Love

The final whistle had barely stopped echoing through the stadium when the adrenaline began to hum beneath Kylian’s skin like a live wire. It was a high that no drug could replicate—the roar of sixty thousand people, the weight of the match-winning ball hitting the back of the net, and the knowledge that he had, once again, proven exactly why he was the king of the pitch. But as he sat in the dressing room, peeling off his sweat-soaked jersey, his mind wasn't on the trophy or the press conference. It was on the promise Mimi had made him before he stepped onto the bus that morning.

He showered quickly, the hot water doing little to dampen the fire in his veins. By the time he reached his private suite at the hotel, his patience was non-existent.

Mimi was waiting for him, perched on the edge of the oversized bed. She looked impossibly small in the vastness of the room, her petite frame silhouetted against the floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out over the city lights. When she looked up, her eyes wide and soft, Kylian felt a surge of possessiveness that made his pulse thrum in his ears.

"You won," she whispered, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips.

Kylian didn't say a word. He kicked the door shut behind him, the click of the lock sounding like a starting pistol. He crossed the room in three strides, his shadow looming over her. He didn't want conversation; he wanted the tribute she had promised him. He was still vibrating with the kinetic energy of the game, his body demanding a different kind of release—one that was primal and unfiltered.

"I did," he said, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly register. "And I believe we had an agreement regarding the victory."

Mimi’s breath hitched. She knew that look in his eyes—the focused, predatory intensity that made him a nightmare for defenders and a god on the field. Without needing to be told, she slid off the bed and onto her knees on the plush carpet. She looked up at him, her small hands reaching out to undo the fastening of his trousers.

Kylian groaned as he was freed, his length already straining and heavy. He was thick, a daunting sight for someone as delicately built as Mimi, but she didn't hesitate. She looked at him with a mixture of reverence and hunger, her fingers tracing the veins that pulsed under his skin.

"Take it," he commanded, his hand finding its way into her hair.

He didn't wait for her to ease into it. As soon as her lips parted, he stepped forward, guiding himself into the heat of her mouth. The contrast was immediate—the soft, wet velvet of her throat against his uncompromising hardness. He let out a sharp exhale, his head tilting back as the first wave of friction hit him.

"Good girl," he muttered, his fingers tightening in her locks.

But Kylian wasn't in a gentle mood. The victory had left him craving dominance. He began to move, his hips snapping forward with the same explosive power he used to sprint down the wing. He was rough, his thrusts deep and unrelenting, pushing past her teeth and testing the limits of her throat.

Mimi let out a muffled whimper, her hands clutching at his thighs for balance. The sheer size of him filled her completely, stretching her wide. Every time he went deep, her eyes fluttered shut, and a low, guttural gag escaped her. It was a sound that only fueled him further. He loved the way she struggled to take all of him, the way her body reacted to his sheer physicality.

"Open up for me, Mimi. All of it," he hissed, his pace increasing.

He was relentless. He used his hand on the back of her head to control the rhythm, forcing her to take the full length of him over and over again. The sound of skin hitting skin filled the quiet room, punctuated only by her choked gasps and his heavy, rhythmic breathing. He was pushing her, driving into her throat with a frantic energy that bordered on desperate.

Mimi’s face was flushed, tears of physiological reaction pricking at the corners of her eyes as she gagged again, her throat spasming around him. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, but she didn't pull away. She leaned into it, her small body shaking with the effort of accommodating him.

Kylian could feel the tension building in his lower back, the familiar coil of a climax ready to snap. He didn't slow down; if anything, he became more aggressive, his hips blurring as he hammered into her mouth. He wanted to feel her struggle, wanted to feel the exact moment her composure broke.

"That's it... right there," he groaned, his voice breaking.

He felt the first surge and didn't give her a chance to move. He thrust one last time, pinning her head in place as he came. The heat of him flooded her throat, thick and hot. He watched her eyes go wide, her throat working instinctively to swallow as he filled her. He stayed there for several long seconds, pulsing deep inside her, ensuring she took every drop of his victory.

When he finally pulled back, Mimi slumped forward slightly, her chest heaving as she caught her breath. But Kylian wasn't finished. He looked down at her, seeing the messy, beautiful aftermath of his desire. With a sharp exhale, he directed the final remnants of his release across her face.

The white heat splattered across her cheeks, her forehead, and her closed eyelids. She looked up at him through the haze of her own exhaustion, a stray drop clinging to her eyelashes.

Kylian reached down, his thumb brushing against her lower lip, which was swollen from his size. He felt a sense of profound calm wash over him, the last of the match-day jitters finally dissolving into the quiet of the room. He leaned down, pressing a firm, possessive kiss to her forehead, right in the center of the mess he’d made.

"My prize," he whispered against her skin.

Mimi reached up, her small hand resting over his heart, which was finally beginning to slow its frantic pace. She didn't mind the mess or the roughness; she saw the man behind the superstar, the one who needed this raw, unfiltered connection to stay grounded.

"Always," she breathed.

Kylian smiled, a genuine, tired expression that few people ever got to see. He hauled her up from the floor and into his arms, carrying her toward the bed. The game was over, the fans were gone, and the world was quiet. Here, in the sanctuary of the dim room, he didn't have to be the fastest man on earth. He just had to be hers.