that means everything to me."

They quickly selected a box of colorful birthday candles and headed back to the car. As Kylian started the engine, Giselle leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "Thank you for today," she whispered, her eyes filled with genuine appreciation.

"Thank you," he replied, his voice husky. "For letting me share it with you."

The drive back to Giselle's parents’ ranch was filled with a comfortable silence, punctuated by occasional smiles and shared glances.

By the time they made it back to the ranch, preparation for the barbecue was well underway.

The smell of burning charcoal filled the air as Giselle’s father prepared the grill, during her absence they’d hung a ‘Happy Birthday’ banner in the living room and dotted a few balloon clusters around the room to match.

One of the kitchen counters had been turned into a makeshift bar, lined with a variety of liquor and plastic cups.

As the day went and guests began to arrive, Giselle kept Kylian close as she introduced him to her family and loved ones in attendance. Some were surprised to be in the presence of an international soccer superstar, while others were less familiar with his career.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over the backyard, Giselle felt a sense of contentment wash over her. Laughter and chatter filled the air, mixing with the delicious aroma of grilled meat and the sweet scent of her birthday cake waiting to be unveiled.

Kylian mingled effortlessly among her family, charming everyone with his easy-going nature and genuine interest in their lives. He was just as comfortable chatting with her cousins about their latest soccer games as he was discussing travel with her aunts and uncles. It warmed Giselle's heart to see how well he fit into her world, how he made an effort to connect with those she loved.

“Giselle, come help me with the drinks!” Ayesha called from the makeshift bar, her arms full of ice-filled coolers. Giselle exchanged a quick glance with Kylian, who gave her an encouraging nod.

“Be right back!” she said, making her way over to her sister.

As she helped Ayesha set up the drinks, Giselle couldn’t help but steal glances at Kylian, who was now chatting animatedly with her father, gesturing as he spoke with that passionate spark she adored. The way her father’s face lit up while listening to Kylian told her everything she needed to know—he was winning everyone over.

“Look at you, you're so in love with him,” Ayesha teased as she caught her sister as Kylian and their father spoke.

“I am, he’s unlike anyone I've ever met,” Giselle gushed, her heart skipping a beat as her eyes met Kylian’s across the yard.

“I hate to bring him up, but Kylian is so different to Jalen and its evident in you,” Ayesha said as Giselle raised an eyebrow, curious about where this conversation was heading. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, her tone light but her heart pounding a little faster.

Ayesha leaned in closer, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret. "I just mean... you seem happier, more yourself when you're with him. It's like he brings out a side of you that was hidden before."

Giselle felt a flush of warmth spread across her cheeks. "Really?" she asked, her voice barely more than a whisper. She had always felt a connection with Kylian that was hard to put into words, but hearing her sister articulate it made her heart swell.

"Definitely," Ayesha nodded, her expression serious. "I can see it in the way you smile when he’s around and how you light up when you talk about him. It's refreshing to see you like this."

Giselle glanced back at Kylian, who was now joking with their father, laughter spilling from his lips. There was a certain ease about him that made her feel safe and cherished. It was as if he understood her in a way that no one else ever had.

After helping her sister with replenishing the bar, giselle was pulled into a conversation with one of her older male cousins, Nate.

The pair stood catching up on life and everything in between, their conversation faltering as Giselle’s eyes caught sight of someone she hadn't expected to see.

“Nate, what is Craig doing here?” Giselle asked, her brow furrowing as she watched Nate politely greet her parents, before making a beeline toward where she stood with her older cousin.

“My bad,” Nate grimaced, realizing the error of his ways. Although his intentions in inviting his friend were pure, it wasn’t a good look for Giselle to have her boyfriend and a man she’d previously dated for around a month under the same roof.

“I had no idea you were with someone now, had I known I wouldn’t have invited him today,” he continued, masking his words with his cup as he brought it to his lips.

Giselle felt a wave of discomfort wash over her as Craig approached, his charming smile and easy demeanor a stark contrast to the tension building in her chest. She forced a smile, trying to maintain her composure as he drew closer.

“Giselle! It’s been a while!” Craig said, his voice bright as he reached out to hug her. She stiffened at the contact, instantly making the interaction noticeably awkward.

“Hey, Craig,” she replied, her tone neutral as she stepped back, creating a little distance. “What brings you here?”

“Just thought I’d pop by and wish you a happy birthday,” he said casually, but Giselle could sense an undercurrent of something more in his tone.

“Thanks,” she replied, forcing a smile as she glanced over at Nate, who looked equally uncomfortable now.

“How have you been?” Craig asked, his eyes flicking over her body subtly.

“I’ve been doing great,” Giselle said, her breath hitching in her throat as she felt a hand come to rest on the small of her back.

Giselle's body relaxed instantly, she didn't need to turn around to know it was Kylian behind her.

He stepped forward, a protective presence as he glanced at Craig with an unreadable expression. “Hey, Giselle, everything okay?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

Giselle felt a rush of gratitude for Kylian's arrival. “Yeah, just catching up with Nate and… Craig,” she said, her stomach twisting slightly at the mention of Craig's name.

Kylian’s gaze shifted to Craig, his demeanor shifting slightly as he assessed the situation. “Nice to meet you,” he said, extending a hand, but his tone was firm, subtly asserting his position as Giselle’s boyfriend.

Craig hesitated but ultimately took Kylian's hand, a flicker of surprise crossing his features as he recognized the football star. “You too,” he replied, his voice losing some of its previous confidence.

Kylian's grip was firm, and Giselle could sense the tension in the air, but she also felt a surge of comfort knowing Kylian was there with her. “Giselle and I were just about to grab some drinks. You should join us,” Kylian suggested, his eyes narrowing slightly at Craig, as if challenging him to accept.

“Uh, no thanks,” Craig said quickly, his facade cracking under Kylian’s unwavering gaze. “I actually just wanted to say hi and let you get back to your birthday.”

“Alright,” Kylian replied, his tone lightening but still laced with an edge. “Happy birthday, Giselle.” With that, Craig stepped back, clearly feeling the weight of Kylian's presence.

Giselle let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding as Craig retreated. “Thank you,” she murmured to Kylian, her heart fluttering with appreciation. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Kylian turned to her, a soft smile breaking through the tension. “Yes, I did. I’m not going to let some guy make you uncomfortable on your birthday,” he said, his voice warm and sincere.

As they moved toward the bar area, Giselle felt a rush of affection for him. It was moments like this that made her realize just how well Kylian understood her, how he was always willing to step in and protect her when she needed it most.

“Let’s get some drinks and enjoy the party,” Kylian suggested, grabbing a couple of cups and filling them with ice and soda. Giselle watched him, her heart swelling as he effortlessly interacted with her family and friends, making everyone feel at ease.

As the barbecue continued, Kylian and Giselle found themselves drawn together, sharing smiles and laughter amidst the chaos of their family gathering. They snuck glances at each other, their connection deepening with each shared moment.

Later, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the stars began to twinkle in the night sky, Giselle felt a sense of peace envelop her. Surrounded by her loved ones and Kylian by her side, she knew deep down that this birthday was one she would cherish forever.

“Ready for cake?” her mother called out, drawing everyone’s attention as she presented the beautifully decorated chocolate ganache cake.

“Absolutely!” Giselle beamed, excitement bubbling within her as she made her way to the front. Kylian followed closely behind, a proud smile on his face as he watched her.

As everyone gathered around to sing “Happy Birthday,” Giselle felt a warmth spread through her chest. She looked at Kylian, who was singing along with a playful grin, and she couldn't help but feel grateful for the love and joy that surrounded her.

With a deep breath, she made her wish before blowing out the candles, her heart filled with hope and happiness. She felt Kylian’s hand find hers, squeezing gently as they both shared in the magic of the moment.

As the cake was sliced and served, Giselle took a moment to look around at her family and friends, feeling a sense of belonging that she had longed for. With Kylian by her side, she felt invincible, ready to take on whatever life had in store.

As the evening shifted ever closer toward a new day, guests began to leave one by one until eventually on giselle and those sleeping under the roof of her parents’ ranch remained.

When Kylian found Giselle cradling her sleeping niece as she slowly rocked back and forth. The soft glow of the living room lights cast a serene ambiance as Kylian entered the room, his heart warming at the sight before him.

Giselle sat on the couch, cradling her niece Olivia in her arms, who was blissfully asleep, her tiny fingers curled against Giselle's chest. The sight was a picture of tranquility, and Kylian felt an overwhelming sense of affection wash over him.

“Hey,” he whispered softly, careful not to disturb the peaceful moment.

Giselle looked up, a smile spreading across her face as her eyes met his. “Hey. Isn’t she just the sweetest?” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper as she glanced down at the sleeping child.

Kylian moved closer, taking a seat on the edge of the couch, his gaze fixed on the two girls. “She is,” he agreed, his heart swelling at the sight of Giselle’s nurturing side. “You’re amazing with her.”

Giselle shrugged modestly, her cheeks flushing slightly. “It’s easy when she’s such a good baby, I need to put her in her crib,” she said, brushing her fingers softly through Olivia’s hair.

Kylian watched as Giselle carefully stood with Olivia in her arms. "Let me help you," he offered, instinctively reaching out for the little one. Giselle hesitated for a moment, then nodded, carefully transferring Olivia into Kylian’s arms.

Kylian cradled the baby gently, feeling the warmth radiating from her tiny body. He looked down at Olivia, marveling at how delicate she was, and then glanced up at Giselle, whose expression was filled with pride and affection.

“Once she is down, I want to give you your birthday present,” Kylian whispered as Giselle led him towards the babies room.

Giselle's heart raced at the thought of what Kylian might have planned. She had been so caught up in the joy of the day that she hadn't even considered what gifts he might have for her. "You got me something?" she asked, a teasing lilt in her voice as they entered the softly lit nursery.

"Of course I did," he replied, a playful smirk on his lips as he gently laid Olivia down in her crib, tucking her in with a soft blanket. Kylian stepped back, watching as Giselle leaned over the crib, her fingers brushing softly against Olivia’s cheek.

Once she was sure the baby was settled, Giselle turned back to Kylian, her excitement bubbling over. "Okay, now show me!" she urged, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Come with me,” Kylian murmured, taking Giselle's hand into his so he could lead her to her bedroom, situated at the furthest point of the house, tucked away from the rest of the bedrooms throughout the spacious house.

Kylian led Giselle through the dimly lit hallway, his heart racing as he felt the warmth of her hand in his. It felt good to be in this intimate moment with her, away from the laughter and festivities of the party.

“Do I have to cover my eyes?” Giselle asked teasingly.

“You don't, because I couldn't fit a villa in a gift bag,” Kylian smirked as she led her over to his carry-on, unzipping it to retrieve the confirmation documents he's assistant had given him before they left Miami.

Handing the papers to her, Kylian watched with a smirk as she read what the documents contained, her eyes widening in shock when she realized it was the booking confirmation for a beachfront villa in Aruba.

Giselle's breath hitched in her throat as she scanned the papers, her heart racing with disbelief. “Kylian, are you serious?” she gasped, her eyes darting up to meet his. “A villa in Aruba? This is incredible!”

He nodded, a proud smile spreading across his face. “I wanted to do something special for you. I know life can get hectic, and I thought we could use a getaway, just the two of us.”

Tears of joy welled in Giselle’s eyes as she clutched the documents to her chest. “This is the best birthday gift ever! Baby, I can’t believe you did this for me,” she said, her voice trembling with emotion.

Kylian stepped closer, his expression softening as he brushed a few tears from her cheek with his thumb. “You deserve it, Giselle. I want to give you a chance to relax and enjoy yourself.”

Giselle felt a rush of warmth envelop her as gratitude and love swelled in her chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him close as she whispered, “Thank you, Kylian. This means more to me than you know.”

He cradled her against him, his hands resting on her waist as he looked down at her with an intensity that made her heart race. “I can’t wait to explore the island with you, to share all those beautiful moments,” he murmured, his breath brushing against her lips.

Giselle pulled back slightly, searching his eyes. “When do we go?” she asked, her excitement bubbling over.

“On Friday. I figured we could spend the rest of the week with your family,” Kylian said, a grin playing on his lips. “I want it to be just the two of us, no interruptions.”

She couldn’t help but beam at him, her heart swelling with appreciation for his thoughtfulness. “You really went all out for this, huh?” she teased lightly, her eyes sparkling with joy and something a little more feverish.

“Can we finish what we started earlier?” Giselle asked, her hands slipping beneath Kylian's shirt to lustfully scratch at his taut abs as she stood on her tiptoes to kiss him.

“Get undressed and crawl onto the bed, I want to see your beautiful body,” Kylian growled.

Kylian’s voice, rough with desire, sent a shiver down Giselle’s spine as she stepped back, her fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. The dim light of her bedroom cast soft shadows across the walls, the faint hum of the house settling into the quiet of the night wrapping around them. She held his gaze, her breath hitching as she slowly unzipped her hoodie, letting it fall to the floor with a muted thud.

Her tank top followed, revealing the smooth expanse of her skin, and she felt the heat of his stare as she slid out of her sweats, leaving her bare except for a thin pair of lace panties. Crawling onto the bed, she positioned herself on her knees, facing him, her body arching just enough to invite his touch, her heart pounding like a drum in her chest.

The air between them thickened, charged with a raw, unspoken need that had simmered all day beneath stolen glances and fleeting touches. Kylian stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes dark and hungry as they roamed over her, taking in every curve, every inch of exposed skin. He tugged his shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing the hard lines of his chest and the taut muscles of his abdomen, evidence of years on the field.

“Come here,” Kylian drawled, wrapping a hand around her ankle and guiding Giselle to the edge of the bed as he played her body like an instrument, pinning her legs back as he spread her open in one swift motion.

Giselle gasped as Kylian's strong hands gripped her thighs, pulling her legs back and exposing her most intimate parts. She could feel the cool air against her heated skin, making her shiver with anticipation. Kylian's intense gaze was locked onto her center, his eyes dark with desire.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "I can't wait to taste you."

Slowly, deliberately, Kylian leaned down. His warm breath ghosted over Giselle's sensitive flesh, making her hips buck involuntarily. Then, finally, his mouth descended upon her. His tongue parted her folds, flicking against her clit.

Giselle cried out, her fingers tangling in Kylian's hair as he devoured her. He ate at her like a man starved, his tongue plunging deep inside her before retreating to circle her swollen bud.

Giselle arched her feet and pointed her toes as Kylian took her to heights unknown, his lips and chin soaked in her arousal as he feasted on her.

“Tellement savoureux,” he groaned, lifting his head as he let a bead of saliva drip from his mouth onto her clit before slurping it back up. “So fucking tasty…”

Kylian’s tongue worked with relentless precision, tracing slow, deliberate circles around Giselle’s clit before diving back into her warmth. Her breaths came in sharp, ragged gasps, her thighs trembling under his firm grip as the room filled with the wet, intimate sounds of his mouth against her.

The light from the bedside lamp cast shadows across his focused face, his jaw moving with a hungry rhythm, while the faint scent of her arousal mingled with the musk of their shared heat.

Every flick and suck sent a jolt through Giselle, her body arching off the bed as if trying to escape the intensity, but Kylian’s hands held her down, unyielding. A low growl rumbled from his chest, vibrating against her core, as if her pleasure fueled some primal need in him.

Her mind spun, caught between the overwhelming sensation and a fleeting thought of surrender—how she’d never felt so exposed, so utterly claimed, and how part of her craved to push back, to test the limits of his control even as she melted under it.

“Kylian, please,” she whimpered, her voice cracking with desperation, her fingers tightening in his hair as if to anchor herself. He only hummed in response, the sound sending another shiver through her, his pace quickening as if her plea was a challenge.

Her toes curled tighter, the pressure building low in her belly, a taut wire ready to snap, while the sheets beneath her bunched in her free hand, damp with sweat and the heat of their bodies.

Kylian’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous path along Giselle’s inner folds, the heat of his mouth a stark contrast to the cool air brushing her skin. Her thighs quivered, muscles tensing with every deliberate stroke, while the faint creak of the bedframe beneath them punctuated the heavy silence of the room.

His fingers dug into her flesh, not painful but firm, a silent command to stay open for him, and she could feel the rough calluses on his palms scraping lightly against her softness.

The coil in Giselle’s core wound tighter, a desperate ache that bordered on pain as Kylian’s rhythm grew more insistent, his lips closing around her clit with a gentle but relentless suction.

Her breath hitched, a sob catching in her throat as she wrestled with the urge to pull away, to ease the overwhelming build, but his low, possessive growl against her kept her pinned—both body and will. In her mind, a flicker of defiance sparked; she wanted to flip this, to seize some control, to make him feel the same helpless need that threatened to shatter her, but her body betrayed her, hips tilting toward him instead of away.

“Fuck, Kylian, I can’t—” she gasped, her voice raw, breaking on the edge of a moan as her hand slid from his hair to grip the back of his neck, nails biting into his skin.

He lifted his gaze for a fleeting second, eyes dark and wild, a smirk curling at the corner of his glistening mouth before he dove back in, tongue plunging deeper as if to claim every shudder she gave. The heat of his breath, the wet sound of his hunger, and the tremor in her own limbs blurred into a single, pulsing moment, her world narrowing to the edge of release.

A cry ripped from Giselle’s throat as she came, her back arching from the bed, every muscle in her body locking tight under the wave of pleasure coursing through her. Her fingers clawed at Kylian’s neck, leaving faint red marks as her hips jerked against his mouth.

The room spun, the dim light blurring into streaks, while the sound of her own ragged breathing drowned out the faint hum of the city beyond the window, her world reduced to the heat of his tongue still teasing her through the aftershocks.

Pressing a final kiss to her swollen clit, Kylian kissed his way up Giselle’s body, savoring the taste of her warm flesh on his lips.

Giselle impatiently reached for Kylian, pulling his body on top of hers as her body trembled with the remains of her orgasm. Lifting her head she pressed a kiss to his lips, humming into his mouth as she tasted herself on his tongue.

“Turn over,” Kylian commanded, his voice a low rumble. Giselle’s breath hitched, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her release, but she obeyed, rolling onto her stomach with a slow, deliberate movement.

The sheets felt cool against her flushed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from her core, and she propped herself up on her elbows, glancing back over her shoulder to see Kylian’s eyes darken with a new kind of hunger. His hands slid down her back, rough palms grazing her spine, until they settled on her hips, pulling her up slightly so her ass was raised for him.

The vulnerability of the position sent a shiver through her, her heart thumping hard against her ribs as she felt the air kiss her exposed skin.

He didn’t waste a moment, his breath hot against the curve of her backside as he lowered himself behind her. Kylian’s hands spread her cheeks apart, his grip firm but careful, and Giselle bit her lip, a mix of anticipation and raw exposure tightening her chest. His tongue traced a slow, teasing path along the sensitive skin of her inner thigh first, inching closer to her center, before flicking against her still-throbbing pussy.

A soft moan escaped her, muffled into the pillow, as he lapped at her folds from this new angle, the sensation somehow deeper, more invasive. Then, without warning, his tongue moved higher, circling the tight ring of her ass with a deliberate, wet stroke, and her entire body jolted, a gasp tearing from her throat at the unfamiliar, intense feeling.

Kylian groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating through her as he alternated between her pussy and ass, his tongue relentless, exploring every inch with a hunger that felt almost feral. One hand slid beneath her, fingers finding her clit and rubbing slow, firm circles, amplifying the dual assault of his mouth.

Giselle’s knees trembled, threatening to give out, her fingers clawing at the sheets as waves of pleasure and shock rolled through her. The wet sounds of his tongue, the scratch of his stubble against her tender skin, and the faint musk of their mingled heat filled the air. “So good,” he muttered against her, his voice thick, before diving back in, his tongue pressing harder, deeper, as if he couldn’t get enough of her taste.

Giselle’s breath came in shallow, desperate pants, her face pressed into the pillow as Kylian’s tongue worked her with unyielding focus, alternating between the slick heat of her pussy and the tight, sensitive ring of her ass.

Her body trembled, caught in a storm of sensation as his fingers pressed against her clit, rubbing in tight, steady circles that sent sparks shooting through her core. The sheets beneath her were damp with sweat, her knees digging into the mattress as she struggled to hold herself up under his ministrations.

Every wet, deliberate stroke of his tongue pushed her closer to the edge, her mind fraying with the intensity of it, the raw intimacy of his mouth on such forbidden territory making her feel both vulnerable and wildly alive.

A choked moan escaped her lips, her hips bucking involuntarily as Kylian’s tongue pressed harder against her ass, teasing the tight muscle with a slow, insistent rhythm while his fingers quickened on her clit. The pressure in her belly coiled tighter, a burning ache that spread through her limbs, making her toes curl and her hands fist the sheets until her knuckles whitened. “Kylian,” she gasped, her voice barely a whisper, raw and pleading, as her body tensed, teetering on the edge.

He growled in response, the sound vibrating through her, and with one final, deep lick paired with a firm press against her swollen bud, she shattered—her cry sharp and broken as her second orgasm ripped through her, her body convulsing, ass and pussy clenching around nothing as waves of pleasure drowned her senses.

Kylian eased back as her tremors subsided, his hands sliding up her hips to steady her, his breath hot and ragged against the small of her back. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the curve of her spine, his lips slick and warm from her arousal, before murmuring, “Giselle, I want to take you here.” His fingers brushed lightly over her ass, a gentle but intentional touch that made her shiver, still hypersensitive from her release.

“Can I, baby?” His voice was low, rough with desire carrying only a thread of restraint, waiting for her answer as his thumb traced small, soothing circles over her hip, the weight of his body a steady presence behind her.

Giselle’s breath caught in her throat, her body still trembling from the aftershocks of her release, but she nodded into the pillow, her voice a soft, shaky whisper. “Yes, Kylian. I want you to.” Her words carried a mix of nervous anticipation and trust, her fingers tightening in the sheets as she braced herself, the cool fabric grounding her against the heat of her skin.

She glanced back over her shoulder, catching the glint of raw hunger in his eyes, and felt her heart thud harder, a flutter of vulnerability mixing with desire as she shifted her hips slightly, opening herself further to him.

Kylian exhaled a low, appreciative groan, his hands sliding over her hips with a tenderness that contrasted the intensity in his gaze.

“Be gentle, daddy,” Kylian’s hands tightened briefly on Giselle’s hips, a reassuring squeeze as he leaned over her, his chest brushing against her back. The heat of his skin was almost searing, and she could feel the hard press of his arousal against her thigh, a silent promise of what was to come.

Taking hold of his cock, Kylian teased the head against Giselle’s slick entrance, lubricating himself with her arousal before guiding the bulbous tip of his length to her second hole.

Kylian’s breath was heavy against Giselle’s ear as he positioned himself, the slick head of his cock pressing gently but firmly against the tight ring of her ass. Her body tensed instinctively, a shiver running down her spine as she felt the unfamiliar pressure, but his hand smoothed over her lower back, a grounding touch that steadied her racing pulse.

The pressure built slowly as Kylian pushed forward, just the tip at first, stretching her with a careful, deliberate pace that made her gasp into the pillow. A dull ache bloomed, mingling with a strange, raw intimacy that set her nerves alight, and she bit her lip, torn between the urge to pull away and the deep-seated want to give herself over to him completely.

His other hand slid beneath her, fingers finding her clit again, rubbing slow circles to ease her through the slight discomfort, the low murmur of his voice vibrating against a shoulder as he pressed a kiss there. “My perfect girl, I’ve got you.”

Giselle’s fingers clenched the sheets tighter, her knuckles paling, as she forced her body to soften under him, her breath hitching with every inch he claimed. Kylian groaned softly, the sound raw and restrained, his grip on her hip tightening as if battling his own need to thrust harder, faster.

“Daddy,” Giselle moaned desperately as Kylian pulled her up, his length slipping a little deeper with the changing of position. “I think I’m going to cum like this,” she continued, her eyes rolling shut as she rolled her hips against his fingers.

Giselle’s body trembled, caught between the unfamiliar ache of being stretched and the intense pleasure of Kylian’s fingers on her clit. She could feel every inch of him, the thick, throbbing heat of his cock slowly claiming her in a way she’d only ever allowed him to.

“That’s it, baby,” Kylian growled, his voice a low, soothing rumble in her ear. “Let go. I want to feel you come on my cock.”

His words sent a jolt through her, the dirty promise in them making her toes curl against the sheets. She rocked her hips back, meeting his slow, steady thrusts, the pressure inside her building to a sharp, almost painful point that bordered on ecstasy.

Kylian’s fingers on her clit quickened, his thumb pressing down on the sensitive bundle of nerves with just the right amount of pressure to make her see stars. The dual sensations, the deep ache of his cock stretching her and the relentless circling of his fingers, pushed Giselle to the very edge.

“Fuck, Kylian,” she gasped, her voice breaking, her body tensing like a coiled spring.

“You’re so fucking tight, Giselle,” Kylian groaned, his hips snapping forward with a bit more force, driving himself deeper into her. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, a primal rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. “I can feel you squeezing me. You love this, don’t you? Love feeling me split this pretty little ass open?”

His words, filthy and raw, sent a fresh wave of heat flooding through her. Giselle’s breath came in short, sharp gasps, her body trembling as she teetered on the edge of release.

“Yes,” she whimpered, the confession spilling from her lips. “I love it. I love feeling you so deep inside me, claiming me, making me yours.”

Kylian’s thrusts grew harder, more urgent, his hips slamming against her ass with a force that made the bed frame creak. One hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back to expose the column of her throat, while the other continued its relentless assault on her clit.

“Come for me, Giselle,” Kylian commanded, his voice a low, insistent growl. "I want to feel this tight little ass milk my cock as you cum for me."

His words, raw and filthy, were the final push Giselle needed. Her body tensed, every muscle locking as the wave of ecstasy crashed over her. A broken cry tore from her throat, her back arching as she came, her inner walls contracting around Kylian's cock.

Wave after wave of pleasure rolled through her, leaving her shaking and gasping for breath. Kylian groaned, his hips stuttering as he chased his own release, his grip on her hair tightening.

"Fuck, Giselle," he growled, his voice strained. "Your ass feels so fucking good."

With a final, hard thrust, Kylian buried himself deep inside her, his cock pulsing as he came, flooding her with his hot seed. He held her there, pinned beneath him, as the last tremors of their shared release rippled through them.

Kylian exhaled a deep, shuddering breath as he slowly pulled out of Giselle, the slick heat of her body releasing him with a faint, wet sound that hung in the quiet air.

Her frame trembled beneath him, a soft whimper escaping her lips at the sudden emptiness, and he smoothed a hand over her lower back, fingers tracing gentle circles to ease the lingering tension in her muscles. He shifted to lie beside her on the rumpled sheets, the mattress dipping under his weight, and pulled her close, her back pressing against his chest. The heat of their skin combining, damp with sweat, as his arm curled around her waist, holding her like something fragile yet fiercely claimed.

Her breathing was still uneven, shallow gasps that matched the faint thud of her heartbeat he could feel through her ribs, and he pressed a soft kiss to the nape of her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat.

Giselle nestled into him, her body softening against his solid frame, one hand reaching back to rest on his thigh as if to keep him near.

The room was heavy with the musk of their intimacy, the dim light casting a warm glow over their tangled limbs, and for a moment, they just lay there, wrapped in the afterglow. Kylian’s fingers drifted lazily over her hip, tracing the curve of her side, while his lips brushed her shoulder with quiet, unspoken tenderness. ‘You okay, mon amour?” he murmured, voice low and rough from exertion, the concern in his tone cutting through the haze of their earlier intensity. She nodded faintly, a small hum of contentment vibrating through her, and tilted her head back to catch his gaze, her eyes still glassy with the remnants of pleasure.

But the calm didn’t last long. Kylian’s hand slid lower, palm flattening against her stomach as his touch reignited a slow, simmering heat within her. His breath grew heavier against her ear, the hard press of his arousal stirring again, nudging against the curve of her ass as if drawn back by some primal pull.

“I’m not done with you yet,” he whispered, the promise in his words sending a fresh shiver down her spine. His fingers dipped between her thighs, teasing her still-sensitive flesh with a deliberate stroke, and Giselle’s breath hitched, her body arching instinctively into his touch.

He shifted, rolling her onto her back with a gentle but firm push, his frame looming over her as his dark eyes locked onto hers, hunger flaring anew in their depths.

His hand snaked beneath her left thigh, spreading her open as the cool air kissed her overheated skin, making her shiver under his gaze. Kylian’s fingers traced the slick warmth between her legs, slow and deliberate, reigniting sparks in her still-trembling body.

Giselle’s heart thudded, a mix of exhaustion and renewed desire warring within her as his touch grew firmer, more insistent, stoking a fire she thought had burned out. She bit her lip, a flicker of hesitation crossing her mind—her body ached, raw from their earlier intensity, yet the way Kylian’s eyes darkened with need made her want to give in, to see how much more she could take.

Her hands slid up his arms, gripping his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as if to ground herself against the rising tide of sensation, silently urging him on even as part of her wondered if she could keep up.

“Kylian, I—” she started, voice hoarse and barely above a whisper, but it broke into a soft gasp as his fingers slipped inside her, curling with a precision that made her hips buck.

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear, breath hot and ragged as he murmured, “Just a little more, baby. I know you can.” The weight of his body pinned her to the mattress, his free reaching for his cock so he could tap it teasingly against her pussy before nudging against her entrance.

“Yes, baby,” Giselle gasped as he leaned forward, filling her to the hilt as he bottomed out inside of her.

Kylian’s weight pressed Giselle into the mattress, his cock buried inside her with a slow, deliberate thrust that made her breath hitch in her throat. The stretch as always was intense, her body still tender from before, but the heat of him, the way he filled her completely, sent a fresh wave of need pulsing through her.

His hands gripped her hips, holding her steady as he began to move, each roll of his pelvis grinding against her in a rhythm that felt both punishing and perfect, the faint creak of the bed mixing with the sound of their ragged breathing.

Her fingers dug into his back harder, nails leaving faint crescent marks as she clung to him, her body arching to greedily meet his thrusts.

“I love being yours, Kylian,” Kylian’s thrusts deepened, the heat of his body enveloping Giselle as they moved together in a fervent rhythm. Her legs wrapped instinctively around his waist, ankles locking at his lower back, pulling him closer as if she could fuse their bodies into one. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat and desire, the faint hum of the city outside barely audible over the relentless slap of skin against skin.

Each powerful roll of his hips sent a shockwave through her, a raw blend of ache and ecstasy that snatched her breath in sharp, ragged gasps, her inner walls gripping him with fierce, unyielding pressure.

The tension in Giselle’s body wound tighter, her mind lost in a storm of sensation as Kylian’s pace surged, his hold on her hips bruising yet anchoring. She could sense the desperate edge of his hunger in every forceful push, a primal need that echoed the spark of rebellion in her core—she ached to match his fire, to drive him to his breaking point as he did hers, even as her body trembled under the sheer ferocity of it all.

Her hands roamed down his back, nails scraping lightly over his slick, heated skin, spurring him further while a quiet voice in her mind questioned how much more she could endure before shattering once more under his unyielding force.

“Fuck, Giselle, you feel so good,” Kylian growled, his voice raw and strained, his forehead pressing against hers as sweat trickled down his temple. His breath warmed her lips, blending with her own shallow, desperate pants, and his eyes—dark, untamed, and piercing into hers—flared with something possessive, almost savage.

One hand slid up to cradle the back of her head, fingers knotting in her hair as he tilted her for an even deeper angle, the shift wrenching a broken moan from her throat while the blistering heat between them soared to a breaking point.

Giselle let out a cry of pleasure as she came hard, her eyes rolling shut and her back arching from the bed as her body went stiff before completely melting beneath Kylian’s.

“Happy birthday, baby,” he grunted, his brow furrowing and thrusts growing unmeasured and forceful as he came inside her.

Kylian’s breath was a hot, ragged whisper against Giselle’s neck as he collapsed over her, his weight a grounding force while their bodies still trembled from the shared release.

The air in the room clung to their skin, thick with the raw scent of sweat and intimacy, the faint city hum beyond the window a distant murmur against the sound of their uneven panting.

His hand loosened in her hair, sliding down to rest on her shoulder, thumb brushing absently over her damp skin as if to soothe the intensity they’d just burned through.

Giselle’s chest heaved, her legs still loosely wrapped around him, reluctant to let go even as exhaustion seeped into her bones. Her mind flickered with a quiet conflict—her body ached, spent and oversensitive, yet the lingering heat of his touch stirred a restless want, a need to keep pushing, to see how far they could go before breaking entirely.

Her fingers traced the taut muscles of his back, feeling the slick sheen of sweat under her touch, a silent question in the way she pressed closer despite the fatigue pulling at her.

“Kylian,” she murmured, her voice barely audible, her lips brushing the edge of his jaw as she spoke. His head tilted slightly, his dark eyes catching hers, as a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“You’re making me shy,” Giselle giggled, her hands reaching up to cover her face and avoid his intense gaze.

Kylian chuckled low in his throat, the sound vibrating against Giselle’s skin as he gently pulled her hands away from her face. His fingers curling around her wrists, pinning them lightly above her head on the pillow, while his body still hovered over hers, the heat of him a persistent weight.

The dim light caught the sheen of sweat on his brow, and his smirk widened into something softer, tender, as he leaned down to brush his lips against hers.

“Don’t ever hide from me,” he drawled, forcing a moan as he rolled his hips against hers.

Kylian’s lips lingered against Giselle’s, the kiss slow and deep, tasting the salt of their shared exertion as his hips rolled again, a deliberate grind that drew a soft, involuntary moan from her throat. Her wrists flexed under his grip, not to pull away but to test the hold, her body still buzzing with the aftershocks of release yet stirring anew under the weight of his intent.

The slow drag of his cock inside her, still hard despite everything, sent a fresh tremor through Giselle’s core, a mix of ache and want that made her breath catch.

She could feel the tension in him too, the barely restrained hunger in the way his muscles tensed under her fingertips, and it sparked a reckless need in her—to push him further, to see that control snap, even if it meant losing herself completely in the process. Her legs tightened around his waist, a silent dare, while her mind wrestled with the raw edge of exhaustion and the pull to keep going, to match his fire until they both burned out.

[masn-mount]

SECRETS .04

“Who are you?”

how ‘ll he act when he feels that he is losing you

This series offers a closer, more honest look at Kylian Mbappé. By exploring his habits, routines, and subtle reactions IF HE WERE YOURS, it aims to reflect the real Kylian as accurately as possible: always human.

• Content : angst + drama

The ride back from the Bernabéu was almost too quiet to bear.

You sat beside him in the back of the sleek Mercedes Real Madrid van, black leather seats, dark tinted windows, the soft hum of the engine beneath you. It was the kind of luxury that used to feel exciting. Now it just felt… suffocating.

Kylian sat silently, eyes fixed out the window, the dim city lights of Madrid reflecting off his tense expression. His jaw was locked. His leg was bouncing. He hadn’t said a word since the final whistle.

And you knew this silence.You hated this silence.

“Kylian?” you tried softly, turning toward him. “You okay?”

Nothing.

You shifted in your seat, leaning just slightly toward him. “You played so well tonight… that second goal-”

Still nothing. No eye contact. No warmth. Just cold.

Your stomach sank.

Oh no, no, no…

Kylian was shutting down.

And when Kylian shuts down… it’s bad. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t beg. He goes quiet. He walls up, and suddenly, you’re not even sure if you’re part of his world anymore.

The rest of the ride was unbearable. You stared at your hands, still clutching your phone…the same one you’d checked during the match. For a second. A moment.

A devastating moment.

The second the van pulled into the underground garage of your shared apartment, Kylian was already sliding the door open. He didn’t wait. Didn’t look back. Just walked ahead, the echo of his shoes slapping the concrete like warning shots.

By the time you stepped inside, he had already dropped his Real Madrid jacket on a stool and tossed his phone facedown on the kitchen counter.

“Kylian?” you tried again, your voice gentler now, unsure. “Can we talk—?”

He finally turned. “You were there.”

His voice was calm. Too calm.

You blinked. “Of course I was. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“But you didn’t even see it.”

“What…?”

“The goal,” he said flatly. “I looked for you after I scored. But you weren’t looking at me.”

You stepped forward. “I—I got a message. It was from the clinic back home, I looked down for five seconds—”

“That’s all it took.” He let out a low, bitter laugh. The kind that had nothing to do with humor.

“I moved across the world. I left everything I knew behind to chase my dream altho i know no one here, new mates, new country, new club. But I didn’t care, because I thought I still had you.”

“Kylian—”

He cuts you off, voice tight, “Scoring goals for this badge. This dream. And all I could think about was the fact that my girl, who flew all the way to Spain to be with me, couldn’t even be bothered to look up.”

You felt the tears sting instantly.

“It wasn’t like that,” you whispered. “I’m here. I’ve always been here.”

“Are you?!”

He stepped closer now, his tone low, controlled. Dangerous.

“Because I’ve felt you pulling away for weeks. The little things. The fake smiles. The quiet. You’re distracted, distant, and when I ask why… you tell me you’re tired.”

“I am tired, Ky. I’m adjusting too, I don’t wanna be dependent on your life I am trying to still push my career and stand on my own. I didn’t mean—”

“Just tell me the truth,” he cut in. “If you’re seeing someone else, say it.”

Your breath caught. “What? No—Kylian, what???”

He looked at you now, finally, and the anger you expected… wasn’t there.

It was pain. Pure, gutting pain.

“Then why do you feel so far away?” he said. “Why do you always have somewhere else to be? Why do I feel like… like you’d rather be anywhere but with me?”

You took a shaky step forward. “There is no one else. How could you even think that?”

“Because it’s the only thing that makes sense!” he snapped, voice cracking. “You don’t look at me the same. You don’t talk to me like before. And tonight, when I scored… you were there, but it was like you weren’t.”

You stared at him, chest tight. “I looked down for a second, just a second Kylian. You know why?”

He didn’t move.

You stepped even closer. “I was texting my co-workers group. Back Home. That I won’t be able to answer, I told them, ‘He just scored. My Kylian just lit the Bernabéu on fire.’ I was telling them how proud I was. I was sharing you.” You sniffled, showing him the chat and the texts.

He didn’t look at the screen. Instead, he grabbed his keys from the counter.

He was leaving. Just like that. Turning away. Done.

“Kylian, wait—” you rushed forward, reaching out, grabbing his wrist, voice cracking.

“Don’t walk away from me.”

He froze. And for a moment, you hoped.

But then,he yanked his arm out of your grip. Not violently, but fast enough. Hard enough. Your hand stung, but not as much as your heart.

You flinched. Not from the pain, but from the space growing between you.

“I swear I was bragging about you ,please just look” you added softly between sniffles

His brows knit just slightly. His lip twitched looking at the chat then your face.

“Because I couldn’t believe I get to love someone who shines like that.” You tried to explain, you are trying so hard for him to not leave , to understand.

He looked away for a beat, like he didn’t want you to see how his chest rose a little deeper.

Like he didn’t want you to catch the faintest, fleeting flicker of a smile trying to break through.

But you saw it.

Just for a second.

Then it was gone.

“You broke something in me,” he whispered.

You reached for his face, and he flinched at first, but at least he didn’t pull away anymore.

“I looked down at the wrong time,” you said, voice trembling. “But I looked at you for everything else. I see you, Kylian. I love you. I just forgot how to live in both our worlds without dropping one.”

“I never wanted you to choose,” he said, quieter now. “I just wanted to be chosen sometimes.”

Tears slipped down your cheek. “You are. You always are.”

He didn’t say anything. You stepped closer still, forehead gently pressed to his.

“You’re not my cage,” you whispered. “You’re my home. I just needed to remember how to let you be that.”

He still didn’t speak. Still didn’t move. But his keys fell from his hand.

And then, slowly, he sank into your arms. Not with forgiveness. Not yet.

But with exhaustion. With heartbreak. With the kind of pain you only hand over to someone you still believe in.

“You broke my heart,” he whispered into your neck.

You held him tighter, fingers sliding through his curls, eyes closing in relief at his scent and his closeness.

“I know,” you whispered, broken. “But let me fix it. Please let me try.”

He didn’t answer. But he didn’t pull away either.

And for now…that was enough.

dividers cr : @uzmacchiato

I JUST BROKE MY OWN DAMN HEART!