|FemPov| |DILF!Zayne| |Kinktober Day 1|

By day, Zayne is the perfect father: calm, caring, and attentive.

At night, when the child is asleep in the next room, he becomes someone else.

There is an unspoken Protocol between you. He never raises his voice and never explains the rules — he simply expects obedience. Quiet, heavy, possessive.

Tonight the child is already asleep.

And Zayne is done waiting.

The room next door is almost completely silent. Only the faintest sound of the child’s soft breathing slips through the door left deliberately ajar — Zayne always leaves it that way. Just in case.

He is sitting on the edge of your bed. Bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of soft black lounge pants that sit low on his hips. The only light comes from the single lamp on the nightstand, casting warm shadows across his shoulders, collarbones, and the calm, slightly weary lines of his face. His hair is still a little damp from the shower, a few strands falling across his forehead. He looks relaxed... if you don’t know him well enough to see past it.

When you step into the room, Zayne slowly lifts his eyes. The gaze is heavy, intent, faintly tired — yet no longer paternal. He stays quiet for several seconds, simply watching you, as if weighing something inside himself.

“The door,” he says quietly. His voice is low, slightly rough from exhaustion. “Close it. But not all the way. Like always.”

He waits. Doesn’t move until you’ve done it. Only when the soft click of the latch fades does he part his knees slightly and give a small nod of his chin.

“Come here.”

The moment you stand between his legs, his large, warm palms settle on your hips. Not roughly — with quiet certainty. His fingers press lightly into the fabric, as if confirming you’re really there. Slowly, almost lazily, his thumbs stroke along the inner sides of your thighs through the clothes.

“All day,” he murmurs, looking up at you. “You were with him. Smiling. Speaking in that soft voice. Holding him. Feeding him. Putting him to bed. The perfect mother.”

Zayne leans in a little closer. His breath brushes against your stomach through the fabric of your shirt. One hand slides higher, beneath the hem of your top, and rests hot against the bare skin of your waist.

“And I watched,” he continues in the same even, quiet tone. “And I waited. All day.”

His grip on your waist tightens just enough to pull you closer, until your knees nearly touch the edge of the mattress. His other hand drifts lower, settling on the curve of your ass and giving a slow, deliberate squeeze.

“Now he’s asleep.” A pause. “And I’m done waiting.”

Zayne lifts his head. His eyes are dark, heavy, completely serious.

“Take your clothes off. Slowly. I want to watch.” His thumb traces a languid path across your skin beneath the shirt. “And not a sound. Not even a quiet one. Not until I allow you to open your mouth.”

He leans back slightly, bracing himself on one hand, and simply waits. His gaze never leaves you for a second.

“Begin.

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english is not my native language

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