Desireprint: I Would Do Anything for Love
Copyright© 2026 by rustbecci
Chapter 2
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 2 - Selene Moreau has hired a male Desireprint to really discover what her kinks are. It is an evening of full of exploration and extremes.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Fiction Science Fiction MaleDom Rough Sadistic Analingus Spitting Water Sports AI Generated
Rowan’s key turned in the lock at 7:42 p.m. Selene was already in the hallway when the door opened—barefoot, wearing his old navy flannel over leggings, sleeves rolled to her elbows. She’d set the kettle on low before he arrived; the faint scent of chamomile and honey drifted from the kitchen. On the counter sat his favorite mug—the chipped blue one with the stupid lighthouse—and beside it, the tin of shortbread she’d baked that afternoon, still warm. Small things. Ordinary things. Things that suddenly felt precious, almost fragile, after the night she’d spent alone in a hotel room learning how far she could go.
He stepped inside, duffel sliding off his shoulder with a soft thud. When he saw her, his tired travel-face melted into something softer, brighter.
“Hey, beautiful.”
She crossed the distance in three steps and wrapped her arms around his neck. He caught her around the waist, lifted her just off the floor—same way he’d done a thousand times—and she pressed her face into the hollow of his throat. Airport coffee, pine sap from the rental car, the cedar of his cologne. Home. Safety. Everything she’d fought to protect.
“I missed you,” she whispered, voice muffled against his skin.
“Missed you more.” He kissed her temple, then the corner of her mouth, then set her down but didn’t let go. His thumbs brushed the hem of the flannel—his flannel—and he smiled against her forehead. “You made shortbread. And tea. God, I love you.”
She laughed softly—small, real—and took his hand. Laced their fingers. Tugged gently.
“Come with me.”
No unpacking. No debrief about the trip. Just her leading him down the hall, past the living-room lamp that cast warm honey light across the floorboards, straight to the bedroom. Rowan followed without question, thumb stroking the back of her hand like he couldn’t bear to stop touching her.
She closed the door. Turned the lock. Dimmed the bedside lamps until the room glowed soft and golden. Curtains already drawn. The bed turned down. Everything ready.
Rowan stepped close, cupped her face, kissed her slow and deep—familiar, unhurried, like they had forever. They undressed each other with the quiet ease of long habit: his fingers slipping buttons free, her hands pushing his shirt off his shoulders, soft laughter when his belt buckle caught. He kissed the pale yellow shadows on her throat without asking questions—gentle, reverent. She shivered under his mouth, not from cold.
He lifted her onto the bed. Settled between her thighs. Kissed her again—deeper now—while he eased inside her, slow and careful. She sighed against his lips, legs wrapping around his waist, hands in his hair. He moved gently at first—long, steady strokes that made her arch and sigh his name. Safe. Warm. Loved.