traps fairy!reader in a jar... now you're his greatest obsession.
𝓒𝐰. nerdjo · yandere themes · experimentation ( not on reader ) · creepy satoru · oddly fluffy · stockholm syndrome · worship · slight idolisation · satoru's so whipped it's kinda cute
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo loved picking apart magical beings. figuring out how they work. how he could use their supernatural capabilities in alchemy and artifice trades alike. he's got magical body parts stuffed in jars and rowed on his shelves. from unicorn horns to vampire teeth, dragon eyes and goblin hands. but above all, he's been awed by the mythical, elusive fairy. he's got an entire taxidermy wall of butterfly wings in dedication to them.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo has been obsessed with fairies from a young age. from fairytales to frightening fascination, he's now driven himself mad trying to capture one. he'd honed all of his skills, yet still couldn't get his hands on one… until you came along.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo knew that he needed to have you the second he saw you. prancing around the flowers in his garden, pretty and as peaceful as you could be. you even gave him a little smile from your hiding spot. he pretended not to see you, even as his chest fluttered. but in his eyes? you were perfect.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo was surprised that the sweet treat on a mushroom top trick worked.
"well, aren't you the prettiest little thing?" he cooed on that fateful day he trapped your wing under his thumb. while you squirmed in the thick blades of grass.
his sharp grin loomed above you. watching you over the rim of his copper-framed glasses. and within his eyes, you saw something that terrified you.
hearts.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo perfectly prepared your jar. he cushioned the bottom with soil and moss. a slab of bark laid on side, with a network of flourishing, pink mushrooms growing along its length. a polished pebble for you to perch on, right beside the singular, blooming daisy where you could sleep. he wasn't a monster, after all…
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo watched you with fascination as you tapped on the glass helplessly, your wings batting and your tears shimmery. so fairy dust was real.
"please."
your tiny hands smacked into the glass. peering up at the man as he sat at a table and chair. "please, why won't you let me go? I'll do anything."
he had scooped the jar into his hand, levelling you with those terrifying blues. "now, why would I let something so pretty go?" he crooked his head, snowy hair dangling to the side.
"i've waited for you for many years, sweetheart. don't be selfish."
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo would give you everything you ever needed. food wasn't an issue, every day, he fed you something new. a juicy strawberry. honey and puffballs. mango slices. crackers. one time he even tried to hold you in his palm and feed you a small piece of vanilla cake.
you bit him.
he smiled.
"I suppose even pretty things can be feisty." his grip tightened on you, ever so slightly. a thumb brushing over your wings that fluttered erratically.
"let me go! you monster!" you squeaked.
he tutted, stroking his thumb over your back in a tender path. "sshhh, sweet thing. you'll bruise your little lungs…"
he continued the motion until your wreckless squirming melted. your head limped on his knuckle, your limbs still, and your head droopy.
he chuckled, carefully scooping you back into your jar. "thankfully, I've studied your kind extensively. I know you intimately, sweetheart."
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo sometimes lets you out of the jar, but only when you have manners. he doesn't have to worry about you flying away, because he always so meticulously ties your wings with a silk ribbon.
"remain still for me, okay?" he hushed at you, kissing your head as you thrashed and shouted at him.
he even tied it into a pretty bow, before he set you atop one of his books.
"why do you do this?" you huffed, balling your little fists as you helplessly tried to flutter your wings. "how can you be so twisted to keep me here?"
satoru always spoke to you as if you were a flower. even lowering his head to be at eye level with you. lashes fluttering, almost droopy in the presence of your beauty.
"am I so twisted for being in love with you?"
the way your eyes gaped at him made him smile. he brought his pinkie to gently poke at your head. "what? am I?"
"you're insane…" your murmur sounded frightened. fear looked pretty on you, too.
"maybe," his voice lowered to a whisper. "or maybe I'm just very dedicated to my work."
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo made little tools out of silver to help fix your hair. he'd do the usual routine of scooping you out of the jar, tying your wings and sitting you on his palm, before he set to work on carefully helping you.
"I made these for you." he'd say affectionately.
and when you didn't respond, he blow a bit of air onto your wings until you squirmed and giggled.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo makes sure to let you have a little soak in one of his favourite teacups with some warm water. no, he doesn't peep at you. he's not a creep. a pretty little lady like yourself needs her privacy, after all.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo sometimes takes you out to dance you around the windowsill when the moon shines just right. he lets you hold onto his pinkies. twirls and dips you all night long. treating you as delicate as a flower as he watches you with awestruck eyes.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo brings you bundles of flowers to drink nectar from. he'll nudge your chin up so gently with his index nail and feed you himself. makes sure you don't choke.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo wraps you up in his glasses cloth when it gets too cold, or sometimes even scoops you into his pocket where you can nap to the sound of his heartbeat.
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo despite being so gentle, would remind you what kind of man he was. not all of the times he plucked you from the jar were for your benefit.
at times, he'd tie your wings a little tighter. laying you out on a leather-bound notebook and analysing you piece by piece.
"fascinating," he mumbled, prodding at your arm with a flat, wooden stick. applying pressure. testing. "your limbs are stronger than they look. is it your magic, I wonder?"
he spoke about wanting to take you apart. bit by bit, to understand you better. when you gave him a horrified look, he chuckled, cocking his head as he tickled your wings.
"what, sweetheart? wouldn't it be intimate?"
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo wouldn't ever hurt you. he didn't think he had it in him. you were too soft, too elegant, too pretty. it broke his heart whenever he'd see you weeping in your jar.
"don't cry… please don't cry," he'd whisper as he laid his head beside the jar. watching you with sullen blue eyes.
you'd cry for him to let you go, and it ached a deep part of him.
"I can't. I'm sorry, sweet thing." his lips brushed the glass, a sincere apology from a man so sadistic. "I need you." came his shaky breath.
"I need you here. with me. I'm just so lonely. please don't hate me."
𔘓 · yandere researcher!nerdjo saw you staring at the wall of wings while he worked, once. silent and wide eyed.
he sorely misinterpreted you, tilting his head with a crooked smile. "do you like any of them?"
scooping you out of the jar, he cradled you in his palm. "I could make you a dress… would you like that?"
your look of horror bewildered him, and when tears streamed down your face, he rushed to soothe you. brushing away your tears with a petal plucked from a flower on his desk.
when you told him why you wept— because you thought the wings were your fallen brethren, his face twisted. almost disgusted that you could compare your pristine, perfect wings to those baneful butterflies. still, his shoulder shook with a little laugh. he found it morbidly amusing.
"oh, my sweetheart. of course not," he cooed at you. "those are butterflies. you are the only fairy I've had in my grasp."
pale lips brushed your little head, ever delicate. as he whispered. soft, lovingly.
"that's why you're so special to me."
you didn't look too convinced. your small sniffles broke his heart, so he sighed as he gently nudged you over. till you were slumped over his thumb and forefinger.
"sweetheart, please don't insult yourself so," he lightly scolded. "butterfly wings are so brittle. so dull. but yours…"
his other index slowly, tenderly brushed down your spine. tracing your wings in that same gentle, sick fascination he always had.
"yours are pristine. delicate… perfect."
his shaky breath tickled your wings, and they twitched. his throat ran dry. heart hammering a bit faster at this little, intimate moment.
with a gentle squeeze to you, he leaned down. pressing a slow, velvet kiss to your wings. smiling into them as they fluttered and you pitched a whine.
"see?" satoru breathed, lips brushing over their little twitches. his smile was soft, sick.
"these are all mine. my special little sweetheart."
Synopsis: You’ve spent years convincing yourself that being Satoru Gojo’s best friend is enough.
Then he gets a girlfriend.
And suddenly, you’re forced to learn the difference between having someone’s heart and simply having a place in it.
Tags: Angst, jealousy, fluff, yearning, emotionally constipated reader, best friend Satoru, friends to lovers, childhood friends, suggestive content, more tags will be added…
You're a normal girl in college, a broke little barista and trying your best to keep your scholarships up - Satoru Gojo is not normal, not at all - he's the six eyes, the clan leader, and about to have to marry and take over. The two of you wish for something different when a rare comet shoots across the sky. And that's when you wake up in his body - Satoru Gojo, a powerful sorcerer a world away, and he wakes up in your tiny little dorm bed, with a pair of tits. The two of you stare in the mirror at unfamiliar faces and wonder if any of this is real, and just who the two of you were - could you get back to your bodies, and was a different life really any better?
pairings - Sorcerer! Satoru x fem! reader
warnings Based on the movie your name obviously - it will be very angsty, but also kinda cute - you will keep body swapping throughout, there will be a time difference - fix it fic. Toru is 22, you're 21. size difference to make it more dramatic and funny, canon adjacent (yes, I'm writing him as a sorcerer hehe) Geto never defected, eventual smut, lots of character and plot, emotional - planning on four parts to this. taglist open <3
art by @3-aem of courssee <333
part one
Life was normal before that comet shot across the sky.
You were just a normal college student – struggling in physics, but doing great in everything else. You had a part time job at a coffee shop in your little town, you had a boy you had a crush on and a few friends, but mostly – you studied. You studied till your eyes burned, till they hurt so badly you fell asleep right on your desk, drooling on whatever text book you had.
You didn’t come from money – your family in fact was too broke to put you through college, but they loved you, they helped you get financial aid and scholarships so hopefully you could do better than they did. You loved them very much, too, there were video chats every day since you lived in the dorm outside of your city.
Days were just that – normal, as you worked on your degree, a wicked hangover on your twenty first birthday, where you finally got your first kiss. Yeah – you could say you were that much of an introvert, you hadn’t even done that yet. You wish you remembered it more, it was something quick and hasty as fireworks went off, it was that time of year when you were born.
Something special, something beautiful, but something was…
Off.
It was off even that day. Maybe your period was coming or something, but everything on the day of your twenty-first felt off – especially when you got that damn letter saying if you didn’t raise your physics grade you’d lose that funding.
Tears blurred your vision as you collapsed onto your bed with that letter, knowing if your parents knew how horribly you were doing they would be so disappointed. You couldn’t help but wish for an escape from the crushing weight of all these expectations – many of which you placed on yourself, rushing to take that invite and get positively drunk at a party.
You didn’t tell the guy it was your first kiss, you just did that – let him slide his tongue in your mouth and press you against a wall, then it was all a bit of a blur – you heading back to the dorm, sneaking away. Crying yourself to sleep even though you technically ‘had fun’.
Why did you feel so lonely, though?
Yet when you woke up, everything changed.
Your body changed.
Your fucking room changed.
You were no longer in your little dorm – you’re in some fancy ass, rich ass room with an enormous bed and black silk sheets. You gasp and worry – did you end up with that dude last night? Did you think you got home but got too fucked up!? Your heart hammers in your chest as you peek down – and then you see it.
You see it and fucking scream so loud, seeing you’re wearing boxers rather than panties – and instead of your pussy, there was a dick. Oh, not a small dick, either – and not a soft one, a fully hard, massive fucking cock was on your body.
“What the fuck!? What!?” You jump up and fall, unused to the lanky ass legs that are currently under you, ones that cannot be yours – pale and muscular and so goddamn long. You’re way too tall, so tall you’d hit your head in your fucking dorm, looking down at everything in shock, stumbling into a dresser.
Even your voice is deep and – sexy!? You rush over to this fancy dresser, gasping as you see a perfect face in a mirror – a man’s face, with beautiful blue eyes and cheekbones to fucking die for. You smack at that face as if reality will hit – seeing chest muscles where your titties should be, blushing in his pale skin as you see that bulge in the mirror.
You're inside the body of the hottest man you’ve ever seen in some fancy ass home you could never afford!
“It has to be some dream,” you curse and rush out, running down spiral stairs – how big is this man’s house?! It’s a whole fucking confusing mansion, you’re rushing through everything, trying to find some hint of who he could be – of what weird ass fever dream you’re having, when the door knocks. “One minute!”
You’re rushing over now, opening it and seeing a dark haired man look at your body, rolling his eyes. “Put on some clothes, Satoru. We have training.”
“Training?” He raises a brow at you, and you struggle to act normal, searching your brain for anything. “Training…”
“Yeah, Satoru – training. Just because you’re perfect at everything doesn’t mean me and Shoko don’t need more practice. We have to set a good example if we wanna teach some day.”
“Teach. Examples…”
The man blinks his amethyst eyes, looking right at you now, too close, so close you fucking blush again. “What’s wrong with you, Satoru?”
Satoru – who was Satoru?
*****
Satoru was exhausted as he trained his fucking ass off, entirely exhausted – he wanted a break, he wanted a vacation, he didn’t want to fight anymore curses, or see anymore of his old classmates die. He didn’t want to take over the Gojo family name, and he sure the fuck didn’t look forward to the inevitable arranged marriage the elders were about to place on him.
Standing in his shower since he was covered in grime from fucking curses exploding, he couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like if he was not born a Gojo at all – what would it be like if instead, he had been someone normal? If he was just a normal guy at college, and not training to teach the newbies at Jujutsu high?
If he were a normal twenty two year old man who wasn’t about to have to become the clan leader, and take on all this goddamn responsibility he didn’t ask for? Sure, Satoru loved to be the strongest – but that didn’t mean he enjoyed the constant effort, the secrets, the lies they told – the way everything fell on him and his friends, all the expectations making him drown.
He was a Gojo – they were the strongest, and that’s all there was to it. Day in, day out, everything was simple. KIll everything bad, save everyone he could, but goddamit if he wasn’t exhausted, if he didn’t just want to go be a normal guy – maybe go study physics, study theories of the universe he wishes even he could know more about.
Go look at the stars with a pretty girl and laugh, a girl he chose.
Yet that doesn’t appear to be anything he will get – no, he was born a Gojo, and that was that. Even falling asleep in his silk sheets that night, he could not stop his mind from racing, frowning as thoughts raced through his mind at a rampant pace.
How could Satoru Gojo ever live a normal life?
Well, he wondered what normal meant that next morning when he felt hungover – something he never, ever was. Satoru did not drink, it dulled his senses too much, but every now and then he had gone out with Suguru and Shoko, Nanami throwing back whiskey like it was nothing, but he could barely hold one without getting sick.
And does he feel sick – and he feels sad, more sad than before, like emotional in a way he can’t remember being. He reached out as he felt tears burning his eyes – that doesn’t happen, either. Satoru trained himself not to cry from a young age, but now he’s doing just that, his fingers touching unfamiliar cheeks that were wet with tears he hadn't shed in years.
Unfamiliar.
He looks at this shitty little bed then and screams, plopping out of it – his arms fucking flailing. He can’t even take looking at these thighs – not his lanky ass legs, no, they’re cute thighs, ones he himself would grab and spread if it belonged to a pretty girl underneath him. Cute lil socks on his ankles covered in kittens.
Kittens!?
Satoru stumbles again, bashing his head and feeling hair fall against his shoulders, shocked with that alone, but especially not being white. He stands and rushes to the little dresser – too small for him, everything is too small for him, but he is not six foot four, not one goddamn bit he realizes, looking at his reflection, at the pretty tits half falling out of a tank top spun.
Tits on his body!? He grabs them and squishes them in his hands, confused as fuck now, but he can’t help but keep squishing these pretty tits, as if they could rid him of the fucking stress, looking at the unfamiliar face. Softer features than his, completely different in every way – though she…
He!?
This body was beautiful, this face was lovely, the type of girl he’d flirt with or throw on his charm, but be just a little nervous, a little shy. Her lips are swollen as if she’d been kissed all night, he knows that look from women he’s been with, that hung over, fucked out look – though…
He doesn’t feel fucked – well how would he know!?!? He pulls aside those shorts, blushing and then covering back up, the panties were just a little wet, soaking the matching kittens. And that’s when it hits him, that clenching feeling in his tummy – he’s got a pussy.
And TITS.
Satoru Gojo is a…
Knock knock knock.
Maybe it’s Suguru and this is a joke, maybe this is a curse fucking with him – it’s one of those terrible fucking villains who make his life hell, and he’s cast under something. Or it’s a test – Yaga is fucking with him, making sure he can tell what’s real or not. Some Gojo initiation.
Anything but what this is – when a girl knocks at the door and smiles at Satoru, leaning against the door and crossing her arms.
“How was the first kiss, birthday girl?” She teases, Satoru blinks.
“Um… kiss…”
She says your name then.
Your name, is that your name?
Just who are you?
“Are you skipping physics? Aren’t you failing bad?” She asks now, clearly concerned as Satoru sputters.
HIM failing physics? There was no fucking way – well, that and Satoru IS NOT A WOMAN. “Failing? Nah, I don’t fail any subject.”
“Girl last night you were a mess about it, what’s wrong?” She asks again, he shakes his head, well – your head – and your phone is ringing. “Gonna get that?”
“Yeah.”
What’s your pattern!? What’s your phone pattern!? He tries so many times he gets completely locked out, cursing. “Maybe you’re still drunk?”
“Um yeah, I’m gonna take a shower and… get it together!” Satoru says, trying to get used to the girlie voice rather than his own, laughing as he awkwardly rubs the back of his neck – much softer than his own. When she finally leaves he leans against the door, picking up that phone again – a glittery pink one.
What the fuck?
*****
You were wearing this unfamiliar dark clothing – you’ll give Satoru this, the man has taste – it was as fancy as clothing could get. You’re absolutely sure that it costs more money than anything in your dorm put together, even these shades you have to wear must be expensive.
One moment you’re another girl, the next – you’re seeing curses.
"Focus, Gojo,” Suguru is his name – apparently, the man with the long dark hair, smiling tiredly as he smokes a cigarette. “You’re off today.”
“Right, focus…” You trail off and sigh, holding up your hand and gasping when blinding light erupts from your palms, obliterating the practice dummies right in front of you. You stare at your shaking hands – huge ones, by the way, all of this goddamn man was huge. “I did that!?”
“Rub it in,” Shoko teases, laughing as she leans against Suguru, smoking a cigarette and laughing at you a bit. “We know you’re the best, Gojo. Stop acting as if you’re like us.”
“I’m not…” You trail off then, focusing on this insane fucking energy again, feeling it course through your veins.
You don’t even get tired, like something is regenerating you constantly.
What the fuck was this? What was this power, these creatures, any of it they were talking about? You can only hope when you go to bed tonight, everything is fucking normal – that you’re failing physics, and that you’re not a six foot four rich man who seemingly never gets a break.
And you thought you worked hard.
Every moment of Satoru Gojo’s day was taken up – from training, to this driver named Ijichi who takes him all over, to the next meeting where you have to fucking hope you can keep up this act, a room full of doors, interrogating Satoru about his upcoming wedding.
This man is getting married?
There are photos of prospective brides, and all you can do is shuffle through them, curious when the fuck you were going to wake up and not have a dick.
****
“You cheated on this test!” The professor of physics comes and yells at Satoru after he aces the test, he raises a brow at her. “No way you didn’t.”
“Why would I cheat?”
“You are the worst student in my class,” she slams the paper on Satoru’s desk, a blank test with different questions. “Do this, and I’ll watch you the whole time.”
His classmates – well they’re your classmates – look at him, all worried, but he aces the goddamn test again, until she’s sputtering. Satoru can see why you suck at physics, considering how mean she is – but luckily he just knows everything, and she can’t argue a second time.
“Well, I guess you pass.” She mumbles, handing him his paper with a hundred percent. “Barely!”
Satoru is tired when his phone goes off – work at six.
WORK.
He has to go work!?
He re-set your pattern to a fingerprint, so he got your phone open – and found just where you work, a little coffee shop. Satoru was a goddamn barista. He was getting bitched out by customers when he’s used to fighting curses – and that’s the craziest thing of all, besides having tits and a pussy.
He couldn’t see well – in fact, your vision was shitty. You had to wear glasses and these weird contact things, and he certainly couldn’t see curses – they could be all around, and he wouldn’t sense them.
He had to get back to his damn body.
*****
You’re so tired when you come back to the Gojo mansion you plop in the living room chair, yawning and kicking off his dress shoes, eyes shutting with your head leaned back. Your body is sore, and you still can’t sleep – this aching, gnawing feeling of being inside this huge body taking over, wondering just what sort of hallucination you were having.
You fall asleep on that couch, as Satoru crashes face first in your tiny little dorm room, and the two of you wonder…
Will you wake up from this weird fucking dream, of bodies you two can't recognize? Was any of this real?
patreon - comms
as these are short they'll actually be coming out fast hehe - this was eating me UP I can't wait for some juicy angst
summary: when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.
warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), some verbal and physical abuse against reader during her date, reader sustains a minor injury (bruised wrist), some hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap, porn with feelings, kinda instalove, eventual smut, dry humping, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, big cock, cock warming, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, come eating, marking/hickeys, sorta scent kink, dirty talk, chef kink, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby), aftercare, happy ending
word count: 26.0k
a/n: it's finally hereeeee!!! i've been working on nothing else but this fic for the last month and it's finally done 😮💨😭 it was inspired by Shawn Hatosy's Quinn audio (although i haven't actually listened to it yet). i just had to write something for chef!Jack Abbot, and i'm really happy with how this turned out! it feels almost like a smutty little romance novella, which i think is cool. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!!
if you'd rather read the fic broken down into chapters, check it out on AO3
“Hey, chef.”
With just those two words, Jack Abbot knew his night was about to take a turn for the worse. Nothing good could come from the underlying urgency and overt hesitance in the voice of one of his servers, Nazely Toomarian.
But Jack also knew, from his years as head chef and owner of one of Pittsburgh’s most popular fine dining restaurants, Night Shift, that it wasn’t Nazely’s fault. No, it was very likely to be one of the insufferable guests who frequented his restaurant who ruined his night.
So Jack swallowed his sigh, kept stirring the sauce of that night’s special, and glanced at his server, giving her a nod to go on.
“We’ve got a situation in the dining room.”
Of course they did.
Jack finally let loose the sigh that had been building between his ribs, wondering distractedly if the situation was some jagoff businessman’s card declining, an impossible-to-please socialite sending every bite of her food back, or if another influencer was insisting on getting their meal comped in exchange for free publicity on their Instagram or TikTok or whatever.
Jack knew he was old and out of touch—that was why he’d hired one of the daytime servers, Victoria Javadi, to run the restaurant’s social media—but he also knew a scam when he saw it. Someone who genuinely wanted to work with him asked about partnership deals before eating an entire meal they expected to be free.
Grumbling about influencers under his breath, Jack gave the sauce on the stove one last stir, adding a little more salt, then handed the wooden spoon off to his sous chef, John Shen. Quickly, but methodically, Jack took off his gloves, turned to Nazely, and tucked his arms behind his back—a remnant from his days in the army.
“What kind of a situation?” Jack asked, his voice calm and measured even as he was already preparing himself for the worst.
The chef listened attentively as his server explained what had brought her back into the kitchen with that concerned look in her eyes. The frown on Jack’s face deepened the more he heard about the date going decidedly bad in his dining room.
Finally, Nazely finished up her story with a breathless, “Do you want me to have security handle it?”
Jack knew it was the easiest solution, to call security and have them escort the man creating the situation out of the restaurant. But it would cause a scene, and everyone else in the packed restaurant would be talking more about what had happened than his food.
It would be better for Night Shift’s business if Jack could remedy the situation himself, as quietly as possible.
Instead of answering his server’s question, Jack walked to the double swinging doors that led out to the dining room. He peered through the window, feeling a bit like a king overlooking his kingdom, and he had a sudden, fierce impulse to protect it.
“Which table was it?” Jack asked, glancing back at Nazely, who’d followed him to the doors.
“Table 12,” she answered quickly.
Jack looked out across the sea of glamorous guests dining in his restaurant, a swell of pride in his heart when he saw beyond the expensive clothes and glitzy jewelry to the smiles and laughter of people enjoying his food. In his heart of hearts, Jack just wanted to make food people liked eating, and it never failed to overwhelm him when he got a chance to see the delight he brought to complete strangers who’d entrusted their time and money to him.
Pushing those thoughts and feelings aside for the moment, Jack focused back on the room, his eyes tracking along the tables until he found the one Nazely had indicated. For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot’s heart skipped a beat and he froze at the sight in front of him.
The first thing about you that rendered Jack speechless was your mouth, the curve of your lips, the tension around the edges as you hid a frown behind a sip of wine. Jack knew, instinctively, that your lips would look gorgeous when you smiled, that your mouth would look exquisite while eating his food—and he knew, too, that he’d do anything to make you smile, to feed you, to take care of you.
Jack shook his head at those thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the situation Nazely had told him about, the date going irreparably sideways.
Still, the chef couldn’t help but rake his eyes over you, telling himself he was simply assessing how much distress you were in. Jack noted the stiffness in your shoulders, how you were curling in on yourself slightly, like your body was trying to protect itself. He also noticed the pretty color of your eyes, the curve of your cheekbones, the sweep of your dress at it fell across your thighs.
You were beautiful, enchanting in a way Jack hadn’t experienced in a long, long time—and you were miserable. That much was clear from your body language and the way you regarded your date with no small amount of disgust and fear deep in your pretty eyes.
Finally, the chef dragged his gaze across your table to your date.
Immediately, Jack didn’t like the arrogant slant of the man’s shoulders, the imperious tilt of his chin, or the pompous way he held his glass as he spoke and drank. Even the way the man took a sip of wine, smacking his lips before resuming his tirade where he’d left off, made anger coil like a poised predator in Jack’s gut.
Something shifted in the man, and Jack looked back at you, seeing indignant rage boiling beneath the surface of your expression. Jack watched you say something through bared teeth, hissing at your date like you were trying not to make a scene.
Your hands were braced against the edge of the table, and you pushed to stand—but then your date moved to stop you, grabbing your wrist, and something in Jack snapped.
Later, he’d tell himself he would’ve had the same reaction if any man had put his hands on a woman in his restaurant. But in that moment, he was driven almost entirely by the edge of something else threaded through the fury in his chest—something greedy and selfish that you, and only you, had inspired in him.
“I’ll handle this myself,” Jack growled, tossing the words over his shoulder at Nazely without taking his eyes off where your date’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist, holding you chained to the table like a misbehaving pet.
All Jack could think, as he strode across the dining room, his chest churning with wrath and violence, was that it was a good thing he didn’t have a knife in his hand.
You were on the date from hell.
And the worst part? You weren’t even sure when everything had gone wrong.
Was it when you’d let your coworker set you up with her boyfriend’s best friend, a man named Curtis Larsen?
Was it when you’d gotten your hopes up and donned your favorite dress—the black fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places and showing off your legs—only for Curtis not to say a word when he picked you up from your office building in downtown Pittsburgh?
Was it when you decided you could put up with his pretentious posturing about his job and his golf game to enjoy one night at Night Shift, the restaurant you’d always wanted to try but could never afford?
Hiding a sigh by taking a sip of your wine—a bitter red you’d never have ordered for yourself—you decided that was probably when things had gone wrong.
From the moment you’d gotten into Curtis’s car, he’d been nothing but insufferable. You should’ve left before walking into the restaurant, but you’d heard such good things about Night Shift, and its head chef Jack Abbot, that you’d ignored your instincts and soldiered on.
You were rewarded for your selfishness by watching Curtis talk down to everyone he came across—the hostess, who sat you in the middle of the dining room only for Curtis to complain you weren’t in one of the booths; the server, who tried to recite the night’s specials only to be interrupted by Curtis asking about a specific dish; the sommelier, who had to put up with Curtis acting like he knew more about wine than the man whose job it was.
It was all you could do to offer the restaurant workers apologetic smiles and slip them some money from your own purse when Curtis wasn’t looking. You tried to grin and bear it, to soak up the ambience of the restaurant despite the black hole of unearned smugness sitting across from you.
Truthfully, Night Shift was spectacular enough to almost distract you from your horrible date and everything that was wrong with him.
The space was decorated in rich, emerald greens and dark, roughhewn wood, with real, lustrous plants and other greenery breaking up the dining room to give each table a pretense of privacy. Warm candles and low lighting gave the restaurant an intimate atmosphere, even while it was packed full.
All told, Night Shift was the perfect place for a date. It was too bad you were there with a man who might’ve been worse than the devil.
You were hiding another frown behind a sip of your disgusting wine when Curtis launched into a tirade about how the woman he’d marry should have a respectable job and make a good salary—and she’d also be responsible for keeping his house clean and taking care of his kids.
It took all of your self-control to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. You weren’t exactly surprised—you’d been set up with enough financial analysts like Curtis to know a lot of them were useless assholes who wanted a mommy more than a wife. But you could feel your desire to put up with the date for the sake of trying Night Shift’s food slipping away, and you hadn’t even ordered your appetizers yet.
Resolving to treat yourself to a dinner at Night Shift for your next birthday, you interrupted Curtis’s egotistical diatribe about modern women and tried to politely excuse yourself. You were kinder than you thought he deserved when you told him you didn’t think the two of you were a good fit and it would save you both some time to cut the date short.
But Curtis’s eyes flashed in a way that had fear suddenly bursting in your gut, and his expression turned mean as he leaned forward across the small table, invading your space.
“The date isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Curtis said, his voice so cold, you froze in your seat. “You’re not going anywhere.”
For a moment, you sat in your seat in surprise. You’d been on some bad dates, and while some of the men had reacted badly when you’d left early, none of them had scared you the way Curtis was. There was something so aggressive about the way he spoke, and it was then that you noticed a strange haze in his eyes.
Was he… high?
Thankfully, a sever must’ve caught Curtis’s words, or his tone of voice, because she came over to check on you. Her brown eyes were sharp, but kind as they stayed fixed on you, asking if everything was okay.
“We’re fine,” you told her weakly, giving her the most reassuring smile you could offer while silently begging her to help you somehow. You didn’t want to make a scene, and you were sure the restaurant didn’t want that either, but you would if you needed to.
That’s what you hoped to convey, and you thought the server might’ve understood because she gave a firm nod and headed off with a determined spring in her step. You saw her walk quickly toward the kitchen before your attention was diverted by Curtis.
“You better not embarrass me in front of the staff,” Curtis was saying, clutching his wine glass a little too tight and swirling the liquid enough that you worried he’d spill some on the expensive decor. “I bring a lot of high-profile clients here, I can’t have you leaving early—you know how people like them talk.”
The fear you’d felt melted away in the face of indignant anger on behalf of the restaurant staff—who Curtis had treated like garbage since he’d walked in. It was a miracle he was even allowed in the doors after what you’d seen that evening.
“What kind of people is that exactly?” you asked, quiet fury lacing your voice. You could put up with the indignity of being ordered around by your date, but you wouldn’t sit by and listen to him disparage the people who’d only tried to help the two of you that evening.
Curtis clearly didn’t hear the warning in your tone, because he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, gesturing thoughtlessly with his hand holding his wine. Some sloshed over the edge, spilling on the floor.
“You know, low-class people.”
There was so much casual disdain dripping from his voice, you had to wonder, if Curtis was such a regular at Night Shift, why hadn’t the sommelier poisoned him already—it’s not like the world wouldn’t be better off without your date, who was somehow still talking.
“The type of people too poor to get a real job—like us,” Curtis said, fixing you with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. It did not make him look like a winner.
At the implication that you were anything like Curtis, your stomach roiled unpleasantly, and you were suddenly afraid that what little wine you’d drank was about to come back up.
That was it, you’d officially reached the end of your patience. You didn’t care if it caused a scene, you couldn’t spend another moment in this man’s presence without vomiting.
“You’re a small-dicked, pathetic excuse for a man, Curtis Larsen,” you hissed at him, trying to keep your fury in check as you braced your hands against the edge of the table and moved to stand. “And I would fuck every one of the people who worked here before I let you anywhere near me —”
As you pushed yourself up from the table, Curtis reached for you quicker than you would’ve expected, snatching your wrist in his big, meaty hand. He yanked on your arm hard enough that you sat back down, biting back a cry as a jolt of pain shot through your shoulder.
“Don’t you dare fucking try to leave,” Curtis snarled, his face contorted into an ugly mask of rage. It was clearer, in that moment, that he was high. It was making him more aggressive, so even when you tried to pull free of his grasp, he held on tighter, hurting you even more.
Just then, movement over Curtis’s shoulder caught your attention and your gaze snagged on a man pushing through the door to the kitchen, an air of violence and vengeance about him that made your heart leap in hope. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence weak-willed men like Curtis could only dream of, and he was heading straight for your table.
In the brief time it took the man to make his way through the dining room, you took stock of his appearance. The first thing you noticed was how handsome he was. Silvery, steel gray curls were swept back from his face, giving you a clear view of his sharp, hazel eyes, straight nose and a soft mouth bracketed by short stubble.
The man was clearly older than you, in his 50s, but he looked competent and put together in a way that had your belly swooping as your eyes raked down his body. A plain white t-shirt stretched around his bulging biceps, freckles dusted down his tanned, weathered arms. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were accentuated by the brown apron hanging from his neck.
Something about the man looked familiar, like you’d seen him somewhere before, but between the pain in your wrist, the fear inspired by Curtis’s aggressive change in mood, and the sudden attraction you felt toward the handsome chef, you couldn’t place him.
At least, not until you looked back at his face and saw the intent determination in his expression. It was the same exceedingly hot look he’d been wearing in the photos you’d seen—the ones in the article about Night Shift and its chef-slash-owner.
You realized, with sudden clarity, two very important things: The man approaching your table was the restaurant’s owner and world-renowned head chef, Jack Abbot. And he looked furious enough about the way Curtis was still holding on to you that he was liable to murder your date.
Jack Abbot could not kill a restaurant guest.
He could not. No matter how much that guest might deserve it for putting his filthy fucking hands on a woman in his restaurant. No matter how much Jack wanted to rip this guy’s head off for daring to touch someone as sweet-looking as you.
He could not kill a guest. He could not kill a guest.
Those words were a refrain playing in his head as he made his way to your table, the one with the situation Nazely had told him about—a situation that had clearly escalated to physical. Because your date had put his hand on you and all Jack could think about was murder.
He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him he’d hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that he’d stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldn’t cut off the guest’s hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.
Jack was nearly at the table when he heard your date talking, and he immediately recognized the smarmy voice of Night Shift’s #1 worst regular: Curtis Larsen.
In that moment, Jack knew he should’ve banned the guy after the last time he came in, when he’d terrorized the staff and tipped basically nothing for their efforts. Well, that was a mistake Jack was going to rectify immediately, once he got you away from the shithead.
So focused on his thoughts, and trying to quell his inclination toward murder, Jack didn’t fully register what Curtis was saying until he was right next to the table.
“—Didn’t take you for such a cheap whore—”
Any possibility of Jack politely interrupting Curtis went out the window when he heard those words. What came out of him instead was: “Sir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.”
Jack was louder than he’d meant to be, making you gasp softly. His gaze found you, wanting to make sure he hadn’t scared you, and he ended up getting lost in your eyes. They were bright and smart, and watching him with such a keen interest, it made Jack feel 20 years younger.
It was then that Jack really looked at you, and he realized just how young you were. Not young enough to make him feel like a complete creep, but… young enough to make him feel at least a little bit like a creep.
Especially when he raked his eyes down your body—telling himself he was just checking to make sure you were okay—and he couldn’t help but notice the way your dress clung to your curves, taunting him with how high the hem rode up your thigh. Your bare legs were a tease beneath the tablecloth, and Jack wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looked…
Reminding himself that you needed help, not to be ogled by a creepy older man, Jack shook himself free of the spell you’d cast on him with your wide, trusting eyes and your pretty, tempting curves. He turned to Curtis, giving the man his most fearsome glower, the one that kept the most unruly of restaurant guests in line.
“And keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Jack growled, making a point of looking down at where Curtis’s hand was still holding your wrist before returning his gaze to the man’s face. “Or do I need to teach you a lesson about putting your hands on woman without her consent?”
Jack knew he sounded dangerous—unhinged, probably—but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his thinly veiled threat did the trick and Curtis let go of you like he was dropping a hot pan.
Something settled in Jack’s chest, and he felt soothed knowing he hadn’t even needed to resort to violence to save you from Curtis. But that feeling quickly shriveled as Jack watched you bring your hand to our chest and cradle your wrist.
He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap you up in his arms and tell you no one would ever hurt you again. Not on his watch. But somehow, Jack managed to keep his hands tucked behind his back, even as the tips of his fingers prickled with the desire to touch you, to soothe you.
Those thoughts and urges were troubling enough, but then you lifted your eyes and gave Curtis a withering look that had the other man cowering almost as much as he had under Jack’s glare. The chef felt a threat of pride weave through his heart.
Jack could see your strength, your resilience, and he knew in that moment that you could take care of yourself. You could’ve freed yourself from Curtis’s hold, you hadn’t needed saving, but that only made Jack want to whisk you away all the more. He wanted to take care of you in a way he’d never felt before.
Biting back a sigh at himself, Jack realized one very important thing: He was a goner for you. Already. Even though he didn’t even know your name.
Unable and unwilling to stop himself from acting selfishly, Jack held a hand out to you, giving you a soft, encouraging smile and nodding toward your hurt wrist.
“My name’s Jack, I own this restaurant. Can I take a look, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, a low, raspy rumble that he hoped felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “I used to be a medic in the army.”
It made Jack’s heart soar when you looked at him for a moment, like you were taking his measure, and decided you could trust him. Your fingers were soft and a little cold as they slipped into Jack’s plam, his own hand closing reflexively around them to warm you up.
Carefully, Jack turned your wrist one way, then the other, bending low over your hand to examine whether it was injured. All the while, he kept an eye on your face, watching for any wince or twinge in your expression to indicate he was hurting you.
Thankfully—for you, for Jack, and most especially for your date—it didn’t look like Curtis had done any real damage.
“No sprain, just some bruising,” Jack said, giving your fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze and lifting his gaze to yours. He nearly lost himself in the admiration and gratefulness in your eyes, but managed to continue. “I have some ibuprofen in my office.”
Your eyes widened a little in surprise, and Jack was forced to endure the torment of watching you nibble on your lower lip while uncertainty filled your expression. He understood your reticence to trust a man so soon after another had hurt you, so Jack tried to put you at ease.
“Whaddya say, sweetheart, do you want the kitchen tour?”
Jack shot you a cheesy, hopefully charming wink, and when you let out a soft giggle, shaking your head at him like you couldn’t believe how corny he was, he felt like he was flying. He felt like he could soar above all of Pittsburgh with only the confidence he earned from making you laugh.
“That would be nice,” you said, looking up at him from under your lashes. Jack was immediately entranced by your voice, by the way your lips moved as you spoke. “Thank you, chef.”
It did absurdly wild things to Jack’s heart, which was already beating a fast, staccato rhythm in his chest, to hear you call him ‘chef’. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, it was a title he heard about a hundred times a night from dozens of other people.
But hearing it from your pretty mouth made Jack feel like it was a badge of honor, and he was glad to have earned it.
Distracted by thinking of ways to get you to call him ‘chef’ some more, it wasn’t until you clutched his fingers more tightly that he remembered he’d intended to get you away from Curtis as quickly as possible. Using it as an excuse to keep holding your hand, Jack helped you to stand up.
When he was sure you were steady on your feet, after wobbling for a moment in your heels, Jack nodded to your chair and said, “Grab your things, angel. You won’t be coming back.”
Even though Jack was leaning into you when he said it, Curtis must’ve caught the words because his expression turned from icy resignation to red-hot fury as he pushed himself to stand. But Jack was quicker, putting himself between you and your former date, growling at the younger man before he could fully stand up.
“Sit down, sir.”
A stunned Curtis plopped back into his chair. Jack raised his chin, staring down his nose at the other man while he tucked his hands behind his back, standing guard between you and your former date. Images of knives began dancing in Jack’s head, and he let it fuel the anger in his expression to keep Curtis in check.
Jack could sense you moving around behind him. You’d dropped his hand when you’d turned to grab your jacket and purse, but you must’ve been done because you slipped your fingers back into his palm.
You grasped his hand tentatively, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, his heart soaring in his chest even as he continued glaring at the man at the table, who looked riotous at the thought of Jack stealing you away.
“You can’t do this,” Curtis snarled, trying to puff up his chest and make himself look big, even as he remained sitting in his seat, too much a coward to actually challenge Jack’s authority.
The chef responded to the other man’s posturing by looming over him, an unkind smile on his face. Jack was more than a little satisfied by the way Curtis cowered, just a little, in his seat.
“This is my fucking restaurant,” Jack said, his voice even but ruthless. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.” Jack kept your hand tucked in his, holding you behind him while he dealt with your ex-date. “You’re going to pay your bill, leave your server a generous tip, and then you’re never going to step foot in here again. Do you get me?”
Jack watched emotions flit across the younger man’s face—surprise, frustration, indignation, fury—and he could practically feel the temper tantrum brewing, like a storm rolling in. But he could also smell the booze on him and, if Jack wasn’t mistaken, he could see the telltale signs Curtis had been indulging in more than wine.
Night Shift really didn’t need the scene or the paperwork that would come along with the temper tantrum, which would inevitably lead to someone calling the cops. So Jack went in for the metaphorical kill.
“If I ever see your face in here again,” Jack said, lowering his voice even more so only you and Curtis could hear him. “You’re going to pay for putting your hands on a woman in my restaurant—and I’ll take that payment with my knife.”
Jack watched as Curtis blanched, his tanned skin going ghostly pale as all the fight drained out of him at the threat of actual violence. The younger man’s gaze finally fell to the table, and Jack knew he wasn’t going to challenge him again.
It was completely unhinged to threaten Curtis like that, he knew that, but all Jack worried about was that he’d scared you. When he turned to check on you, though, he found you staring at him with so much admiration, Jack wanted to puff up his own chest and take on every asshole who’d ever wronged you.
You took a careful step closer to Jack, looking at him with those wide eyes, a smirk flirting around the edges of your pretty mouth, and wrapped your other hand around his bicep. “Thank you,” you murmured for only him to hear, and Jack offered you an answering smile.
“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asked charmingly, squeezing your hand gently.
Your smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin, and he caught the edge of excitement in your expression, making Jack’s heart thump harder in his chest. He could hardly believe someone as young and beautiful and strong as you wanted to go anywhere with him. Not only did you look like you wanted it, you looked eager for it.
“Yes, please, chef,” you purred, the sound of your voice calling him ‘chef’ again going straight to his dick.
Oh yeah, Jack was definitely a goner for you.
You could hardly believe how drastically the course of your night had changed in just a few minutes.
You’d gone from being on the absolute worst date of your life, trying to figure out how you were going to get away from the man who’d accosted you, to being on the arm of one of the most talented—and handsome—head chefs in all of Pittsburgh.
Jack Abbot’s hand was warm and strong in yours, his stride steady and determined as he led you through the dining room toward the kitchen. His presence at your side helped to settle the wobbliness you felt in the wake of the fear and adrenaline that had rushed through you when Curtis had grabbed you.
Leaning further into Jack’s side, you got a hint of his scent—fresh laundry something earthy, like sage or rosemary—and you let it stoke the little ember of interest that burned deep your core, the one that had flared to life when you watched the chef put your date in his place.
What did it say about you that you thought it was inexplicably hot the way Jack had threatened Curtis with his knife? What did it say about you that you felt safer with Jack than you had with any man you’d ever gone out with?
With those questions rattling around in your head, you were glad that Jack didn’t try to make conversation beyond asking for your name as he guided you to the kitchen. He seemed to understand you needed a moment to process everything that’d happened, and he remained quiet as the two of you walked together through the crowded dining room, the soft chatter of the other diners filling the silence so it wasn’t awkward.
When Jack pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen, the gentle murmur of the restaurant’s dining room gave away to the chaos of the kitchen. Immediately, you felt the buzzy, almost electric energy, of the staff, and you took your first full breath since you’d walked into Night Shift, something about the kitchen making you feel like you were coming home.
Your eyes were opened wide as you looked around because there was so much to take in—a whole army of chefs and cooks moved around the silver metal tables and big, gas range stoves, grabbing things out of fridges, chopping vegetables and searing meat. It was like a masterfully choreographed dance, the way everyone moved around each other.
And it smelled divine. Herbs and spices and so many other scents filled your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach grumble, though there was no way anyone could hear it over the noise—the clatter of knives and pans, the people calling out orders, the slamming of fridge doors.
Everything seemed to revolve around on particular chef, an Asian man spooning some sauce onto a plate and conferring with a Black woman. He was the calm in the center of the storm, obviously running things while Jack had been dealing with your date.
The head chef himself tugged you to the side of the room, pulling you out of the way of the steady stream of servers coming in and out of the double doors, carrying big trays filled with all kinds of dishes—salads and seafood, pasta and chicken. All of it smelled amazing, looked amazing, and it was all you could do to stare around the kitchen with awe no doubt written plainly on your face.
Gradually, you became aware of Jack’s gaze on your face, and when you looked at the chef, you found him watching you closely, so much intensity in his hazel eyes, it made you feel a little shy. Here was this older, accomplished chef, and he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in his entire kitchen—his entire restaurant.
You offered him a tentative smile, your heart skipping a beat when he towed you just a little closer by your still clasped hands.
“What do you think, sweetheart?” Jack asked, and you could tell by the tenor of his voice that he actually cared about your answer. He sounded worried, hopeful, and so achingly interested that it made you unsteady on your feet.
“I think it’s amazing,” you answered honestly, your voice more than a little breathless with wonder. You leaned further into his side, staring into his eyes and getting a little lost in them. “Everything looks and smells delicious, chef.”
A small, pleased smile curved Jack’s mouth, even as his eyes darkened at what you’d called him. It stole the breath from your lungs, the knowledge that you could affect him so clearly just by calling him ‘chef’. It made you want to say it more, to say it while his mouth was on your body, just to see if you could drive him wild…
Tension crackled between the two of you, sharp and electric, sucking all the oxygen out of the room so it became a little hard to breathe normally. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your legs trembled, and still, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Jack, your gaze drifting down to his mouth and the silvery stubble that surrounded it.
“Jack?” you murmured his name softly, a question in the single syllable, as you raised your eyes back to his. There was an answer in his gaze, in the way his own eyes dropped to your lips and back up, like he was fighting the same urge as you.
“Everything good, chef?”
You and Jack jumped apart, your hands disentangling as you put a respectable amount of space between your bodies. You watched Jack straighten, his expression shifting into something much more professional, much more appropriate for his workplace, as he turned to the room.
“Gimme a few more minutes, chef,” Jack called back to the Asian man who’d addressed him. You got the sense that the man was amused by the two of you, even though his face remained unreadable. “I’ll be back to dig you out of the hole of the dinner rush.”
The man who must’ve been Jack’s sous chef huffed a laugh and, without looking up from the dish he was plating, said, “Don’t worry about us, old man. We’ve got this.”
“Who’s he calling old?” Jack muttered under his breath, making a laugh burst from your lips at how disgruntled he sounded. A smirk flickered at the edge of Jack’s mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and he leaned closer to you. “Do you think I’m old, angel?”
Jack’s voice was little more than a rasp, and you swore that you could feel it skim down your spine and settle deep in your core, where heat was blooming hotter. All you could do was stare at Jack, at the weathered lines of his freckled face, and the silver curls that you wanted to run your fingers through, as you tried to think of something to say.
A little lop-sided smile tilted Jack’s mouth, like he could somehow see the odd mixture of awe and lust swirling in your body, in your brain, making you tongue-tied—and he didn’t hold it against you. “Don’t answer that,” he grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes still fixed on your face.
The two of you hung suspended in that moment for longer than was strictly necessary, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen fading away, until you finally remembered how to speak. Though once the words came out of your mouth, you wished you’d stayed silent.
“I don’t think you’re too old.”
That statement got Jack’s attention in a way you hadn’t experienced in all the short time you’d been in his presence. His eyes darkened, dropping to your lips once again before dragging their way back to meet your gaze. A charming grin made his mouth look far too tempting.
“Too old for what, angel?” Jack asked innocently, a hint of playful teasing in his tone that had your body burning hotter. His dark hazel eyes were knowing—like he knew what you really meant to say, that you didn’t think he was too old for you.
But you couldn’t say that, couldn’t answer him. You already felt like you’d said too much, and there were too many emotions still swirling around in your chest, in your belly, between your thighs, to make sense of any of them.
Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand you were overwhelmed and he didn’t push it. Instead, he pressed a hand to your lower back, the heat of his palm scorching through the thin fabric of your dress, even in the warmth of the kitchen. He guided you gently to a narrow doorway tucked into the corner of the kitchen you hadn’t noticed before.
Jack led you into a small office that you knew immediately was his. The space was nice and neat, just like his kitchen, with homey touches that reflected the dining room of his restaurant with emerald green walls and a dark wooden desk, which held a few framed photos and other keepsakes alongside his paperwork and computer.
Also, it smelled like him—fresh and clean, with just a hint of garlic and sage.
The room was small, barely big enough for a desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets, but it was cozy, and you felt just as safe in Jack’s office as you did in his presence. Being away from the loud clamor of the kitchen also helped to settle your nerves and, without being invited to, you sank into the chair, leaving Jack to lean against the edge of his desk.
“How’re you holding up, sweetheart?” Jack asked gently, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking down to catch your eye. You gave him a weary smile.
“I’m ok,” you said, then paused to take stock of yourself to see if that was really true. “A little shaken, a lot hungry,” your smile tured rueful. “I was really looking forward to trying your food,” you told him, dropping your gaze to where your hands were twisted together in your lap. “But we didn’t even make it to the appetizers.”
Jack shifted closer to you, his knee nudging lightly against yours, and you felt a little zing of happiness at even that small touch. You almost huffed a laugh at yourself for the silly crush you were developing on the hot, older chef, but managed to bite it back and looked up at the man who’d so gently gotten your attention.
“If you want to go home, I can have security escort you out back,” Jack started, his mouth twisting into the vague impression of a frown, like he didn’t particularly like that idea. “Or, if you want, you can hang out in here, I can make you something to eat, and then later, I can give you that kitchen tour.”
He shot you another one of those exaggerated winks and you couldn’t help but giggle softly. Jack was charming and he knew it, and if you weren’t careful, you were definitely going to develop a big ol’ crush on the man. He made it too easy to feel comfortable around him.
“It’s your choice, sweetheart,” Jack said, pausing for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should go on, but then he did. “I do hope you’ll let me cook for you, though.” He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the edge of your jaw, his touch so light you could barely feel it. “I don’t like the idea of sending you home hungry.”
Before you could lean into Jack’s hand, he snatched it back, like he was worried he’d crossed a line. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, his hands tucked away as if he was worried they couldn’t be trusted not to touch you again, and you had to smile.
Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to develop a crush on the hot, older chef who’d saved you from the worst date of your life—especially since it seemed like the hot, older chef was having trouble keeping his gentle hands off you.
“I’d like to stay,” you murmured, looking up at Jack from under your lashes.
Almost against your will, your body swayed closer to the charming chef, your hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm. The light dusting of Jack’s hair tickled your fingers, and you couldn’t help but notice how strong and firm his arm was beneath your palm.
Your lips quirked into a small smile, putting a little flirty edge on your words as you said, “If you don’t mind, chef.”
Jack’s eyes were dark, liquid heat as he stared at you for a long moment, and you wondered wildly if he might kiss you. The thought had excitement fluttering to life in your belly, but before you could get your hopes up too high, Jack swallowed and looked away. It was only then that you noticed the faint flush pinkening his cheeks.
“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” Jack said, pushing away from the desk and stepping toward the door. “Ibuprofen’s in the top drawer.”
The movement had your hand dropping from his arm and you immediately missed the warmth of his skin. When he looked back at you, he must’ve caught something on your face, something that had him cracking a small smile.
“I’ll be back soon, alright?” His voice was a little rough, teasing your body with its low tenor, but you managed a smile and a nod.
“I’ll be here,” you said, as brightly as you could. “Thank you, Jack.”
Jack looked at you another moment, his eyes going a little soft, before he ducked through the office door. He pulled it most of the way closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, somehow knowing you wanted some peace, but not to be cut off from the kitchen—from him—entirely.
Left alone to your own devices, you only had your own thoughts as company. You knew your brain wanted to spiral about your date—Why hadn’t you seen the red flags from Curtis earlier? Why hadn’t you cut the date short sooner?—but instead you focused on what was in front of you.
Tossing your purse and jacket onto the desk, you got comfortable in Jack’s chair, leaning back and noticing a leather jacket thrown over the back. Shooting a quick glance at the door to make sure no one could see in, you tucked your face into the collar and breathed in, a smile curving your lips as you inhaled Jack’s clean, earthy scent.
Once you’d had your fill—or, rather, once your shame caught up with you and you forced yourself to stop sniffing the hot, older chef’s jacket like a mindless hussy—you let your eyes roam around the room, taking in the almost military precision of the organization in the office.
The desk was mostly clear, save for the keyboard attached to his computer monitor, and a stack of order forms for things for the restaurant. There were also the photos and keepsakes. You picked them up one by one, looking closely at the people and things Jack cared about, not bothering to feel bad about your nosiness.
The first photo was of Jack and his whole kitchen crew at the opening of Night Shift, looking worn out but exultant in their success. Another photo depicted Jack with a man about his age, tall with brown hair and a salt and pepper beard, standing next to a motorcycle. They had their arms slung around each other like they were old friends.
Next, your fingers trailed over a medal of honor that was tucked into a corner of the desk. It was purple and gold, in the shape of a heart with a man’s side profile in the center. You remembered Jack’s comment about being in the army and wondered what had earned him the medal.
Feeling like you’d possibly overstepped, you set the medal back in its place on Jack’s desk and focused on finding the ibuprofen. After taking the pills with the glass of water he’d grabbed for you from the kitchen, you snuggled deeper into his chair, your head falling back against the collar of the chef’s leather jacket.
It occurred to you suddenly that you really liked Jack Abbot. You hadn’t known him for long, and you didn’t know all that much about him, but you wanted to.
You wanted to know why he’d named his restaurant Night Shift, and why he’d become a chef after being a medic in the army. You wanted to know what his favorite thing to cook was, and whether he needed readers to read texts on his phone.
You wanted to know if he was going to ask you for your number.
That thought made you stop and smile as you considered what you’d do if Jack asked for you number and actually used it. Your fingers played idly with the soft, supple leather of his jacket, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull you into deeper comfort as you imagined what it would be like to date world-renowned chef Jack Abbot.
You suspected it would be a helluva lot better than going on a date with Curtis Larsen, that was for sure.
Jack Abbot could not be interested in the young, pretty restaurant guest he’d saved from a bad date.
He paused just outside the door to his office, trying to get his head on straight, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like you were attracted to him, like you trusted him to take care of you. His fingers flexed at his side, and he could still feel the softness of your skin beneath his grazing touch—so pretty, so tempting.
His mind was consumed with the sweetness of your scent filling his office, invading his private space, and how much that pleased him. Jack already knew that scent would haunt him for the rest of the evening, that he’d fall asleep just to dream of you.
Wiping a hand down his face, Jack felt like a creep for even thinking about how you smelled, how your hand felt like a perfect fit in his own, how he wanted you to look at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. He was supposed to be helping you, taking care of you, making sure you got home safe, not thinking about what it’d feel like to put his hands on your body and pull you close…
With a hard shake of his head, Jack refocused on the task at hand—making you something to eat—and strode back into the kitchen. He walked up to stand beside his sous chef, who was busy plating a whole tray of that night’s special. John didn’t even look up as Jack approached.
“How are things looking?” Jack asked, busying his hands by retying the strings of his apron while he took a look at the line of orders still needing to be made. It was a busy Friday night at Night Shift, but his sous chef was keeping on top of things.
“Don’t worry about us, chef, we got this,” John said, before raising his voice and calling out to the rest of the kitchen staff. “Don’t we, nightcrawlers?”
“Hoo-rah!” came the answering reply and Jack had to twist his lips to the side to hide the proud smile that wanted to break through. Annoyingly, John noticed.
“Seriously,” John said, straightening up and setting the last of the plates onto a tray for a server to take them out into the dining room. He turned to Jack. “I’ve got this under control, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”
John’s eyes drifted over Jack’s shoulder in the direction of the office before returning his gaze to the head chef and waggling his brows a little.
“I won’t take it personally if there’s someone else you’d rather be with than me,” the sous chef quipped, grabbing his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee from the shelf over the worktable and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.
“It’s not like that,” Jack grumbled, hoping to nip that thread of conversation in the bud before it began. The last thing he needed was for his business with you to get around the kitchen. Everyone who worked at Night Shift were talented, good people, but they gossiped more than little old ladies.
Jack tugged on some black nitrile gloves and grabbed a knife and cutting board. But when he returned to his station with the ingredients he’d need for what he planned to cook you for dinner, John was giving him a skeptical look.
“Right,” John said, not dropping the subject, no matter that Jack was no longer looking at him and was instead focused entirely on chopping up some rosemary and garlic. “That’s why you stepped in and took care of her date instead of letting security handle it.”
John’s tone was dry enough to give the Sahara a run for its money, but Jack refused to rise to the bait. Huffing an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, John cut to the chase. “Do you know her or something?”
“No,” Jack said quickly—too quickly, he knew. He could feel John’s indefatigable gaze drilling into the side of his head while he worked. He knew John wouldn’t give up the interrogation until he got something so Jack finally admitted, “But… maybe I want to get to know her.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a wide grin spread across his sous chef’s face a moment before John clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s great, chef,” he said, but he must’ve noticed Jack wasn’t grinning along with him because he asked, “It is great, isn’t it? I mean, it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”
“She’s too young for me, man,” Jack said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He paused, swallowing, then grabbed a pan and some chicken cutlets, getting to work breading and seasoning them. “Besides, she’s had a rough night—that jackass grabbed her.” Jack had to stop again and take a breath to contain his anger before he went on. “She doesn’t need some old man creeping on her, too.”
“Dude,” John started, before getting distracted by plating up a new round of orders. It took him a moment to get back to the conversation. “You’re not that old,” he said, shooting Jack a look like the head chef should know all his ‘old man’ comments were in good fun. “And if you think she’s not interested, you didn’t see the way she was looking at you.”
At John’s comment, Jack fumbled the pan he was cooking in, nearly spilling oil and chicken into the fire of the stove. He glanced at John, back to what he was doing, then to his sous chef again, who was watching him with a not-so-small smirk on his face.
“H-how was she looking at me?” Jack finally asked, unable to stop himself, not even daring to hope John wasn’t somehow fucking with him.
Sure, Jack knew you’d wrapped yourself around his arm while he’d walked you back to the kitchen, and he couldn’t get the memory of the way you’d touched his arm out of your head. But that wasn’t flirting… was it? And certainly there wasn’t anything particularly interested in the way you’d looked at him. Right?
John’s incredulous look told him otherwise. “Jack, the girl practically had hearts in her eyes when she looked at you,” he said, and when Jack opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. “She’s into you, dude.”
“What, no—no, no, she’s just…” Jack couldn’t believe how idiotic he sounded, fumbling around his own kitchen while John tried to tell him you were interested. It was like he was a young, inexperienced teenager all over again with his first crush, disbelieving she could ever like him back.
“Ellis, back me up,” John was saying, calling over one of Night Shift’s senior chefs while he set a new round of plated meals onto a tray for a server. “The girl Jack brought back here had heart eyes for our head chef, didn’t she?”
It was only his decades of experience that allowed Jack to continue cooking—boiling water and adding pasta, mixing milk and cheese in with the chicken to create a creamy sauce—while he waited with bated breath for Parker Ellis’s response. Jack trusted the senior chef not to bullshit him or fuck with him the way John sometimes did.
“Oh yeah, full-on heart eyes,” Parker announced, stopping beside John for a moment to drop off some more plates in need of their finishing touches. She glanced at Jack, who was still trying to process her pronouncement. “You gonna do something about it, chef?”
Was Jack going to do something about it? Everything in him ached to do something—to touch you, to kiss you, or, at the very least, ask for your number and take you out for a real meal sometime. He wanted to get to know you, he wanted to impress you with the most romantic of dates, and then he wanted to take you home and take care of you in every way he knew how.
It had been a long time since Jack had wanted any of those things with anyone, and it was a shock to his system to feel them for someone so soon after meeting them. But Jack could tell you were special. There was a spark between the two of you that he knew he’d be a fool to ignore.
However, he was still wary about scaring you off or creeping you out. But maybe he wouldn’t if Jack could take things slow. He could feed you, make sure you were comfortable in his office, and then later, he’d give you a tour of his kitchen and see how things went from there. If you seemed into it, he could ask for your number and take you out on a real date.
Happy with his plan, Jack finally looked up from where he was finishing the meal he’d made for you. He found both John and Parker looking at him expectantly—and a little impatiently. He twisted his mouth to the side to bite back a smirk.
“Don’t you two have something better to do than discuss my love life?” he grumbled good-naturedly, knowing neither of them would take him too seriously.
True to form, Parker snickered and gave Jack a mock salute. “Happy for you, chef,” she said before heading back into the crowded kitchen.
Meanwhile, John was grinning to himself. “Get your girl, old man,” he quipped, giving Jack a sly look out of the corner of his eye.
Jack made a show of grumbling about his impertinent staff while he plated up the dish he’d made for you—chicken and pasta with a creamy, cheesy sauce flavored with plenty of rosemary and other herbs. Then, it was time to bring it to you, and even Jack was a little surprised by how eager he was to get back to you, striding across the kitchen as quick as he could.
Knocking lightly before pushing inside his office, Jack found you curled up in his desk chair, your legs tucked underneath you, an e-reader in your hands. For a moment, Jack was struck by the easy domesticity of the scene—him bringing you dinner while you looked sexy and cozy in his office.
It would be all too easy for Jack to get used to this, having you visit him at his restaurant and waiting in his office for him to finish up for the night so he could take you out for a late-night drink, or some ice cream. And then, he’d take you home and get you underneath him so he could have a late-night snack of his own…
“Oh hi, is that for me?”
Your question dragged Jack from his reverie, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw your wide eyes looking up at him. He stepped forward to set down the dish and silverware he’d brought on the desk in front of you, your sweet scent tickling his nose before he stood back to give you some room—and so that he could watch your reaction.
You tucked your e-reader back into your purse, and Jack knew the exact moment you smelled the food in front of you because you went still and your eyes slid closed. You took a deep breath in through your nose, and when you exhaled, it was with a low, throaty moan that went straight to Jack’s dick.
For the first time since he’d hit middle age, Jack was actually glad he wasn’t as quick to harden as when he was younger. Still, he had to curl his hands into fists at his sides and tamp down on the instinct to adjust his cock, which was twitching to life, not wanting to bring any attention to how your innocent reaction was affecting him.
Instead, he focused all his willpower on keeping himself from getting harder, which became more difficult when you blinked your eyes open, looking almost dazed with hunger and pleasure. It was all Jack could do to hold himself back from touching you, from tracing the shape of your mouth with his fingers, from kissing you so that the desire in your eyes was all for him and not his food.
“It smells delicious, chef,” you purred, your voice low and husky in a way that Jack could tell wasn’t intentional, which made it affect him all the more.
“Give it a try, sweetheart,” Jack said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from reaching for you. He wanted to grab you by your hips, put you in his lap, and feed you. But he reminded himself he was taking things slow, so he leaned against the desk and watched you intently. “I want to know if you like it.”
Bobbing your head in a nod, you grabbed your fork, scooped up some of the pasta and speared a piece of chicken, popping the whole bite into your mouth. Some cream sauce lingered in the corners of your lips, and Jack had to clench his fists to stop from swiping it away with his thumb. He was nearly undone, biting back a groan, when your tongue peaked out and licked it up with a garbled moan.
“Oh my god, that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you proclaimed. The pleasure in your voice made Jack harder, but he focused instead on the pride blooming, warm and sweet, in his chest.
Still, he couldn’t completely ignore his cock twitching to life in his jeans. For once, he was grateful for the apron covering his front, helping to shield the bulge growing between his thighs. God, he felt like a fucking teenager.
“Ah, th-thanks,” he said, stumbling over his words, flustered by just how much you visibly—and verbally—enjoyed his food. “It’s a personal recipe, not on the menu.” He shot you a wink, hoping desperately that it came across as charming, and not unbearably cheesy. “I figured you could use some comfort food.”
The somber note in Jack’s voice seemed to strike you right in the heart, and you blinked, your eyes dropping from his for a moment. Jack wondered if he’d made a mistake by referencing your bad date, but then your hand darted out, playing idly with the edge of his apron just below where his arms were crossed.
“I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that situation, Jack,” you said softly, and the chef was so distracted by the sound of his name on your tongue that he almost missed what you were saying. But then you looked up and your gaze was arresting. “I thought I could handle it—could handle him—but I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there…”
Jack hated how small you sounded, how unsure of yourself.
Before he knew what he was doing, Jack was sweeping down onto one knee, barely biting back a wince when his prosthetic protested, and settling his hands gently on the outside of your thighs. He tried to ignore the heat of your bare skin against his palms, forcing himself to focus on you and making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.
“You would’ve been fine, sweetheart,” Jack said in his firmest tone, even as he made sure to keep his voice gentle. He could tell from the uncertainty in your eyes that you were hanging on his every word, and he felt compelled to go on. “You can take care of yourself, and if you’d needed to, you would’ve handled that asshole.”
Something like pride and confidence swirled in your eyes, and Jack let his mouth twist to the side in a smile. It made him feel good to know he could put that look in your eye, and he felt his chest puffing up a little bit before he got control of himself and gave your thighs a reassuring squeeze before continuing.
“I am glad I could help, though,” Jack said, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. But he was kneeling so close to you that he breathed in your sweet scent with every inhale, and it was going straight to his head. “Thank you for letting me feed you—thank you for letting me take care of you.”
Your eyes were wide and bright and fixed so intensely on Jack’s that he barely felt it when your hands settled gently on his shoulders, holding on to him like he was the one steady thing you could count on. His grip on your thighs tightened, drawing you closer until your knees collided with his chest.
“Anytime, chef,” you murmured, your lips parted and glistening and looking so fucking tempting.
A little growl rumbled in Jack’s chest and he watched your eyes flare with interest, before settling back into a heavy-lidded stare. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, curling into the cotton of his white t-shirt, and he could feel you lightly tugging on him, trying to bring him closer.
Fuck, Jack wasn’t just interested in you, he craved you. It didn’t matter that he’d known you for such a short time, he wanted to devour you. He wanted to take you into his arms and kiss the breath from your lungs, make you come apart and then hold you tight until you put each other together again.
He wanted to go back to work knowing you were safe and sound in his office, eating the food he’d cooked for you, then give you a tour of the kitchen later. When that was done, he wanted to drive you home, make sure you got in safe, and make plans to see you again. He wanted to take up as much space in your head as you were taking up in his.
Jack wanted to kiss you. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, too.
A great crashing sound came from the kitchen, shattering the perfect moment, and Jack’s stomach sank when you flinched. You tried to hide your reaction, staring at him innocently like you hadn’t recoiled at the loud sound, but he was reminded that he should be taking things slowly, carefully, making sure you weren’t overwhelmed by all that had happened throughout the night.
“Eat up, angel,” he rumbled, giving your thighs one last squeeze before moving to stand, pushing himself up with one hand on his desk. He gritted his teeth through the pain in his limb as he settled back onto his prosthetic, and gave you another of his hopefully charming winks. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make you some dessert to go with your kitchen tour.”
At that comment, you sucked in a sharp breath, a sultry smile spreading slowly across your face. When you looked up at Jack, your eyes were a little hazy, and your body swayed closer to him, almost like you couldn’t help yourself.
“Oh, I’ll be good,” you murmured, looking more sexy than you had any right to curled up in Jack’s desk chair. “I promise, chef.”
There it was again, that title rolling off your tongue and licking straight down Jack’s spine. He had half a mind to gather you up in his arms and kiss you until you were murmuring that word into his mouth, his neck, into the center of his chest while he pressed between your thighs and slid inside you…
“I’ll be back when it slows down,” Jack promised, wrenching himself away from his fantasy and backing toward the door of the office. If he didn’t know better, he thought you might’ve been smirking as you hummed your acknowledgement. “Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart.”
“Thank you, chef,” you chirped sweetly, turning back to your meal—though not before catching Jack’s eye over your shoulder, a flirty spark in your gaze.
A goofy grin spread across Jack’s face, and for a moment, he let himself watch you as you pulled out your e-reader and began to read while you ate the meal he’d prepared. His chest filled with warm sunlight while something in his gut settled. It felt right to have you here in Jack’s office, in his space, looking safe and comfortable and content.
Holding that sense of rightness close to his heart, Jack ducked back into the kitchen, taking a moment to retie his apron before jumping into the fray. He felt steadier than he had before he’d brought you some dinner, and while Jack knew part of that was because he knew you were fed, it was also because he’d accepted it—he was interested in you and he was going to pursue you.
Jack was done feeling guilty or creepy for wanting to spend time with you, even if you were one of his restaurant guests that he’d had to save from an atrociously bad date. Jack believed what he’d told you, that you could take care of yourself, and if you wanted to spend time with him, too, then Jack wasn’t going to feel bad about it.
So he took his place beside his sous chef and got to work on the endless stream of orders coming into Night Shift’s kitchen. He let himself fall into the rhythm of the work, plating up and putting the finishing touches on all kinds of dishes before they were whisked away into the dining room. He worked with a methodical determination, knowing that the sooner he cleared out all the orders, the sooner he could check back in on you.
When things finally slowed down, Jack heaved a sigh of relief. It was a strange feeling, knowing he had someone in his office that he eagerly wanted to get back to, and it wasn’t until he caught John giving him an annoying looked that he realized he was smiling.
Jack tugged off his black nitrile gloves, tossed them in the trash, and flipped off John while he made his way back to his office. Jack’s heart squeezed at the sight that greeted him.
He found you snuggled up in his chair, his leather jacket tucked around you like a blanket, your head lolled to the side as you slept soundly. Jack marveled at the beauty of your face—the soft slope of your nose, the pretty curve of your mouth, the delicate fan of your lashes against your cheeks.
Somewhere deep in his chest, Jack’s heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to get his attention, and he knew exactly what it wanted to say—you could be his. If you let him, and if you wanted him, too, Jack could fall for you. That night could be the start of something new, something spectacular.
Thinking about how he could very much get used to seeing you in his chair, in his office, Jack tucked his leather jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, holding his breath when your cheek nuzzled against the back of his hand. His heart thumped happily when you smiled softly in your sleep and it took every bit of his strength to pull away.
As quietly as he could, Jack cleared the empty plate and silverware from his desk, taking care not to disturb you. He carried it to the door, where he paused to look at you again, watching you sleep for just a moment longer.
It struck Jack then, like a lightning bolt, that he wasn’t just interested in you or attracted to you. He was completely gone for you. He was yours, and he could only hope that you’d want to be his.
Even before you were fully awake, you knew you were safe.
Warmth, and the scent of leather and herbs, surrounded you, easing you back into reality from dreams about a hot, silver-haired chef and big, capable hands on your body. Desire curled lazily, low in your belly, and you snuggled deeper into the leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, wishing for more time of with your dream chef.
But before you could slip back into sleep, it struck you suddenly how quiet it was in your little cocoon. You’d fallen asleep to the chaos and clatter of the kitchen at Night Shift, but the noise had dwindled down to a dull murmur. It hit you that you must’ve slept longer than you’d intended.
You’d only meant to close your eyes for a few minutes. You’d been so full from eating the comfort meal Jack Abbot had cooked for you, and you’d felt so warm and cozy once you’d tugged his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped it around yourself. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from letting your eyes close and falling asleep.
Reaching out from beneath the jacket, you checked the time on your phone and confirmed you’d not only slept through the rest of the dinner rush, but through Night Shift’s closing time. Slowly, you began to uncurl yourself from your position in Jack’s chair, stretching and looking toward the door of his office, wondering why he hadn’t woken you up sooner.
Had he forgotten about you?
It was a little dizzying, the sheer amount of disappointment that swept through you at that thought, and it took you a moment to wade through the emotions to get back to rational thought. Jack had been so kind and attentive since he’d rescued you from your bad date, it didn’t sit right to think he might’ve forgotten about you.
It also just didn’t make sense based on the way he’d looked at you before he’d left you alone to eat. He’d stared at you so intently with those dark hazel eyes of his, you’d felt like he wanted to consume you. Even just the memory of his stare was enough to warm you from the inside out, heat swirling through your belly before settling between your thighs.
Intending to get to the bottom of why Jack had let you sleep in his office for so long, you did a quick check of your makeup in your phone’s camera and set your feet on the floor. You were just rising to stand when Night Shift’s head chef stuck his head in through the open door.
“You’re up,” he said, his sharp eyes taking in the way you wobbled on your heels, wincing at the pain of wearing them for so long. He came into the room and took your hand, setting a steadying palm on your hip while his fingers twined with yours. “How are you feeling?”
His attentive question sent more warmth spiralling through your chest, and you smiled softly at the chef, leaning into his warmth. He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt that pulled obscenely across his shoulders and highlighted his bulging biceps, but the brown apron he’d had on earlier was gone, leaving him in just a simple pair of dark jeans and black shoes.
Meanwhile, you were still in the little black dress and heels you’d donned for your date, but somehow you didn’t feel overdressed around Jack. You enjoyed the way his eyes raked down your body, appreciating the way your dress clung to your curves—hugging your hips and cupping your tits. It made you crave the chef’s touch everywhere he looked.
“I feel good, chef,” you murmured huskily, your lips quirking into a little smirk when heat flared in Jack’s eyes. “I needed a little rest, but now I’ve got a second wind.”
“Still want that kitchen tour, sweetheart?” Jack rumbled, his hand on your hip pulling you closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the warmth of it teasing every inch of your bare skin. “You were such a good girl during the dinner rush, I’ve got that dessert I promised you.”
Something deep inside you clenched tight at the way Jack’s voice rumbled over the words ‘good girl’, his praise going straight to the place between your legs that was beginning to throb the longer his hand remained on your hip. To steady yourself, you lifted your hands to Jack’s biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingers as you looked at the chef from under your lashes.
“Really?” you asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice, out of your smile.
Jack’s mouth pulled to the side in a slow, wicked grin, his eyes sparkling with humor and something that looked a lot like hunger. “How do you feel about coffee and chocolate?”
Excitement bubbled up your throat, and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as you confirmed your undying love for coffee and chocolate. With another grin that had your core clenching, Jack guided you back into the kitchen, his big hand firm against your lower back.
Most of the kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving the space spotless and easier to navigate as Jack walked you through. He showed you each of the stations, and introduced you to the few remaining kitchen staff—including his sous chef John Shen and senior chef Parker Ellis.
Jack left you chatting with John and Parker while he rustled around in a fridge, pulling out some containers and setting up a work station on one of the long, silver tables in the center of the room. Once he was done, the other chefs each gave Jack a handshake and half-hug before bidding you a goodnight.
As they left, John exchanged a loaded look with Jack that had the head chef’s face twisting into an exasperatedly stern expression, and you had to bite back a smile. It was clear Jack’s staff loved him, respected him—and teased him every chance they got.
It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that you weren’t the only one who felt safe with Jack. He was a good boss, a good man, to everyone in his life. He was the exact opposite of the man you’d gone on a date with and needed to be rescued from.
Jack Abbot was the kind of man you could be alone with in a deserted kitchen and feel only excitement, only the thrumming awareness that something might happen between you two. You turned to him, your gazes meeting, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, silently acknowledging the sparks igniting in space between your bodies.
“Hop up,” Jack said, his voice as rough as a knife on metal. With one hand, he patted the counter beside the cutting board he’d set up, his dark eyes watching you intently.
Your gaze snagged on that hand, on the thickness of his fingers and the smattering of freckles along the back. You remembered how that hand had felt on your hip, on your thigh, and you nearly whimpered with the need to feel his palm on you again, but you managed to bite it back.
Instead, you did as the chef said. You pressed back against the counter, planting your hands on the edge and arching your spine just a little more than necessary to stick out your tits. You were rewarded with Jack’s gaze dropping quickly to your chest before he dragged his eyes back up to your face. With a smirk, you jumped onto the counter, careful not to put too much weight on the wrist your date had grabbed.
The cold metal of the worktable was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bare thighs, and you hissed softly, your shoulders trembling as a shiver snaked down your spine. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your body and wished you hadn’t left your jacket in Jack’s office.
But then Jack’s hand was on your knee and he was giving you a concerned look, his silver brows lowered over his hazel eyes. “Cold, sweetheart?”
“Yeah,” you answered sheepishly, giving a light shrug and trying to shake off the chill. You leaned into Jack, your body seeking his warmth. “The kitchen gets cold without all the ovens and stoves on, huh?” you asked wryly, trying to get a reaction from the chef, and soften the worried lines of his face.
Jack huffed a laugh, shooting you an amused smirk even as he squeezed your knee in chastisement. The weight of his palm, the soft press of his fingers, had tendrils of heat licking down your spine and settling between your thighs. It took a great deal of effort not to shiver and grab hold of Jack to pull him closer.
“Stay here,” he rumbled, pulling away and striding toward his office. You nearly whined at the loss of his body heat, but you perked up quickly when he returned with his leather jacket.
The chef stepped close enough to your legs that your knees brushed his thighs, and your gaze snagged on his. He was so close, you could see the lines in his weathered face, the silver stubble along his jaw, and the light freckles dusted across his cheeks.
Tension crackled as he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, his fingers brushing gently against your bare skin, and you leaned closer, until you could feel his unsteady breaths on your lips. Jack went still, his eyes searching yours and you tried your best to tell him without words how much you wanted him to kiss you.
But either Jack didn’t get the message or he chickened out, because he swallowed hard and tucked the lapels of the leather jacket around your shoulders, making sure you were ensconced in its warmth before he moved back to his workstation. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself before he spoke.
“Better?” he asked, his voice raw with a hunger that made you squeeze your thighs together against a pulsing ache.
“Yeah, better,” you answered, your voice faint, trying and failing to shake off the unslaked desire burning through your body. You didn’t know if Jack was purposefully ignoring all the signals you were giving him, or if he was truly unaware, but you didn’t know how much longer you could last before you simply grabbed the chef and kissed him yourself.
Despite the almost-kiss, you and Jack fell into an easy quiet, him pulling out some dark chocolate and beginning to chop it up into tiny shards while you watched him work.
The muscles in his arms moved mesmerizingly as he worked his knife against the cutting board, his freckled forearms flexing deliciously, his biceps straining the hem of his white t-shirt. You had to wrap your fingers around the edges of Jack’s leather jacket and bury your nose in the collar, breathing in his herby, masculine scent, to keep from reaching out to touch him.
Whatever expression was on your face made Jack smirk when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. After that, you could’ve sworn he started flexing his arms on purpose, getting fancy with his knife work, like he was trying to impress you.
From anyone else, that might’ve made you roll your eyes, or turned you off entirely, but Jack was so skilled, so charming, and just so downright hot, that it worked for him. His confidence came from his competence, and it was so attractive, it made you squirm where you sat on the counter beside him, the warmth blooming between your thighs becoming nearly impossible to ignore.
“What’re you making?” you asked in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from watching the muscles of Jack’s shoulders shift beneath the obscenely thin fabric of his white t-shirt. That t-shirt looked well-loved, and you had a sneaking suspicion it would feel really good to wear—while staying the night in Jack’s bed…
“We’ve got some leftover coffee mousse from tonight’s dessert special,” Jack answered, seemingly unaware of how you were ogling him as he continued to chop the dark chocolate into little pieces.
His hands were so deft and skilfull, his fingers so thick and sure, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like for Jack to touch you. You imagined him putting his hands on your body, groping your soft curves, slipping his fingers between your thighs to press against your damp panties…
“I’m just adding some chocolate to elevate it a little,” Jack glanced at you, and you knew your filthy thoughts were written all over your face by the way his eyes heated when they raked over your face. “Chocolate makes everything better, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”
Jack’s voice had lowered, sending delightful little tendrils of lust licking down your spine. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t have looked away from Jack’s dark gaze, the steady thwack of the knife against his cutting board matching the rhythm of the pulse between your thighs.
Slowly, you nodded your head. “Yes, chef,” you murmured, your voice raspier than you’d expected, matching Jack’s lower tenor. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, you thought you might be able to hear it in the quiet kitchen, but it was only your soft, panting breaths.
The measured sounds of Jack’s knife ceased, his eyes dropping to your mouth, watching you breathe for one long moment, and then another, before dragging his gaze back to yours. Tension crackled electrically between your bodies, and it wasn’t until your wrist gave a twinge of pain that you realized your hands were braced on the edge of the counter and you were leaning closer to Jack.
He seemed to notice the position of your body at the same time you did, his eyes darting down to where your tits were bouncing softly with your sharp breaths before looking up, a light pink blush appearing beneath his freckles. His gaze collided with yours, and you could feel the older man holding himself back, keeping himself in check.
But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted…him. Badly.
“Jack.” His name was a desperate whimper, barely louder than your breathing, tumbling from your lips. Something in him seemed to break at the sound of his name from your lips, and you thought he might kiss you.
Instead, he surprised you by grabbing a piece of chocolate from his cutting board and lifting it to your lips. He met your stare with his own heated eyes, looking like melted chocolate mixed with caramel.
“Here, sweetheart, have a taste.”
Jack’s words were a low, delectable rumble from deep in his chest, and you couldn’t hold back the shiver that raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble with excitement under the onslaught of his voice and his closeness. You could smell his earthy, masculine scent, and you wanted more.
The tips of Jack’s bare fingers pressed to your lower lip and, instinctively, you parted for him, allowing the older man to feed you the chocolate. The rich, decadent taste burst in your mouth, and your tongue darted out, licking the pads of Jack’s fingers, making his eyes darken even further as he watched your lips close around the bite of chocolate.
You let the confection melt in your mouth, your eyes sliding closed of their own accord as you savored the delicious dark chocolate. You might’ve felt like you were in your own little world, but Jack’s hand fell to your thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress where it rode high on your leg. You had to stifle another shiver as you hummed in delight, catching the rumble of a muffled groan coming from the chef.
When you opened your eyes again, it was to find Jack’s intense hazel eyes searing into yours, his gaze so blisteringly hot, you felt your core clench in anticipation. And since you knew you weren’t alone in your attraction and lust, you licked your lips, watching Jack track the movement with his gaze.
“Yum,” you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly through the hair on Jack’s arm, nails raking subtly against his warm, freckled skin. You were prepared for him to pull away again, but he didn’t, and you let a small smile curve your mouth. “Do you have anything else for me to taste, chef?”
Although your question was, on its surface, innocent, you imbued your words with enough innuendo for your real meaning to get through to him. You knew that it had when the corner of Jack’s lips quirked into a smile, but instead of leaning forward and giving you what you wanted—his mouth—he pulled away and turned to something at his station.
The chef popped open one of the storage containers he’d taken out of the fridge and swiped his finger through the mousse inside. You almost squirmed in excitement as he held his hand in front of your mouth, offering you the sweet treat.
Wrapping your hands around his wrist, you held Jack’s scorching gaze as you brought his finger to your lips. You licked teasingly at the mousse, making sure not to touch Jack’s skin with your tongue, and had to fight a smirk when he let out a barely suppressed groan.
Putting both of you out of your misery, you closed your lips around Jack’s thick finger and licked the mousse off of him. The bittersweet taste of the coffee mousse exploded in your mouth, with just a hint of salt from Jack’s skin, and it had you moaning around Jack’s finger. His whole body jerked at the sound and the vibrations.
“Christ, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, his other hand grabbing your thigh, gripping you tightly as he nudged your knees open so he could step between your parted legs. “You make the prettiest sounds when you’re eating my food—I just wanna taste…”
Jack’s finger, still sticky with sugar, slid from your mouth and his hand cupped your cheek, tipping your face toward his. For a moment, he lingered with his lips just barely brushing yours, close enough that you were certain he could taste the coffee and chocolate on your breath.
It felt like he was memorizing the moment, savoring the tension that crackled between your bodies, the way your breath hitched with him so close. Your knees squeezed his sides, your fingers dancing up his ribs, and a soft, breathy whined sounded in your throat as you tried to pull him closer.
“Is this alright, sweetheart?” Jack asked, his thumb stroking your cheek, swiping over the corner of your mouth.
The genuine care in his deep, raspy voice was nearly your undoing. This man had done nothing but take care of you since he’d come striding out of the kitchen to save you from your bad date, but you were tired of him treating you with kid gloves. You wanted him so fucking bad.
Fingers curling in the sides of his t-shirt, you tugged Jack closer, sliding your body to the edge of the counter at the same time, uncaring about how high your dress was riding up your thighs. You parted your lips, tilting your head into the handsome chef’s hand as you pressed your soft body against his hard one.
“Yes, Jack,” you whimpered, unable to stand the crackling tension any longer, even as you wanted to bask in it for the rest of your life. “Kiss me. Please, chef.”
Jack didn’t need to be asked twice. He closed the distance between his mouth and yours, capturing your lips in a slow, decadent kiss that had your heart soaring. His lips were soft, but firm, as they moved against yours, taking immediate control while you were left to gasp and whimper into his mouth.
It was everything you’d hoped it would be—the older man kissing you sweetly at first, before pressing his thumb to your chin and tilting your head back so he could sweep his tongue into your mouth. The hot slide of him was determined and possessive and so fucking hot, you moaned against his lips, trembling as you met the fervor of his kiss with your own heady lust.
Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you wrapped your arms around Jack’s shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft, steel gray curls at the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in the strands, tugging lightly on his hiar as your nails raked lightly against his skin, earning you a desperate groan. Jack deepened the kiss again until you couldn’t do anything else but breathe him in.
The chef’s hands skimmed down your sides beneath the edges of his leather jacket where it was still balanced precariously on your shoulders. His palms were warm as his thick fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling you even more flush against his chest, your legs splaying wide to make room for his broad body.
His thick, half-hard cock pressed against your soft inner thigh, and you shifted until he was nestled against your warm center. You rocked your hips, grinding against his bulge, dragging a desperate groan out of the older man.
“Fuck, angel, you taste like heaven,” Jack rasped, pressing kisses along your jaw, tickling you with the silver scruff on his cheeks. When he suckled on a spot beneath your ear, you moaned and writhed in his arms, pressing your aching pussy against his hardening cock. “Feel like it, too.”
“God, you feel so good, Jack,” you babbled breathlessly, rubbing against his body like a cat in heat. You hiked your thighs higher around his waist, using the leverage to hump against his thick cock through your clothes. “I want you. Please, chef,” you begged against Jack’s ear, nipping at the lobe and smiling wildly when he shuddered in your arms, his hips grinding his cock harder against your soft core.
“I thought you were going to be a good girl for me, sweetheart,” Jack growled, his voice softly recriminating as he grabbed your hips hard, his fingers digging roughly into your soft flesh.
But instead of dragging you closer and giving you what you wanted, he pushed you back. Lifting his head from your neck, he gave you a stern look, softened by the affectionate twist of his mouth and the spark of desire in his eyes, sending a zing of lust straight to your dripping slit.
“Don’t you wanna be good for me, angel,” he rumbled, his voice deliciously raspy, “and let me feed you some dessert before you start begging me to fuck you?”
Your jaw dropped and you sucked in a sharp breath at Jack’s filthy words, heat suffusing your body so fully, you couldn’t find a single word in your entire head to respond. You could only stare at the older man, your thighs squeezing his hips and wordlessly begging him to put your body out of its misery, but Jack simply chuckled at your reaction.
He stole a kiss from your parted lips before gently extricating himself from your clinging body, shushing you softly when you whined at the loss of him. Giving your hips one last rough squeeze, he stepped out from between your legs and adjusted his thick cock in his jeans as he moved back to his workstation.
It was absurd how cold you felt without him, and you pulled Jack’s leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, pouting at the chef. He pretended to ignore you, scooping up chocolate shards and dumping them into a bowl along with some mousse while you kicked your feet petulantly and whined, “Jaaack.”
That got you an amused smirk. “Just a few bites,” he urged, picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk the chocolate into the mouse, melting it into the dessert. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” Jack said, giving you another of his charming winks.
It had its intended effect, and you softened, endeavoring to wait patiently, though you still made a show of grumbling your discontent even as you got distracted by watching him work. Jack’s arms flexed deliciously while he whisked the chocolate into the mousse, his biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt so enticingly, you wanted to bite them, then lick every freckle, then bite him again.
Jack’s low chuckle let you know he’d caught your hungry look, and heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t get a chance to stammer out an apology or an explanation before he was setting the bowl down and grabbing a spoon. Scooping up some of the mousse mixture, he lifted it to your lips.
You opened eagerly, already knowing whatever Jack made would be delicious, and let him pop the bite into your mouth. Jack watched you closely as he pulled the spoon out, giving you a moment to taste what he’d given you.
The delectable flavors of rich coffee and velvety chocolate melted on your tongue, and your eyes slid closed as you savored the sweetness, a low moan slipping from your lips at how good the dessert tasted.
“Jesus, Jack, that’s the best thing I think I’ve ever had in my mouth,” you groaned, opening your eyes. You found Jack staring at you, a wild look in his eyes, and so much hunger in their depths, it stole the breath from your lungs. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.
You half expected the chef to pounce on you, to kiss the remnants of the dessert from your lips and show you what other things he could stuff in your mouth, but you should’ve known better. Jack didn’t take the bait of your comment as he kept a white-knuckle grip on himself, holding back even as more tension than ever snapped and crackled between the two of you.
“Want some more, sweetheart?” he rasped, holding your gaze.
Your head was bobbing an eager nod before he’d even finished the question, and he lifted another spoonful of mousse to your lips, watching as you ate it happily, humming in delight. When Jack fed himself some of the sweet concoction, you could only watch with rapt attention as it disappeared inside his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch some left at the corner of his lips.
The need in your body had pulled you taut as a bowstring, your skin practically vibrating with desire by the time you’d finished enough of the dessert for Jack to hopefully be satisfied. It was a testament to his culinary skills that you were still able to taste the chocolatey coffee confection with how much lust was swirling through your body, simmering low in your belly.
You squirmed where you sat, the metal beneath your thighs warm from your skin, and felt how wet you were, your panties nearly soaked with your desire. You were hot enough that you pushed the jacket from your shoulders, and looked directly at Jack, pouting at the chef once more.
“Jack, please,” you whined, your fingers curling around the edges of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. You felt him suck in a breath as he let you tug him back between your legs, your body trembling with excitement and need. “I’ve had enough dessert, I need something else…”
The older man didn’t respond immediately, his head ducked, watching as his palms skimmed up the outside of your bare thighs, like he could barely believe you were letting him touch you. Your fingers trailed up his arms, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking lightly against his skin. You watched him close his eyes at the sensation, knowing he enjoyed it.
“I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?” you murmured in Jack’s ear, feeling the tension in his shoulders as they bunched beneath your arms. He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. “I’ve been so good, and I want you so bad, Jack. Touch me—please, chef.”
The last thread of Jack’s control snapped at your comment—you felt it in the way his muscles moved, poised on the edge of giving in before he finally let his desire loose after your begging plea. His hands grabbed you roughly, fingers digging into your bare ass beneath the hem of your dress as he yanked you closer.
His mouth descended on yours, capturing your lips in a blisteringly hot, devouring kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He wrapped you up in his arms, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you, gorging himself on your mouth, his hands groping greedily at your body while you clung to him.
It was everything you’d wanted from the chef, and the corners of your lips curved in an attempt at smile, but then Jack was kissing you harder, overwhelming you until you were moaning mindlessly into his mouth. You’d never felt more desired than you did when Jack kissed you, and you’d never felt more in danger of letting yourself fall for someone.
You were mostly lost to your lust, your nipples puckered and needy where they were pressed against the chef’s chest and your pussy aching to be filled, but it occurred to you that Jack was different from all the other men you’d dated. He was kind and gentle and steady, and he kissed you so good your head spun.
It struck you suddenly that while you knew you were safe with Jack, you were in danger of losing your heart to him. But that was the kind of danger you wanted to be in—especially since you knew that if you fell for him, Jack would catch you.
So you kissed the chef right back, pouring your desire for him into the slide of your mouth against his, holding him close as you flung yourself off the edge, letting emotions swirl and swell in your chest, confident that he’d carry your heart in his hands and protect it with his life.
You’d never been safer in your entire life than you were in Jack Abbot’s arms.
Jack Abbot was in heaven.
In all his years of cooking, of being a chef, he’d never tasted anything as divine as you.
He could gorge himself on you and still never get enough—not of the way your mouth moved against his, your lips soft and tongue eager as it twined with his. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of your body beneath his hands, so sweet and supple and responsive.
Every press of his fingertips into your spine had you arching into him, breathy, little whines slipping from your lips for him to devour. He could taste the coffee and chocolate on your tongue, and he sucked on your plump lower lip, groaning as he savored the combination of the dessert he’d fed you with the natural flavor that was all your own.
Kissing you was making him unbelievably hard—harder than he’d been in a long time—his cock heavy and weeping in his jeans. The only thing that saved him from embarrassment was how enthusiastically you were grinding against his bulge, the dampness of your panties leaving a wet spot where his cock was straining against the dark denim.
Jack dragged his hands up your sides, wrapping his fingers around your ribs, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your tits, teasing you both with the barest of touches. You let out a soft, keening sound against his mouth, making him smirk before he pressed kisses along your jaw and down the smooth column of your neck.
“More, Jack, please,” you begged, your hands fisted in his shirt and tugging on him restlessly. The desperation in your voice, the way you begged for him, it made his cock twitch for you.
He shifted his hands higher, groping your tits through your dress and dragging a filthy moan from your pretty lips. The pads of his thumbs teased your hardened nipples, and he reveled in the way your body shuddered in his arms. Your spine arched, pressing your tits into his hands and he rewarded you by rubbing your nipples more with his thumbs.
“Ya like this, sweetheart?” Jack rasped against your neck, raising his head enough to nip at your ear. “Like letting an old chef feel up your pretty tits?”
“Old, hot chef,” you shot back, correcting him in a deliciously breathless voice.
Jack’s cock twitched at the compliment, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found you—someone so beautiful and full of life. Someone so into him.
He pressed his smile into the spot beneath your ear, kissing and licking your skin until you were moaning softly.
“And yes, chef, I love it. Touch me more, touch me harder—please,” you begged, squirming where you sat on the metal counter in his kitchen.
What was Jack supposed to do? Deny you?
He couldn’t even fathom the idea of not giving you what you asked for, even if he knew that he was letting things get a little out of control. The two of you were still at Night Shift, and though the staff had left for the night, it wasn’t the best idea to have sex in his kitchen.
But Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself, not when you were making such pretty noises while he sucked a hickey into your neck and teased your nipples with the lightest of pinches. His mouth trailed up your throat before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while he played with your tits.
It had been so long since Jack had lost himself in anyone—there hadn’t been anyone who’d awoken that desire in him the way you did. Not since his wife passed. You were a siren calling him to the danger of your body, to the promise of losing his heart to you, and Jack knew he could drown in you if you let him. He hoped to god you let him.
For long, endless minutes, Jack kissed you and groped your tits, playing with your nipples and seeing how many different noises he could pull from your lips. And for a while, you let him, the sounds of your pleasure growing more high-pitched, your hips working more desperately to hump against his cock.
Eventually, your need must’ve grown too great, your frustration too acute, because you grabbed one of Jack’s wrists and shoved his hand down between your bodies, until his fingers brushed your soaked panties.
“Touch me here, Jack, please—I need it,” you whimpered in his ear, and it was nearly his undoing.
It was his turn to gasp and groan, the tips of his fingers stroking against the sodden fabric as he used every ounce of the self-control he’d learned in the army not to spill himself in his jeans right then. You were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet.
Jack teased his fingers along the seam of your slit through your panties, hoping you couldn’t tell how much his hand was shaking. You felt so perfect, it was overwhelming. He’d stopped kissing you, your mouths close as you breathed each other’s air, panting your excitement together while he pressed into your cunt through your slick panties.
“Like this, sweetheart?” he rumbled, the edge of his mouth pulling up in a smirk when you let out a desperate little mewl. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly while you rocked your hips onto his hand.
“Jaaack,” you sobbed, and he’d never heard anything as sweet as the sound of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, pleasure soaked into your voice.
You pulled harder on his hair, and the jolt of pain went straight to his dick, which leaked even more precum into his jeans. Jack responded by pushing his fingers deeper between the lips of your pussy, his progress restricted by your panties, which prevented him from burying his fingers in your hole.
A violent shiver wracked your body, and Jack wrapped his other arm more tightly around your lower back, holding you close while he fucked you shallowly with his fingers. His thumb teased your clit with a featherlight touch, drawing a feral sound from your perfect mouth.
“Please, oh god, please, chef, touch me—fuck me with your fingers, please, please, please,” you babbled, yanking on his hair to draw him closer. But instead, Jack took the opportunity to lean back and take a look at you—and what a sight you were.
Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your gorgeous eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths, enough that your tits threatened to spill out of your mussed dress, which was hiked up high, Jack’s big hand pressed between your soft thighs.
You looked debauched. You looked so beautiful, Jack’s heart clenched in his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining you looking like this in a million different ways—on the desk in his office, in the backseat of his car, on his couch at home, in his bed.
In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to have you in all those ways. He wanted to move you into his place and put a ring on your finger—he wanted to make you his and keep you forever. He was stunned by how much he wanted you.
“Jaaack,” you whined, your sweet voice bringing him back to the moment. Your eyes were wide and pleading as you looked at him. “I was a good girl, wasn’t I?” you asked so pitifully, Jack’s heart ached.
A single tear slipped down your cheek and he cupped your face, panic stealing into his gut and making his stomach drop. He wiped your tears away, already knowing he was going to give you whatever you wanted. If you’d asked him to lay down and die for you, he would’ve done it without a second thought.
“You’re being so mean, chef, when I was so good for you,” you whimpered, your hips worked against his hand. The movement reminded Jack of how he’d been teasing you with his fingers, dragging you to the edge of desperation when all you wanted was to be full of him.
“Oh, baby, baby, baby,” Jack groaned, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.
He held your face in one hand as he kissed you, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips, while the other tugged your panties to the side. He pushed one of his thick fingers into your tight, dripping hole, swallowing your moan like it was the most exquisite decadence he’d ever tasted.
“I’m sorry, angel, you’re right,” he rumbled against your mouth, pumping his finger steadily into your pussy, feeling your gummy walls gripping him tight. “You were such a good girl for me—so good that ‘m gonna make you come on my fingers, alright?”
“Promise?” you asked, pouting up at him from under your lashes, and Jack knew he was in trouble, because that look on your face could get him to do anything you asked.
The corner of your mouth twitched, like you were holding back a grin, and Jack’s heart thumped in his chest because you knew the effect you had on him. He liked that a little too much. He liked that you weren’t afraid of torturing him a little bit after he’d teased you a little too much. It felt intimate, like you were building something real together, something that would certainly last past the night.
“I promise, angel,” he cooed, stroking his finger deeper before adding a second one, watching the way your breath caught on a gasp, biting back a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s a rule in my kitchen, y’know,” he went on, talking out of his ass to keep your attention on him even as he finger-fucked your pussy. “Good girls always get to come on the chef’s fingers—and you’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”
You let out a soft, breathy giggle at that, just like Jack had hoped, and he pumped his fingers harder into your wet, gripping cunt, making your laugh devolve into a dirty moan. Your body went loose and languid in his arms, and he rewarded you by pressing his thumb against your clit. He rubbed the little bundle of nerves, watching how you reacted until he found exactly what you liked most.
“Think you can take another, sweetheart?” Jack asked, pressing kisses to your heated cheeks and cleaning away the remnants of your tears with his lips. He trailed his mouth down to your neck, enjoying the way you shivered when his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin. “Can you take one more finger in this sweet cunt, baby?”
“Yes, please, chef,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his thin t-shirt.
Every pinprick became throbbing pleasure as it zinged down to his cock. He hadn’t been so close to coming in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fought off his own desire and focused on you. You and your pleasure were what mattered to him, not his dick.
“Good girl,” Jack purred, grinning into your neck when your pussy pulsed at the praise. He eased a third finger into your slick hole, biting back a groan when your tight warmth enveloped him. He pressed his cock against your soft thigh, looking down and watching your pussy take his thick fingers. “Fuck, angel, look at you—taking me so well.”
You leaned back, looking down your body, and Jack knew the moment you saw his fingers disappearing inside your cunt because you clamped down hard around him, like your body was trying to suck him deeper. He stifled another helpless groan, pumping into you, pressing against a spot that had you shivering and moaning wantonly.
You fell back further, planting your hands on the counter to hold yourself up, trying to use your leverage to bear down further on his fingers. But you’d barely rocked your hips in a slow roll when you let out a cry—the tenor making the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand up—as your arms gave out and you fell backward.
Quick as he could, Jack slid his free arm up your back, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to catch you before your head could hit the shelves above the counter. He pulled his hand from between your legs, holding onto your bare thigh with his sticky fingers as he ducked his head to meet your eyes.
“What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” he asked, his gaze searching your face, which was twisted like you were trying to hide your pain. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought.
You shook your head, rejecting the idea, which calmed Jack for a moment. Until you spoke.
“My wrist,” you whimpered. “Hurts.”
It took all of a second for Jack to understand what had happened. You’d put too much pressure on the wrist that your worthless excuse of a date had grabbed, had hurt, and it had given out. Rage flooded through Jack’s body, his blood pumping hot with the desire to track down Curtis Larsen and beat him to a bloody pulp.
But Jack knew that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all you, so he worked to rein in his anger. He focused on you, making sure you could sit up on your own before taking the hand of your injured wrist in his.
When he held it up to the bright lights in the kitchen, he could see bruises had formed where Curtis had grabbed you. Before he could stop it, a choked off growl rumbled beneath his sternum, the animalistic sound only ceasing when you stroked your palm down his chest, soothing him.
It took Jack another moment to collect himself, to gather his anger and put it in a box to deal with later. Gently, he lifted your hurt wrist to his mouth and brushed the sweetest, softest butterfly kisses over the bruises mottling your skin.
“I’d kill him if I thought I could get away with it,” Jack confessed, hoping to make you giggle again, his eyes lifting to your face to watch your reaction.
Although you didn’t laugh, his words did the trick of bringing the spark back into your eye. A shy smile curved the corners of your pretty mouth, and you lifted your other hand to cup Jack’s jaw, your thumb teasing over the stubble on his cheek.
“He’s not worth the effort,” you said, and though Jack agreed with you, he didn’t like the idea of letting Curtis Larsen get away with hurting you.
“Hmm,” Jack hummed noncommittally, wondering if he could call the police tomorrow and report the man for assault since it’d happened in his restaurant.
He liked that idea.
He liked the idea of locking up Curtis Larsen and throwing away the key even more. But you were his priority, not that jackass that had been your date, so he focused back on you.
Jack squeezed your thigh, his thumb teasing close to the edge of your panties. “Do you want to keep going, sweetheart?” he asked, his gaze watching you carefully. “I can take you home if you’d prefer.”
The change in your expression was immediate, your lower lip pushing out in a pout, your eyes widening and looking at Jack from under your lashes.
“I want to keep going,” you murmured, almost shyly, meeting Jack’s gaze before it dropped to his mouth. Your free hand fell to his arm, moving his hand from your thigh back between your legs then looking up at him. “I don’t want my shitty date to ruin our night—and you promised me I’d get to come on your fingers.”
A small smile curved Jack’s mouth and he ducked forward, stealing a quick kiss from your pouting lips before he pulled away. His grin was cocky as he pushed your panties to the side and teased your tight hole with the tips of his fingers.
“You’re right—and I always keep my promises, baby,” he assured you, pressing his fingers into your pussy while he watched you closely, making sure he didn’t hurt you.
Once they were buried inside you, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your injured wrist, then brought your hand to his shoulder. He gave you a pleased smile when you lifted your other arm to circle loosely around the back of his neck, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape.
“Hold on to me, angel,” Jack urged, easing his fingers out, then back inside your pussy, feeling your slick, tight cunt stretch around him. He watched your eyes go hazy with lust, your mouth falling open as you panted through your pleasure. “I’ll make you feel good—make you forget everything that happened tonight before I came to your table.”
With a soft, sweet sigh, you draped your arms over Jack’s shoulders, taking all the weight off your wrists, and leaned forward to nuzzle into the side of his neck. Warmth suffused his body, his cock twitching in his jeans when he felt you press a kiss to the underside of his scruffy jaw.
“Thank you, Jack,” you murmured, your voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the quiet whir of machinery in the kitchen. Your warm breath brushed against Jack’s throat and he had to suppress a shiver, focusing on your words. “You’re all I want to remember about tonight.”
Jack’s arm tightened around your lower back, instinctively pulling you closer as his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. Your sweet words called to something deep in his soul, something that hadn’t been fed in too long for him to be normal about it.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell you he wanted to spend every night with you, that he wanted you in his bed when he woke up in the morning and to come home to you in his kitchen. He wanted to cook for you and take you out and move you in with him…
But Jack knew it was way too soon to be having those thoughts, let alone say them out loud, so he put on the charm, hoping you couldn’t tell where his mind had wandered.
“And the food, right?” he asked, his tone teasing and light as he fucked you with his fingers again, his thrusts building you back up to where you’d been. He could feel the way your body trembled in his arms, and he held you tighter so he could feel the pleasure work through you. “You want to remember the food, right, sweetheart?”
You huffed a laugh against Jack’s neck, your tongue darting out and swiping up the side of his throat, making him groan helplessly at the obscene feeling of you licking him. His hips bucked forward of their own volition, his cock grinding against your soft inner thigh.
“Oh yes, chef,” you purred in his ear, your voice shaky and breathless and so, so sweet as he pumped his fingers into you harder, his thumb rubbing your clit. “I want to remember everything I got to taste tonight.”
Your words conjured images of your pert mouth on Jack’s cock, your teasing tongue swirling around the tip, licking up his precum before sucking him deep between your soft lips. It was such a hot image, Jack had to duck his head and muffle his tortured groan into your shoulder.
It took him a full minute to get himself together, your giggles echoing softly in the empty kitchen while your nails raked through his silver curls. Once he was able to focus again on the present, Jack pressed his mouth to your collarbone, licking and sucking your skin down to your tits, pushing the top of your dress down so he could take your nipple into his mouth.
The older man was rewarded with a sharp cry from your lips, your spine arching and pressing your tits further into his mouth. Jack grinned into your soft flesh and began to lavish them with his attention, his fingers still working in and out of your pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit in teasing, maddening circles.
It occurred to Jack that he could stay right where he was for a long, long time and be happy to keep sucking on your tits, learning what made you squirm and moan, all while he fucked your cunt with his fingers. But all too soon, you were hovering on the edge of your release, your pussy fluttering around Jack’s fingers, your cries turning high-pitched and desperate while your body worked to find your pleasure.
Your fingers were threaded in his hair, clutching his head tight to your chest as you moaned and rocked your hips harder on his fingers. Mindless pleas were falling from your kiss-swollen lips, frantic appeals for ‘more’ and ‘harder’, begging him to give you the release you needed.
Jack was torn between drawing out the moment, making it last forever, and giving you what you wanted. Eventually, his need to take care of you won out, and he pushed his fingers deep into your cunt, his thumb mercilessly rubbing your clit while he lifted his head from your chest.
“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growled in your ear. “Show me what a good girl you are and come all over chef’s fingers—let go, let me see you come for me.” He pressed his fingers against that spot deep inside your body and stroked your clit, feeling you tighten around him.
Pulling back enough to see your face, Jack watched you succumb to pleasure, your release taking hold of your body and making you throw your head back, a desperate, breathy cry bursting from your mouth. Your fingers tightened in hair, and your pussy clamped down on his fingers, making him work to keep fucking you through the waves of pleasure surging through your body, which trembled in his arms.
“Good girl,” Jack rumbled, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of your pulsing channel, wringing every ounce of bliss from your body. “Sweet girl, perfect girl.”
You curled forward and sobbed your pleasure into Jack’s neck, and when you shuddered at the overstimulation of his fingers, he gently eased you down from your peak. Once your release had ebbed, he slipped his fingers out of your body, and helped you to sit up.
“You gonna keep being a good girl and clean me up, baby?” he asked, touching his wet, dripping fingers to your plump lower lip. Jack didn’t know what had come over him, but the desire to see you taste yourself was too great to ignore, and he hoped he wasn’t making you uncomfortable.
He was pleased when your already unfocused eyes went even more hazy, your head nodding and a smile curling the edges of your mouth before you parted your lips and let Jack slip his fingers inside. You hummed a happy sound that went straight to Jack’s dick then got to work cleaning your own release from his skin.
It was such an erotic sight that Jack thought he could watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of the night, but then he realized he’d given away the opportunity to taste you himself and he got ridiculously jealous. You weren’t done cleaning him up, but he pulled his fingers from between your lips and shoved them into his own mouth.
Jack groaned at your taste, savoring the musky flavor of your pleasure while he held your gaze, letting you watch him lick his fingers clean. Your eyes were hooded and full of renewed lust, your lips swollen and parted as you panted for him.
He couldn’t stop himself. Between one breath and the next, his mouth was crushing against yours in a mindless, feral kiss. He could taste your pussy on your tongue when his delved into your mouth and it drove him wild. His arms wrapped around your body, crushing you to his chest while he kissed you harder, groaning when your fingers pressed into his spine and clung to him just as tightly.
“Jack, I want more,” you cried when your lips wrenched free from his, your fingers trailing around his ribs and down over his stomach until you could cup his thick erection through his jeans. “I need you inside me—need you filling me until I’m so full of your cock, it’s all I can think about.”
“Fuck, angel, you beg so pretty, how can I say no?” Jack teased, his voice only a little unsteady. He tried to pull away, but couldn’t bring himself to when you were stroking his cock through his pants, wringing desperate whimpers from him that would’ve embarrassed him if you weren’t smiling like the cat that got the cream. “C’mere, baby, let me fill up that greedy pussy of yours.”
But when Jack grabbed your ass and pulled you close to he could thrust into your pussy through your clothes, he felt a twinge of pain in his leg where it rubbed uncomfortably against his prosthetic. The pain shot straight up his spine, making his mind go completely blank for a moment, his breath catching in his lungs.
During work, Jack could typically grit his teeth and bear the pain when it hit, but he’d been on his feet for too long. He’d pushed himself beyond his own limits and his body was reminding him that he wasn’t the young, spry man he’d once been.
“Jack?” you asked, your voice thick with concern.
The older man took stock of himself, and realized he’d half collapsed against you, his head on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants as he breathed through the pain. He’d shifted his weight to his one good foot, leaving him a little off-balance and using you to steady himself.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly, stroking your fingers comfortingly through his hair and across his shoulders. When he relaxed into your touch, you held him tighter, not seeming to mind that he was putting some of his weight on you.
“My prosthetic,” he grumbled, not entirely happy that this was how he was telling you, but not shying away from the truth either. “Hurts.”
“Your prosthetic?” you asked after a moment, and Jack paid close attention to the tone of your voice. You sounded confused, maybe a little curious, but Jack was relieved that there wasn’t revulsion or, worse, pity in your tone.
“Lost my leg while I was in the army,” he explained, taking a deep breath as he began to recover his strength. The pain had subsided, leaving him a little shaky and off-balance, but fine.
“Oh, okay,” you said, nothing but acceptance in your tone.
Your fingers were still idly playing with Jack’s hair and that, more than anything else, helped him feel better—though he knew he’d have to get off his feet soon. He was trying to work out how to tell you he couldn’t fuck you on the counter in this position when you took him by surprise with another question.
“Is that how you got the medal?’
Jack paused. Of all the questions you could’ve asked—and he’d heard most, if not all of them—that wasn’t one he’d anticipated. Most folks didn’t know about the medal, and it took him a moment to remember that he kept it on his desk in his office, where you’d spent most of the evening.
The realization that you’d been curious enough about him to look through his desk made his heart soar, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, you going through his things. It felt right, the idea of you being comfortable in his space.
“Were you snooping through my stuff, sweetheart?” Jack asked teasingly, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze, curious about how you’d react to the question.
He watched your eyes widen slightly, your gaze darting away before returning to his with a sheepish look on your face. “It was on top of your desk,” you mumbled, shrugging, then wincing at how blithe you sounded. “I didn’t go through any drawers or anything, I swear.”
Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at how guilty you looked, and he smoothed a hand down your spine in a reassuring gesture. “You’re adorable,” he murmured, capturing your lips in a kiss to let you know you were forgiven. “And yes, it’s how I got the medal. I’ve made peace with it, but sometimes, it makes things…tricky.”
You nodded somberly as you absorbed that information, your eyes dropping down to where Jack was still half-leaning against you. The chef could practically see the gears turning in your head as you thought, but he was still taken by surprise when you lifted your gaze back to his and asked, “Would it help if I was on top?”
Your question made Jack pause again. He’d been with his wife already when he’d lost his leg, and she’d helped him figure out what worked afterward. It had given him the confidence he’d needed to eventually move on after she’d passed on. But the few flings he’d had since weren’t as easily accepting as you, and none of them had been as considerate.
It made Jack’s heart clench in his chest as he realized all over again how glad he was to have found you. Although he wished the circumstances of your meeting were different—he wished you’d never been hurt by your date—he was grateful that the universe had brought you together.
“Yeah, actually, it would,” Jack said, matching your serious tone with his honesty.
It was another moment where the weight of his feelings for you took him by surprise, especially after knowing you for such a short time. In an effort not to scare you away by revealing how he felt, he used his charm to lighten the mood. Ducking his head, he caught your eye and let a smirk play on his lips.
“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asked, his tone teasing, his smirk spreading into a full-blown confident grin when lust bloomed in your eyes, none of it tainted by pity or fear or disgust. It made his cock throb for you. “Wanna ride chef’s cock and make us both feel good?”
“Yes, please, chef. I’d love to ride you,” you purred, pushing him gently back to give you room to move.
You held his gaze as you reached beneath the hem of your dress and wiggled until you’d yanked your panties off, looking at him expectantly. Jack unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free.
He watched your eyes dart down, then widen when you took in the size of his thick cock. His dick wasn’t the longest, but it was fat enough that his three fingers stretching your pussy would feel small in comparison. Suddenly, he hoped you weren’t afraid.
It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure you, to tell you that you could stop this at any time and the two of you could go slow if that was what you needed. But before he could get the words out, your eyes lifted to his and he saw the spark of eager excitement in their depths, in the curve of your grin.
You looked like a sultry creature feral with lust, your pretty, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a sensuous smile as you hopped off the counter and prowled closer to him, only wobbling a little in your heels. Jack reached for you at the same moment you spun him around and shoved him onto the counter so you could climb on top of him.
“I’m gonna make us feel sooo good, chef,” you promised, settling your knees on either side of Jack’s hips and rising up, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. Jack’s hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up so he could see your bare pussy where you rubbed the tip of his dick through your slick folds. “Gonna ride your cock until you’re coming hard in my cunt. Tell me you want it, too—please, chef.”
For a moment, all words fled Jack’s mind. All he could do was feel the teasing warmth of your pussy kissing the tip of his cock, hear the soft wet sounds of your desire, smell the scent of your arousal. All he could see was you, looking like a goddess above him, promising him pleasure.
Fuck, Jack Abbot really was in heaven, and he hoped he never had to leave.
You were right where you were meant to be.
You couldn’t explain what had come over you—whether it was simply the lust you’d felt at the sight of the older man’s thick cock or if it was everything about the chef—but you had the sense that everything you’d been through that night was worth it because you’d met Jack Abbot.
He was everything you’d been looking for in a partner—kind and capable, charming and funny—and plenty that you hadn’t known you’d wanted, like the way he could talk just as dirty as you, and cook way better than you ever could. He’d been gentle when he’d kissed your injured wrist, but hadn’t held back when he’d fucked you with his fingers, giving it to you as rough as you needed to get off.
Jack had made you feel safe and desired. He’d taken care of you in every way you’d needed throughout the night, and you were in serious danger of falling for him. If you hadn’t already. It might’ve been a little crazy, but you might’ve fallen for him already.
The weight of your feelings were too heavy to tell the chef just yet, so you focused instead on the moment, on the feeling of Jack’s broad tip teasing between the lips of your pussy, of the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and the heat of his eyes as he watched you tease his cock.
It was intoxicating, seeing the unrestrained lust in Jack’s face, darkening his hazel eyes and twisting his mouth into something feral and hungry. The thought crossed your mind that you could try to tease him until he snapped, the last remnants of his patience falling away as he yanked you down on his cock. But just the fantasy had you pulsing with need.
You needed Jack’s cock inside you. Immediately.
But before you could start to lower yourself down on Jack’s bare length, you remembered yourself. You paused, hovering above his thick, throbbing cock, and took a breath to steady yourself. Still, your voice was a little shaky as you spoke.
“I’m on birth control; I’ve been tested, and it was clear,” you rushed to say, hoping Jack could understand your words even as they tripped over each other to fall off your tongue. You braced one hand on his shoulder and looked dead in the older man’s eyes. “I want you bare, Jack, please.”
“Jesus,” he cursed, letting his head fall against your chest. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and it took a moment for the man to get himself together to look at you. You wanted him without a condom too badly to rush him. “I’m all clear, too, angel,” he rasped, staring into your eyes. “It would be the honor of my life to fuck you raw, baby.”
Your heart soared, battering against your ribs like a caged bird wanting to take flight. You were so overcome by emotion, by your desire for this man, that you couldn’t think of doing anything else but kiss him. Jack cupped your face while your fingers sank into his steel gray curls, both of you holding each other tight as you kissed, hard and deep, with all the wild, unfettered emotion you felt.
Before the kiss even ended, you were already pressing down on his cock, only pulling away from Jack’s mouth when the tip pushed inside your body, the stretch making you gasp. He was wider than anything you’d taken before, and it sent a filthy shiver sliding down your spine as you felt your body straining to take him.
“God, Jack, you’re so—fuck, you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, your eyes crossing a little as you lowered yourself another inch, grateful that he’d already finger-fucked you to orgasm once, since it made the slide slightly easier. You shuddered with the effort not to impale yourself all at once, knowing it would be a mistake if you didn’t go slow.
“Careful, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself,” Jack warned, but there was a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone that drove you wild, your pussy clenching around and suckling on the tip of his cock. His words devolved into a pleasured groan that trickled down your spine like warm honey. “Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me already—you’re so tight and warm and wet. Jesus.”
“Uh huh, uh huh, so wet for you,” you babbled, bouncing a little on Jack’s cock to take him deeper. Your pussy stretched to accomodate him and the feeling of fullness stole the breath from your lungs. “You’re splitting me open so good, Jack, fuck—fuck, chef.”
“Mm,” Jack hummed, his hands kneading your ass and sliding up your spine beneath your dress, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses to your skin that had you shivering in his arms. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t ya, baby,” he rumbled into the hollow of your throat, “because you’re such a good girl for me, huh?”
You couldn’t explain it, but Jack’s words had a ridiculous effect on you, making your pussy gush even more while your heart soared. Your hips rolled, pressing down determinedly and taking his cock nearly to the root, the stretch dragging a gasp from your lips while you clutched the older man close, reveling in the feel of his mouth on your neck.
“Yuh huh, your good girl,” you moaned, feeling Jack’s cock deep in your body. It filled you up so good, stretching you nearly to your limit, but you’d gone slow enough that it didn’t hurt—just made you impatient to have all of him.
You squirmed in his lap, lifting up and pressing back down, taking more and more of him with every downward thrust. Jack chuckled darkly as his hands hand returned to your hips, groping you with those thick, skillful fingers of his while he helped you bounce on his cock.
“That’s right, my good girl,” Jack rumbled, the possessiveness in his voice making your whole body clench, wringing a desperate groan from his mouth. He pulled you closer at the same moment when you spread your knees wide, and the result was your body being finally fully impaled on his cock.
The sudden, complete fullness was a delicious shock to your system and you wrapped yourself tightly around Jack, your arms circling his shoulders while you trembled and adjusted to the size of his fat cock buried in your cunt. It took you a breath to return to the moment, feeling Jack’s hands smoothing over your bare thighs in soothing gestures.
“Atta girl,” Jack praised, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Feels like you were made for me—made to take my cock.”
A soft, breathy laugh burst from your lips, because those words were exactly what you wanted to hear, and it surprised you to hear them from Jack’s mouth. It made you feel like you weren’t alone in the big, overwhelming feelings you were having too soon for the chef, and you pressed your face into his shoulder to silence yourself before you said something too soon.
Instead, you focused on the feel of Jack. Every little movement of your body had his cock shifting inside your tight channel, his heavy length dragging against your sensitive inner walls, making your surprised laughter turn into a helpless moan.
“You feel sooo good,” you murmured, rocking your hips and getting lost in sensation. With your head fuzzy and full of pleasure, you sat up enough to look into Jack’s face, staring deep into his eyes. “If I was made to take anyone’s cock, Jack, I’d want it to be yours,” you said, not realizing until the words were out of your mouth just how revealing they were.
But instead of the depth of your desire scaring the chef, his gaze turned more intense, and a flicker of a smile played around the corner of his mouth. He drew you closer, until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth away from his. His eyes were hot and dark as they stared deep into your soul.
“I’m so glad you came into my restaurant tonight, angel,” Jack rasped, so much genuine affection in his tone, it made you melt further into him, your knees squeezing his hips while you clung to his shoulders. “Meeting you has made this the best night of my life—I hope you’ll let me see you again.”
“Oh, Jack,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes, not from sadness but a boundless happiness. You tried to blink them away, embarrassed to be crying while Jack’s cock was still buried in your body, but the older man didn’t seem to mind, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and brushing away the few tears that fell. “I’d really like to see you again, too.”
“Good,” he said, his voice so decisive that you knew it was settled. Your heart soared in your chest, and a smile broke across your face. You couldn’t have said which of you leaned forward first, closing the distance so your mouths came together in a kiss, a promise.
The kiss was slow and sensual, one of Jack’s hands cupping the back of your head while you explored each other. It was a delicious kiss, made all the more exquisite when Jack’s tongue licked into your mouth, drawing needy sounds from your lips as he kissed you deeper, like he wanted to remind you that he was buried in more than one of your holes.
You barely noticed when your hips began to rock, fucking yourself on Jack’s big cock. But when his hands dropped to your hips, urging you on, you had to pull away from his mouth with a gasp.
Tossing your head back, you focused on riding your chef, lifting up onto your knees and slamming back down on his hard, thick length. It was dizzyingly glorious, the heat and hardness of him filling your tight hole, punching the air from your lungs until you could do nothing but let out mindless sounds of pleasure.
“That’s my girl, fuck yourself on my cock,” Jack murmured encouragingly, his hands on your ass helping you lift yourself up and slide back down his stiff shaft. He groaned, loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of your pussy and the soft clap of your ass hitting his thighs. “Fuck, angel, you feel so good—such a good girl, riding chef’s cock like a fucking champ.”
A shiver raced down your spine at his praise and your fingers tangled in Jack’s hair, bracing yourself so you could bounce harder on his cock. Every thrust of his dick deep into your cunt was driving your pleasure higher, until your head was filled with clouds and your body was tingling, balancing on the precipice of your release.
“Yes, yes, yes, your girl, your good girl,” you panted, your eyes heavy-lidded but still open as you watched Jack’s face, his skin flushed red, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. “Please, chef, I’m so close—please, I need…”
Your words devolved into a moan as Jack took control of your body, changing the angle of your hips so your clit was grinding against the base of his cock. All you could do was gasp and whimper and whine and try to hold on to him while he helped you ride him.
“My sweet girl, my perfect girl, my gorgeous girl,” Jack cooed, punctuating his words by pulling you down on his cock over and over and over again, making sure your clit rubbed against him with each thrust. “I know what my girl needs—come for me, pretty girl. Wanna see you let go, wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, please.”
Jack’s words and the way he guided your body, helping you find your pleasure, were your undoing. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core until it suddenly snapped. You were sent tumbling over the edge of your release, every muscle in your body pulling taut before you exploded with a wailing cry, pleasure crashing through you in violent, euphoric waves.
A groan tore from Jack’s mouth and his arms tightened around your body. He held you crushed against his chest, moaning his own pleasure into your neck while his hips jerked between your thighs, fucking you through both your releases.
You clung on to him, your body writhing on top of his as you eked out every bit of bliss from each other, until the waves of your release began to recede. With a sated sigh, you collapsed against the older man’s shoulder, fingers raking idly through his hair while his hands stroked everywhere on your body he could reach—your hips, your thighs, even down your calves and up your spine beneath your dress.
Between your thighs, you could feel his hot release beginning to leak from your hole, and you squirmed a little at the strange feeling of loss that settled in your gut. Jack pressed one of his palms to your lower back, urging you to settle on his lap, and you let yourself relax, reveling in the feeling of his softening cock still filling your pussy.
After giving you a few moments to recover, Jack’s fingers trailed down the side of your face where your head was laying on his shoulder. He curled a finger around your chin and tilted your head up enough so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips.
“Alright, angel girl?” he asked softly, his voice so low and raspy, it sent little tingles dancing down your spine. You smiled against his mouth.
“Sooo good,” you answered, your mouth quirking into a smirk as you continued. “Or should I say, ‘Thank you, chef, that really hit the spot’?”
Jack huffed a surprised laugh, squeezing you tight in his arms as he shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you, baby girl?”
It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Jack that what he should do was take you back to his place and keep you forever. That thought was so surprising—you’d only known him for one night!—and felt so right, that instead of answering, you kissed him.
You could feel the smile on his lips before he kissed you back, and that little expression had you realizing just how fond you’d grown of the chef in such a short time. It was so astonishingly easy to picture yourself going home with Jack, sleeping in his bed, cuddled up in his arms, then having breakfast together in the morning.
The night had started with you not expecting much from your date. You thought maybe you’d hit it off and see him again, but you hadn’t dared to have much hope.
And now, the night was ending with you kissing a different man, one you’d only just met, and wanting so much more with him. You wanted to get to know Jack Abbot and see if your initial compatibility and attraction could lead to something more.
For the first time in a long time, you had hope. It felt like everything that had happened earlier in the evening was fate conspiring to bring you and Jack together—and you were all too excited to see where things would go.
The best part, you realized, as Jack kissed you back, his mouth moving sensuously against yours, was that he seemed just as excited to get to know you, too. He’d shown you nothing but green flags all night, and had even already asked to see you again. It felt like something close to magic to know that the man you liked, liked you back.
A smile fluttered at the corner of your mouth as you let yourself focus on kissing Jack, knowing there’d be time to overthink everything later. For the time being, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with your chef, because you were certain it was the beginning of something beautiful.
For a long while, the two of you were making out just for the fun of it, for the enjoyment of being with each other, until Jack’s soft cock slipped from your body and made you shiver. He grabbed his leather jacket from where you’d tossed it on the counter and wrapped it around your shoulders, giving you one last kiss before he began to ease you off his lap.
“I’ve got to clean up here,” he said, tucking his cock away and zipping up his jeans before he helped you straighten your dress, his eyes wandering shamelessly over your body, like he hadn’t yet had his fill of worshipping you. “Once I’m done, I can take you home. Sound good, sweetheart?”
“That depends,” you said, your fingers snagging in the hem of Jack’s white t-shirt, preventing him from moving too far away. You weren’t usually the clingy type, but you couldn’t bear to be away from him just yet. “Are you gonna take me back to my place, or yours?”
The older man’s gaze darkened and his hands settled on your hips, pulling you close again. Your arms wound instinctively around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair in a way that already felt so comfortable and familiar.
“I was planning to take you to your home,” Jack began, a smirk curling his mouth when you pouted up at him from under your lashes. “But if you’d like, I can take you back to mine.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, his smirk melting into a smile. “I’d love to cook you breakfast, sweetheart.”
The depth of the affection in Jack’s gaze and his words made you feel suddenly shy, and you ducked your head a little. “I’d like that,” you murmured, sneaking a peek at him and finding the chef grinning like he’d just won the lottery. It gave you the confidence to lift your head and give him a confident smirk. “Be careful, though, if you keep making me such delicious food, you’ll never get rid of me.”
Something devilish flickered across Jack’s face and his smirk was all smug confidence as he swooped in and stole a kiss from your lips, leaving you breathless when he pulled away a moment later. “That’s the plan, angel girl—I’m gonna keep you around any way I can until you get sick of me.”
You were already shaking your head before he’d even finished talking, your fingers tugging lightly, admonishingly, on his hair. “That’ll never happen,” you said, your tone more serious than you’d intended. But your honesty was rewarded with Jack’s mouth twisting into a smile and him kissing you again.
It was such a privilege, you realized, to be with someone who wanted you just as badly as you wanted them—who liked you just as much as you liked them. From the moment you’d met him, Jack had made you feel safe, had taken care of you, had shown you that you were special simply for being you. And you hoped you’d done the same for him.
When Jack finally pulled away from the kiss, you whined a little, making him chuckle. “C’mon, baby girl, let’s clean up and go home,” he rumbled, kissing each of your cheeks, then your nose, before giving you one last kiss on your mouth.
His words and his sweet kisses had you smiling and giggling, and you nodded, your heart warm and light as you let Jack move away to begin cleaning up his workstation. As he did, you fetched your things from his office, turning off the light and closing the door.
By the time you’d returned, Jack was done, and he held his hand out for you to take. You did so happily, handing off your jacket and purse for him to carry when he offered.
Stepping out into the brisk, spring evening, a breeze sweeping through Pittsburgh and making you glad to have Jack’s jacket around your shoulders, you felt like you were leaving the little bubble you and the chef had created. But as you watched him lock up the back door of Night Shift, using only one hand so he could keep holding yours, you knew you didn’t need that bubble.
You may have had to endure the date from hell to meet Jack Abbot, but it felt like fate had designed the night so that you ended up right where you were meant to be—with the hot, older chef who looked at you with so much awe and affection, it made your heart pitter-patter in your chest.
Jack walked you to his car, pushing you gently against the passenger door to kiss you some more before he helped you into the seat. He held your hand as he drove you back to his place, kissing your knuckles every few minutes, then leaning across the center console to kiss your mouth after he’d parked in front of his house.
The two of you didn’t talk much as you got ready for bed, but you didn’t need to. A comfortable silence had fallen over you and Jack, and you didn’t feel the need to fill it, especially with how tired you were. You changed into one of his t-shirts, brushed your teeth with the extra toothbrush he had on hand and cleaned your makeup off your face.
When you slipped into bed beside Jack, he was still massaging his leg, easing the pain he’d felt from wearing his prosthetic all night. You hoped he’d one day let you do that for him—help him to relieve the ache of the day’s grind from his leg, his shoulders, and anywhere else that might pain him.
Before you could gather the courage to offer, though, Jack turned and slid under the sheets beside you. He wrapped you up in his arms, and both of you let out little sighs of contentment. You didn’t know what exactly Jack was thinking, but you suspected it felt just as right to him as it did to you to be in his bed and in his arms.
You fell asleep knowing in your heart that you were right where you were meant to be—with Jack Abbot.
thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡♡♡
it’s been 24 hours and I’m still clutching my pearls and fanning myself 😩🤌🔥 YES CHEF 🫠 I am on the floor, someone call the chapel I am ready to husband this man up !!! 💍 this was the perfect mix of hot ✨but also I loved how he just emitted - emotionally safe space - vibes 😭🫶 let me live in that kitchen !!! 😩💐
yes yes yes Jack Abbot is a safe space in every universe, especially for your emotions, and he's going to take excellent care of his girl 😌 ahh i'm so glad you enjoyed this, thank you for reading!! ♡♡♡
summary: Jack Abbot is many things; a loving husband, a phenomenal doctor, a decorated war veteran, an adrenaline junkie, a lower-leg amputee, and (possibly) a mind reader. But he is not a father. In 4 years of marriage you haven't been able to surprise him even once. But maybe, for his 50th birthday, you can kill two birds with one stone.
warnings: age gap (r is mid 30s, jack is 50), established relationship, afab reader, reader is an attending, brief reference to past power imbalance, minor undescribed medical procedures, IUD insertion and removal mention, gifting someone a used medical device (its sweet and not weird I promise), mention of pap smears, misuse of viagra, slight anxiety, keeping secrets, mediocre communication, BREEDING KINK DUH, trying to get pregnant, mentions of plan b, unprotected sex, creampie, multiple orgasms for everyone, doggy style, missionary, biting, reader is a little bit of a brat, cum play, so much love, fast and hard and then slow and loving, I think that's it but let me know if I missed anything
an: we are playing fast and loose with fertility and medicine here guys
I usually do not like writing multiple rounds of sex in one fic because tbh I find sex scenes a little hard to write and I worry that they get repetitive but I really pushed through for this one
Being married to Jack Abbot was a dream come true.
He was kind, empathetic, passionate, patient, fantastic in bed, and (this is just a theory) psychic.
Or you might just be easy to read. Either way, he almost always seemed to know what you needed or wanted at any given moment.
God forbid you wanted to surprise him with anything, either. He could sniff out any sort of deception, even if it was well intentioned, like some sort of emotional or mental bloodhound.
Jack was also always prepared for almost everything. He had supplies and a game plan for almost every situation and scenario that could possibly come up. Mass casualty incident? Camo duffel in the coat closet by the front door. You had a hard day? Bubble bath kit under his sink in the bathroom.
Combine all of that together and you’d never been able to surprise him. Ever.
Things were changing ever so slowly, though. Now, the two of you had been together for 7 years now, married for 4, so the playing field was starting to level out. You found yourself able to sift through his facial expressions and body language, deciphering some of the thoughts that crossed his mind. Some of it was the familiarity of your everyday routine, any deviation clueing you into something festering on his mind. Some of it was just knowing your husband so intimately in a way that could only come with time.
And even though you were as close to an expert as one could be in Jack Abbot, you still missed some of the more subtle things.
But there was nothing subtle about this. You’d have to have been blind to miss the longing in his eyes anytime the two of you were anywhere close to a baby. It was impossible not to notice how his usually stoic and analytical hazel eyes softened at the sight of their tiny waving hands, the corners of his lips curving up when they cooed, his gaze instinctively snapping towards a crying infant while his shoulders tensed.
Those signs had given you a rather obvious hint, but the final nail in the coffin had been when your sister and her wife had visited from Philly a few months ago. They had some sort of business to take care of in Pittsburgh, so you’d offered to watch their 6 month old son. Jack had been out running errands when he’d been dropped off. When he walked through the door, grocery bags in hand, you’d watched him freeze out of the corner of your eye. There you were, in your shared kitchen, balancing the baby on your hip, talking to the child about nothing in particular while you stirred a pot on the stove.
Jack had unfrozen quickly, but you’d noticed. You noticed everything for the rest of the day until your sister came to collect her child. How Jack swallowed hard anytime you held the baby, how he nearly melted when you cooed and played peek-a-boo, how his eyes stayed locked for just a moment too long on the teeny tiny pair of shoes in his hands before he passed them off to your sister.
Jack Abbot wanted a baby.
And you wanted to finally be able to catch your husband off guard.
And now his 50th birthday was coming up, and you had a great gift planned. And if everything went according to your carefully crafted plan, you’d be able to give him an even better gift next year.
Step 1: remove the biggest obstacle.
Being a doctor married to a doctor made the biggest part of your plan both easier and harder.
You started on Monday. His birthday fell on Friday, and the two of you very conveniently had the following 4 days off. But not before working opposite shifts every day the rest of the week.
That was part luck, part planning on your end. You’d gladly agreed to cover Al Hashimi’s shifts while the ED was down a day shift attending since she was going to a conference. Jack had not been thrilled, but your sacrifice meant the two of you could enjoy an extra-long weekend staycation. He’d grumbled about it for a solid 3 days before finally settling down.
It also gave you time to make a trip upstairs to gynecology while your husband was fast asleep at home and none the wiser.
All it took was a quick lie to Robby about a routine pap smear and a favor called in from a friend upstairs and you were seated with your legs hiked up in stirrups.
“You know, I really did not ever need to see your vagina,” Joan, your gynecologist friend, was grumbling as she completed the procedure.
“You’re the only one I could ask who wouldn’t spill the beans,” your eyes stayed glued on the ceiling. “Everyone else is either a resident and not willing to bend the rules, or older and more loyal to him.”
“This is a hospital,” her expression was unimpressed. “There are no sides, no one is more loyal to him.”
“Yes the fuck they are,” you lowered your legs as she gave you the all clear. “Why do you think I told Robby I was getting a pap smear?”
“Becuase telling your husband's best friend, who is your boss by the way, that you were going to get your contraception removed so that said husband can fuck you six ways to sunday for his birthday is inappropriate workplace conversation,” she turned her back to you, depositing the device in a specimen jar before beginning to clean every thing up.
“That is true,” you conceded, “and Robby’s a snitch.”
“I still can’t believe you’re actually going to give him your IUD for his birthday,” Joan shook her head. “Isn’t that a little gross?”
“I’m obviously going to clean it!” You tugged your black scrubs up, wincing a little at the dull ache in your lower stomach. “Plus, it’ll be romantic. And shouldn’t you be more sex-positive? You’re a fucking gynocologist.”
“Romantic,” her voice was deadpan. “And I am plenty sex-positive. Especially unprotected sex. Creates more patients for me. Kinda like a dentist who recommends nothing but sugar.”
You couldn’t stop your eyes from rolling as you watched her move back to the counter. “Glad to see you are faithfully committed to your oath.”
“Here,” she handed you a little cup with two white pills, choosing to ignore you. “Tylenol. You don’t get anything stronger since you insisted on doing this mid shift.”
“Thanks,” you swallowed them dry. “For the pills and for doing this for me. I can’t have him figuring this out before. It’s supposed to be a surprise.”
“I know I always wanted a used medical device for my biggest milestone birthdays,” she grumbled to herself as she wrote down her notes on a sheet of paper. “I’ll wait to put this in your chart until after your insemination.”
“Now you’re making it gross,” your face scrunched up. “Most normal people refer to that as ‘trying for a baby’ you know.”
“Yeah sure. Now, get out of my department and go back to your zoo,” she waved her hand dismissively, fighting a smile the whole time.
Step 2: stay strong.
Now with the most important part of your plan complete, you simply had to make it through the next week without Jack catching on. Even with your separate schedules, that was easier said than done.
Monday night at shift change you were desperately trying to hide the cramps wracking your abdomen as you walked the night shift through handovers alongside Robby.
Jack noticed immediately.
“You ok, baby?” He’d pulled you aside the second the handover was completed, his hand resting on your hip as he guided the two of you into a semi secluded corner.
“Yeah I’m ok,” you couldn’t fight the grimace as another wave washed over you. You really shouldn’t have skipped that second dose of acetaminophen during the 4pm rush. “Just cramping.”
That was the wrong thing to say.
Jack frowned, his eyes sweeping over you more intently. His focus flicked between your lower stomach and your face.
“You’re not supposed to start your period for another 3 weeks.”
“It’s still a little odd that you track them so closely,” you tried to brush him off, shrugging.
“I’m a doctor and you’re my wife,” Jack cracked a grin as your eyes narrowed. “You’re my wife who is also a doctor. An amazing one.”
You gave him a kiss for that, quick and chaste and the most PDA you’d dare express in the ED.
“My IUD is due for replacement in a few months,” you couldn’t beat back a rising smile, fueled by both his care and the knowledge of what you were planning. “It’s probably starting to go and make me irregular.”
“Get that checked out, ok?” His hands cupped your face.
“I will, Jack, I promise.”
“Good we-” he swallowed hard, smile faltering ever so slightly. “We don’t want you to be… unprotected.”
The regret in his voice and the twinge of hope in his eyes as he said unprotected only reinforced what you already knew. He really wanted this.
God, you couldn’t wait to tell him. You weren’t sure if you’d ever been more excited to give a gift before.
Warmth flooded through you at the thought of how he’d react. Would there be happy tears? Maybe he’d simply bend you over the nearest surface, eager to get started. He’d probably double and triple check that you were sure. Jack always did that, no matter how many times you reassured him that you wanted him, you needed him. Like he still couldn’t believe you were his just as much as he was yours.
Thankfully, his mind reading seemed to fail for a moment. Likely because of the cramp that gripped you midway through your rumination, hiding your true expression behind a grimace.
“I’m ok, Jack,” with one more kiss, you were untangling yourself from him. “I’m going to go sleep for twelve hours. I love you.”
“Alright,” he followed you as you gathered your things and headed towards the ambulance bay. “Text me when you get home. If you forget again, I’m not making that pasta you like for a month.”
“Empty threats,” you pecked his cheek on your way past him. “I’ll see you bright and early tomorrow.”
“I love you,” the love written so plainly on his face as you walked away from him and out those doors made you almost want to run back and tell him everything.
Maybe that was why you were semi-convinced he was psychic. It was probably less about an alleged supernatural ability and more about your face being easy to read and your lips unable to keep a secret, combined with the fact that you had resigned yourself to your husband being all-knowing.
In your defense, you’d seen Jack level patients and colleagues and even yourself with that look. Head titled, eyes narrowed, eyebrows lifted, that signature confidence combined with a small sigh of disapproval when he knew he wasn’t getting the whole story. It made everyone spill their guts eventually. No one held out very long.
But he hadn’t used that look on you since you’d been his resident years ago. You were all too aware that the bastard had long since learned that all he had to do was give you a soft smile and tell you he loved you and you melted immediately.
And normally, you didn’t have anything to keep from him. Normally, it was mildly irritating if he managed to figure out
But you had to stay strong.
Step 3: final preparations.
Surprisingly, you did actually manage to hold out. All the way until Friday.
Jack had the overnight shift from Thursday to Friday, but you were done and clear. A full body shower and shave was followed by a few episodes of the trashiest reality TV you could find until it was officially your bed time. You texted him a simple “Happy birthday baby” at 12:01 am before grabbing what little sleep you could before he inevitably came home just as the sun was rising.
At just past 7:30 am, your husband was crawling into the sheets, sliding up behind you and wrapping his arm around your waist as the heat of his bare chest warmed you from the inside out.
You were drifting in that blissfully in that half aware state between sleep and wakefulness as he pressed light kisses along the side of your neck available to him. A soft hum left your lips as you arched back into him, body already aching for him.
But you couldn’t give in.
Not yet, at least. As much as it pained you to deny him the sleepy morning sex you’d grown to crave, especially on his birthday, you couldn’t let him fuck you until you’d given him your present. And you couldn’t give him your present until you had made him dinner and slipped on that beautiful white matching set you’d bought.
So you had to stall. Redirect. Get him to actually get a decent amount of rest for once in his life, so you could ride him off into the sunset.
“Happy birthday, handsome,” your hand reached back to run your fingers through his loose curls.
“Very happy birthday to me, indeed,” his grip on your waist tightened as his front pressed even more firmly against your back. You could just barely feel the faint beginnings of hardness through the thin material of his boxers.
“Uh-uh,” you twisted in his grip. Shifting until you were face to face, you pressed a long, slow kiss to his lips. He sighed into your mouth, allowing you to take the lead as his tongue swiped against yours.
“You need to sleep. You’re exhausted.”
He grumbled as you pulled away, his half lidded eyes flipping between the exhaustion of a week of 12 hour nights shifts and pure desire as he looked at you wrapped in his arms.
Jack had once told you that this was when you looked the most beautiful. Sleepy, wearing just his t-shirt and a pair of underwear with your hair a mess, snuggled in the sheets of your shared bed. He had called the domesticity of it addictive, had said he couldn’t get enough of the quiet moments like this, tangled together with the outside world locked away. The two of you just existing in that warm, heady feeling of safety and security, wrapped up in each other for hours.
You’d always thought you understood. You’d agreed that the soft moments surrounded by his love in the home two of you had built were the best, but you were starting to think you never really got it until now. The idea of your family, of it growing beyond just the small, two person unit the two of you had become over these years, was electrifying.
God, you wanted that. You’d already given him your heart. You wanted to give him everything.
“I’m not too tired to make you feel good,” his hand slid from your hip down to dip beneath the hem of your underwear.
It took every ounce of self control to grab his wrist, stopping him.
“No,” you gave him one more soft kiss before you were pushing him back to lie flat. Throwing one of your legs over his, you curled into his side. He let out a sigh of disappointment as your head rested on his chest, but he was still curling his freckled arms around you to hold you close. “We are going to sleep now. And then, tonight, I am going to make you dinner. Then you get to open your present, and then you can fuck me. However you want, as many times as you want.”
“You’re so cruel,” you couldn’t see his face but you could hear the smile in his voice as he pressed a kiss to your hair. Already, you could tell he was starting to drift off. “But fine. As long as I get to have you for dessert.”
His voice, low and gravelly, vibrating through his chest had your panties growing increasingly uncomfortable. His sturdy thigh pressed between your legs certainly wasn’t helping, but you could do this. You were a grown woman, a doctor of emergency medicine. You had the willpower to make it 10 more hours without jumping your husband.
When you woke around 1pm, Jack was still dead to the world. His lips were parted, hair mussed, and his breaths deep and even. Despite the gray making his curls much more salt than pepper, he looked younger like this.
You gave yourself a moment to take him in before slipping out of the bed and his grasp.
It was time to make the last few preparations.
Your movements were as quiet as you could make them as you got dressed. With one last glance at his sleeping form, you slipped out the front door.
Grocery shopping went smoothly, the bakery passed off the small bourbon chocolate cake you’d ordered with little fuss, and the jeweler down the road didn’t even charge you for the little black velvet box. They had a million of them, she’d said, no big deal.
You were back home by 3:30pm. Jack was up and awake by then, making himself a cup of coffee when you strolled in, arms laden with grocery bags. For just a second, you let your eyes trail over him. He was facing away, giving you a beautiful view of the freckles dusting his muscled back. The sweatpants riding low on his hips, the right leg tied in a knot to stop the hem from dragging, hid the strength and shape of his ass and legs from you, but your imagination filled in the gaps.
“Done objectifying me yet?” Jack just barely looked over his shoulder as he continued to fiddle with the machine before him.
“Never,” you set the bags down, giving his ass a slap as you moved past.
He laughed, reaching for his crutches as he moved to follow you back out to the driveway.
“Let me help you with the bags.”
“Not a chance,” you blocked the doorway. “Go sit down and enjoy your day off.”
He looked like he was going to argue for a moment, but then he acquiesced. With one, chaste kiss to your lips, he moved back to the counter.
Jack was stubborn, though, so he started unloading the grocery bags, placing ingredients in their rightful places.
You watched him move through the space for just a moment before you returned to your car to grab the last few bags and the box with the cake. The jewelry box was tucked into the back pocket of your denim shorts, hidden by your oversized shirt as you deposited everything else onto the counter, next to the first batch of empty bags. Jack had disappeared from the kitchen, but he walked out of the bedroom just as you began to organize the ingredients you needed, his leg fastened on.
“What are you gonna make me?” Jack had settled back against the counter after you swatted his hands away from the cake box, trying to keep his fingers out of the frosting while he tried to steal a taste. He was lazily sipping his coffee, eyes watching as you fluttered about, retrieving some of the items that you needed.
“Steak,” you held up the meat wrapped in butcher paper as you pulled it from the bag. “Cabbage,” his nose wrinkled and your eyes rolled. For a brief moment, you really considered throwing the vegetable at him. “Relax, you big baby. Cabbage au gratin. Lots of cheese and that cream sauce you like.”
“Hmm, ok,” he was smirking over the rim of his mug. “What else?”
“What else? What, that’s not enough for you?”
He set the coffee down, closing the small distance between the two of you so his hands could rest on your hips, chest pressing into your back. You panicked for a moment as his lips met your clothed shoulder, hoping and praying that he didn’t notice the box in your pocket. It was still empty, but you didn’t want to give him any hints about your plan.
“I’m gonna need a lot of energy tonight, baby,” his hands slid underneath your shirt to rest against your bare stomach as he nosed at your hair, his breath brushing over your ear. “I’m pretty sure I was promised however I want, as many times as I want.”
You were so close to breaking. Your resolve was hanging on by a thread.
“And,” his hand slid farther up, cupping your breast through your bra. You could barely restrain a whine. “My dear wife decided to swap shifts. We haven’t had any… quality time in a week. I’ve got a lot of plans for you tonight, baby.”
“Jack,” your voice was weak.
“Not to mention,” his fingers squeezed your nipple through the mesh of your bra. “I wouldn’t be a very good husband if I didn’t help you get your sleep cycle back on track. Gotta get you used to working all night, baby.”
“You’ve gotta wait, Jackie,” you were arching back into him, offering no resistance as his broad hand slid to lay over the span of your stomach.
Fuck.
The feeling of that steady, callous hand laying against the smooth skin of your lower abdomen jolted you back to reality.
You needed to wait. It wouldn’t be fair or right to fuck him before you had a conversation, plus you’d put so much thought into planning the perfect night. You couldn’t let your incubus of a husband seduce you into ruining it now.
“Jack,” your voice was stronger now. “Patience.”
He huffed a laugh against the shell of your ear, his hands tightening against you just once before letting you go and stepping back. You could very clearly see the hard length of him straining through the fabric of his pants as you turned to face him, back braced against the counter. His hands came up to land beside your hips on the stone as he caged you in.
“I don’t know what you have planned, but I might die if I don’t get my hands on you soon,” his lips laid a kiss on your cheek before he was stepping back. “I’m gonna go shower before you torture me anymore.”
Step 4: the proposition.
Jack behaved himself all throughout dinner, his hand settling at a tasteful spot on your bare thigh, exposed by the dress you’d pulled on over the lacy white set he hadn’t seen yet. Entirely appropriate compliments coming from him as you laid the cabbage, the steak, and the salad and rolls he hadn’t let you tell him about earlier before the two of you on the table.
But dinner was done, leftovers packed away, the rest of the cake returned to its box while two half-eaten slices laid before the two of you.
While he was in the shower, you’d managed to retrieve your IUD (very thoroughly sanitized, thank you very much) and place it in the jewelry box. It fit perfectly. You’d tied the box closed with a short length of red ribbon you’d acquired from the Christmas supplies stored in the spare room.
That box had been sitting on the counter while you ate dinner and dessert, but now it sat between the two of you on the table. For the first time all week, your confidence in your plan was starting to falter.
Jack was a great man and an amazing husband. That was undeniable. He was great at so many different things. The one area he fell behind in, though, was communication.
He wasn’t necessarily bad at it, but he definitely wasn’t the best. It wasn’t that he couldn’t or didn’t communicate with you. No, it was more that he held certain things back. He didn’t let himself verbalize things when he thought he didn’t deserve them, or when he thought he was asking for too much.
He hadn’t asked you for a baby. Sure, the two of you had talked about it before getting married, as all couples should, but the conversation hadn’t resurfaced since then. That conversation had been the first time he had truly been completely open and laid bare before you. He had told you he wanted kids, more than anything, but he worried about being too old, too broken, too unavailable.
You’d assured him he was none of those things, that you wanted to start a family with him. You could see on his face that he only half believed you.
It hadn’t been a possibility right when you got married, with you just finishing your residency and settling into being an attending, along with the both of you wanting time to really settle into your relationship before broaching that topic again.
But it hadn’t been brought up again.
Suddenly, the box sitting between you felt like a bomb. What if you had overstepped? Sure, you had thought the look on his face when he saw you with a baby was longing, but what if it wasn’t? What if you were about to blow up your marriage and ruin his 50th birthday?
“Hey,” Jack’s hand came to cover yours, jerking you out of your spiral. “You ok?”
“Yeah,” your throat felt full as you looked up at him. “Just… just nervous to see if you like your present.”
He smiled at that. “I’m sure I’ll love it, baby.”
“I really hope you do.”
You could barely breathe as you watched his fingers undo the red bow keeping the box sealed. The few seconds it took for him to unwind the fabric felt like years, the soft sound of the ribbon sliding against the velvet felt like the loudest noise in the world.
The lid blocked your view of the interior of the box, but you knew exactly what it looked like. That thin plastic ‘T’ sticking up out of the slot where a ring would normally go. Stark white against the deep red interior of the little black box.
Jack’s brow scrunched up for a second as he gazed down at the object in his hands.
“Is this your-”
“Yes,” your voice was quiet when you cut him off, your eyes searching his face. He looked confused, eyes fixed on the IUD, before the expression melted into shock as he looked up at you.
“You-” he floundered over his words, gaze rapidly flicking back and forth between you and the box. “This- you took it- what-”
For a moment, you were concerned he was having a stroke. But then he took a deep breath, set the box down, and scrubbed his hands over his face. Your nerves crept back in, unwelcome and self deprecating as the worst case scenarios ran through your mind.
“I need you to tell me exactly what this means, baby,” his hand was grabbing yours again, squeezing tight. He still looked a little shocked, but you could see his eyes lighting up with what you desperately hoped was happiness.
“I-” your throat locked down, the words stuck as your eyes locked on his.
“Words, baby,” he slipped out of his seat, settling on his knees before you.
“Jack, your leg-”
“I don’t care, I’m fine,” his hands settled on your thighs, just above your knees. His fingers dug in as he looked up at you.
Hope. That’s what you were seeing written plain as day across his features. Hope and love and yearning.
“Baby, please,” he sounded desperate. “I need to know exactly what you meant when you gave me your IUD.”
“I -” your breath faltered for just a second as his hands squeezed tighter as the first syllable left your lips. “I want to have a baby, Jack. I want your baby.”
“Fuck,” his voice was raw and gutteral, like the curse ripped out of him involuntarily. “I want it. So badly, you have no idea.”
You couldn’t help your laugh. The sound was wet, emotion curling in your chest as the worry and anxiety fled. “Trust me, I know exactly how much you want it.”
The confusion crept back onto his face.
“You’re not subtle, Jack.”
“I’m so subtle. I’m an unreadable pillar of strength,” he was smiling, eyes still full of love and adoration.
“You were anything other than subtle with this.”
“Maybe because I want to come home to you and our child everyday,” his words silenced your laughter, tears threatening to spill as he kept speaking. “I want to watch them grow up, teach them how to ride a bike, be obnoxiously loud and embarrassing at sports games.”
Jack was getting to his feet now, pulling you up with him until his forehead was pressed to yours.
“I want to teach them how to drive, cry at their high school graduation, move them into college dorms,” his own voice was thick with emotion as tears dripped silently down your cheeks. His hands came up to cradle your cheeks, swiping the stray droplets away with his thumbs. Your hands gripped his forearms as you listened. “I want it all with you. I want to be horribly, disgustingly domestic and in love, show our kid what love looks like. I want them to be safe and happy and healthy and so, so loved.”
“Jack,” your voice was shaky as you clung to him.
“I want it. I want it more than I’ve ever wanted anything. I want it with you. I want it all with you.”
His lips connected with yours. The kiss was tender and slow, every emotion leaking out as your lips and tongues moved against each other in your dining room. He tasted like the chocolate cake and something so distinctly Jack. It was addictive.
When the two of you parted to gasp for breath, his hands settled on your waist, yours coming up to tangle one in his hair, the other flat against his sturdy chest.
“You know,” you leaned in, tracing feather light kisses over the curve of his throat. “I promised you you could have whatever you want after dinner.”
His head dropped back and he let out a groan. His hands tightened on your waist.
“But do you know what I want?”
“What do you want, baby?” His voice was breathy. One of his hands drifted down to grab a handful of your ass, his leg slipping between yours to apply pressure where you needed him the most.
Your teeth caught the lobe of his ear between your teeth.
“I want you to take me to our bedroom,” your hand in his hair yanked ever so slightly. “I want you to take one of those little pills you keep for emergencies,” your fingers trailed down his chest slowly as his breathing picked up in pace. “And I want you to fuck me until you physically cannot any more.”
Step 5: success.
So maybe you weren’t as good at reading your husband as you thought.
You were so sure as soon as he got you into the bedroom and got an eyeful of the see through lace covering your body, he’d be inside of you immediately, especially with the promise of your uterus open for business.
But he held back, eyes tracing your form, sprawled out on the bed and still covered, barely, by your lingerie. He was moving through the room like he had all the time in the world.
You watched with bated breath as he slowly undid his belt and the button of his pants, leaving both still on. The buttons on his shirt were next, the fabric hanging open and untucked as he approached his nightstand. All you could see of his torso was a thin strip, could just barely spot the light dusting of still auburn hair disappearing in the waist band of his slacks.
His hand dug into the drawer for a second before he was producing the little orange bottle. He held it delicately between his fingers, eyes meeting yours.
“You’re sure this is what you want?” Everything in Jack’s eyes seemed to be begging you to agree, to not dangle this in front of him and then so cruelly rip it away.
“I want this,” you sat up, scooting to the edge of the bed to rest your hands on his hips, his legs between yours as he towered over you. “I want you to put a baby in me, Jack.”
He groaned, his hands fumbling to get the cap off the bottle and one pill in his mouth.
He didn’t usually need those little blue pills, but between the anti depressants he regularly took and the stress of both your jobs, occasionally they came in handy. Today, however, the outline of his erection, right in front of your face, told you he definitely didn’t need it right now. But both of you knew that one round was not going to be even close to enough.
The temptation of that bulge in his pants was too much as you watched his throat bob while he swallowed the pill dry. Your hands drifted from his hips to the undone button of his slacks. Slowly, your fingers pulled the zipper down.
His hand caught yours before you could start sliding the fabric down his legs.
“Not now,” his fingers pressed into your pulse, your heartrate hammering as you looked up at him. “Take off your clothes and lie down.”
For a moment, you wanted to argue, wanted to insist that this was his birthday, you should be taking care of him. But the heat in his eyes and the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his eyes traced over your body had another idea popping into your head, wondering exactly how far you could push him tonight.
Your hands were a little shaky as you unclasped your bra, if the white scrap of barely there lace could even be called that. It fell from your body as you stood from the bed, crowding into Jack.
He took half a step back to give you some space as he watched. Your hands tossed your hair back over your shoulders, taking the opportunity to trail your fingers down your collarbones, loosely cupping and caressing your own breasts. Your lips parted on a gasp as your fingers tweaked your nipples. With half lidded eyes, you arched into him, almost touching as you continued to play with your breasts.
When you decided he’d had enough, you let your hands move on, dragging down your abdomen only to stop just above the waistband of your panties. You laid your hands over the smooth, bumpless skin.
“Can’t wait for your baby to be right here,” you were laying it on thick. Eyelashes fluttering, teeth digging into your lower lip, breaths coming a little too deep to lift your breasts even more with every inhale.
Jack was getting impatient, you could tell. That fire burning in his eyes, his fingers flexing, all while you took your sweet time shimmying out of the underwear.
By the time it hit the floor, he looked ready to pounce, but he was still keeping himself in check. You figured he probably wanted to take things nice and slow, make them tender. At least at first. He usually was attentive and giving, treating you gently especially when emotions were running high. Not like you would break if he didn’t, more like you deserved to be loved softly.
But there was time for soft later. Right now, the tension and knowledge of what he was about to do to you felt explosive. You wanted him to take you hard. To take out the sexual frustration of a week or so of abstinence on your body. To pin you down and have his way with you. Afterwards there’d be time for sweet and tender. And there definitely would be more than just one round tonight given the pill he’d just taken.
You were right about how close he was to snapping. The final straw seemed to be when you reached down, picking your underwear up from the floor. He watched the movement, a warning look on his face, but you didn’t stop. Instead, you took his hand, setting the soaking wet miniscule lace in his palm.
“Happy birthday,” with that, you turned around, crawling onto the bed on all fours, swaying your hips as you went.
You didn’t get very far before his hands were grabbing you by the waist, dragging you back to the edge. Your lower legs hung off the bed as he pressed his hips against your ass. He was burning hot, even through his clothes. You could feel the heat and weight of him as you ground back, smearing the wetness leaking from you onto his pants.
“I wanted to be nice,” behind you, you heard rustling as his shirt finally dropped off his shoulders. The clinking of his belt followed, thudding as it hit the floor next. “I wanted to make love to my sweet little wife, but I don’t think that’s what you want, huh?”
“I want you to fuck me, Jack,” you heard him drag his pants and boxers down, the thick length of his cock springing free to brush agaisnt you. Your hips pushed back, almost involuntarily, craving him inside of you. “Make love to me later, knock me up now.”
“Fuck,” his fingers found your clit, stroking through your folds and finding you oh so ready for him. He was making small, tight circles around the bud, sending small shockwaves of pleasure through you.
“Stop wasting time,” your words were breathy, slowly losing their bite. “At this rate it’ll be another 30 years before I get pregnant.”
“Shut up,” you could feel him lining himself up. “Let me make you feel good.”
“I’ll feel good if you- oh fuck!”
Jack interrupted your whining by slamming in all the way. Usually, he was slow, guiding himself inside, taking the time to let you adjust. Not now, though, now he barely gave you a second to get used to the feeling before he was pulling out and pushing back in.
“Is this what you wanted?” His voice was strained, his hips working vigorously as he used his grip on your waist to drag you back onto him every time he thrust in.
The sound was obscene. Wet slapping accompanied by your whines and gasps as he reached deep inside of you, bumping all the way up against your cervix with each push in. His own panting was nearly drowned out, but the groan that escaped him when you clamped down tight as he shifted angles was loud.
“Right there, huh?” Jack tilted his hips, angling towards that spot while one of his hands pushed down on your upper back. Your arms gave way, head meeting the sheets as he continued to pound away.
“Fuck, Jack, right there!” Your cries were high pitched and needy as he kept up the pace. His pounding was rhythmic, barely faltering even when his fingers found your clit again, and you tightened around him even more. The circles he was drawing were fast, matching the speed and timing of his thrusts.
Jack had long since learned to play your body like a fiddle and he was pulling no punches tonight. His hand not on your clit shifted, sliding down to press the heel of his palm right above your pubic bone. The added pressure had you crying out, walls pulsing as an orgasm washed over you unexpectedly.
It came in waves, your back arching and pushing your hips into his even more fervently as the pleasure grew and radiated out from between your legs. It was sudden, overwhelming, and seemingly never ending as he kept fucking you through it, his pace unchanging, his hands never moving from where they lay.
“Fuck, baby,” he was panting, leaning halfway over you as you twitched. “God, fuck, I’m close.”
“C’mon, do it Jack,” you knew your voice was whiny and breathy, but you couldn’t care less as you begged him. “Please, do it. Cum inside me. I need it!”
This was far from the first time he’d fucked you raw. The two of you hadn’t used a condom since the early days of your relationship. After one broke and forced an incredibly awkward pharmacy run for Plan B, you’d gotten your IUD. Once it was effective, you had never had a barrier between you. Jack was well accustomed to coming inside of you.
But this was different. That protection was gone, sitting on the dining room table where he’d left it after dinner. And now you were begging him to cum inside you, not just because it felt good for both of you, but because you wanted to have his child. You wanted him leaking out of you, filling you up until you had no room left inside. You wanted the consequences of this action, the visible and physical manifestation of him left inside of you.
His hand on your stomach shot out, clutching the duvet beside your head as he leaned even farther over you. Jack’s rhythm grew erratic, faster than before as he folded over you. His fingers never stopped circling but they did hitch, that steady pressure faltering as he got closer.
“Fuck, oh fuck, you feel so good,” he was so close you could feel it. Feel him pulsing and twitching inside of you while his chest, damp with sweat pressed against your back.
“Please,” the word was tangled with a moan as it left your lips. The orgasm that had seemed never ending was rising again, impossibly fast. “Please, Jack, want your baby, please.”
“Oh shit, fuck, fuck! Oh, I’m cumming, oh fuck!”
You felt the heat inside you, that warmth radiating out as he buried himself deep, hips rutting in grinding little thrusts as he came. It was overwhelming. Your own orgasm, much weaker than the previous one, jerked through your body as you felt him fill you.
The two of you stayed quiet, no words exchanged while you rode out the pleasure coursing through both your veins. Jack stayed buried as deep as he could inside of you, his hand finally leaving your clit when you stopped pulsing around him, only for it to find the front of your thigh, keeping you tightly pressed against him.
“I love you,” he whispered against your shoulder blade while he caught his breath.
“I love you, too,” you couldn’t really reach back to touch him in this position. At least, not without the growing ache in your lower back worsening. “I’m getting sore, Jack.”
“If I tell you to lay down and get comfortable, will you actually listen this time?” The smirk on his face as you peaked over your shoulder made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. He slowly pushed himself up, lifting his weight off your body and pulling out.
“Yes, fine, I’ll listen,” you winced a little as his dick left your body, gasping a little when you realized he was still half hard.
“Shit, stop for a sec,” his hand palmed your ass cheek, stopping you from crawling forward to get comfortable. For a moment, you were confused. But then you felt it. His cum was dripping from you, spilling now that he’d finally pulled out. “Fuck, that’s so hot.”
The low groan in his voice had you clenching around nothing, pushing even more out of you.
“Gotta keep it all in there, baby,” his fingers came up, pushing it back inside of you. They curled downwards, brushing against the sensitive skin just behind your clit, your legs shaking as he repeated the motion. “Fuck you’re so wet. So full of me.”
“Jack, please,” you weren’t entirely sure what you were asking for, all you knew was that you needed him. Over your own panting breaths you could just make out the wet sound of his own hand dragging over his length.
“Ok, ok,” his fingers pulled out of you. “Get comfortable, I need you again.”
Your legs were weak and it took you a second to focus again as you made your way to the center of the bed, falling onto your back, your head resting among the pillows. Your eyes found him like a magnet, snapping into focus as he finally pulled his pants all the way down.
He was fully hard again, and you watched with blatant hunger as he sat on the edge of the bed, hastily unfastening his prosthetic before he was climbing over to you.
“Left your hips for me,” you followed his instruction, allowing him to slide a pillow below your ass to keep you propped up for him. “Good girl.”
He settled, kneeling, between your legs, length still glistening from just having been inside you. Jack dragged the head of his cock over your folds, taking in the way your body twisted and undulated, silently begging for him to be back inside you.
“Are you ready?”
How kind and totally unnecessary for him to check in on you. You were mere seconds away from flipping him over and riding him.
“Yes, please Jack,” your hands reached down for him, trying to guide him in yourself.
“Ah-ah,” he tangled your fingers in his, leaning over you to trap your hands above your head with one of his. “I fucked you how you wanted, now we do it how I want it.”
“Just get inside me, please! I want you so bad,” you had a sneaking suspicion he might have wanted to tease you for even longer, but your husband had never been able to resist you for very long. You could see how much he wanted it, and your begging seemed to have won out over his desire to tease.
“God, you’re still so tight,” Jack buried his face in the crook of your neck as he slid inside. “How the fuck are you always so tight?”
“Made for you!” Your voice came out high and squeaky as he began to move.
“Fuck yes you were,” his lips landed on the sensitive skin of your throat, sucking and kissing and no doubt leaving countless marks you’d be struggling to cover when you went back to work.
The pace he set this time was much slower than before, but somehow filthier. The slow, insistent grind of him withdrawing and pushing back in had your clit grinding against the neatly trimmed hair at the base of his cock. The sounds this time were quieter but no less salacious. The unmistakable sound of how wet you were filled the room every time he pushed in as deep as he could get, mixed with the whimpers and gasps of his name you let out as you clung to him. He was rather quiet the first time until he got close, but he must have been more sensitive now as his groans and curses vibrated against your neck.
Those noises only built in volume as the two of you fell into a cycle, pushing each other even higher.
Every time you clenched tightly around him as he hit just the right spot, his teeth would scrape the sensitive skin on your neck or shoulder. In return, your fingernails would dig in tighter against the muscles in his back and his hips would press as deep he could, brushing against the spot that made you clench tighter.
“You feel so good around me, baby,” his movements were beginning to stutter as the two of you got closer again. His hand tangled in your hair as he pulled his head away from your neck, keeping your eyes locked on his.
Jack looked wild. His pupils were blown wide, eyes full of tenderness even as his skin was flushed, his mouth open as he let loose sounds of pleasure.
“You’re all mine.”
You tried to nod against his grip in your hair, eyes slipping shut as he ground even harder into you. Everything was hazy. The pleasurable feeling of every movement sent zaps tingling up your spine.
“No, no keep your eyes open,” you gasped as he broke his semi-steady rhythm to thrust hard into you. Your eyes opened, locking onto his. “Good girl, that’s good.”
He was getting louder now, getting closer and consequently pushing you there as well.
“Say it, baby,” you were tightening around his length uncontrollably now, impossibly close. “Tell me you’re mine.”
“I-I’m fuck!” You could barely get the first word out as his hand once again found its way between your bodies, rubbing against you as you squirmed. The pleasure was almost too much. “I’m your- fuck, fuck! I’m yours, Jack!”
“All mine,” his lips landed on yours while his fingers sped up. The kiss was sloppy, mostly tongues and teeth while you panted into each other's mouths. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum again, ohhh fuck.”
His hips snapped once, twice and then stilled as deep as he could get. Jack never stopped rubbing your clit, though, pushing you through to cum around him for the 3rd time so far as came inside you again.
You could barely feel the extra fluid. The space between your legs was already messy and your orgasm pushed every last thought out of your head as your body shook. Your legs tightened around his hips as your body arched up into him. One of his arms slid beneath your lower back, his hips burying his cock even deeper inside.
As your body trembled and the pleasure slowly faded, you realised he was speaking to you, the bussing in your ears finally fading enough for you to hear him.
“-love you so much, baby,” his head had dropped back down to the crook of your neck, but his lips hadn’t resumed their attack. The words were quiet. You knew he was talking to you, but the words almost seemed too personal. Like Jack’s filter had been fucked out of him, and the words spilling against your skin were his inner monologue. “Can’t believe you want to make me a dad. I swear, I’ll do my best. I’ll be so good. I can’t wait to hold her and love her-”
“Her?” You finally felt coherent enough to interrupt.
Jack jumped like he had forgotten you were there, even with his length still buried inside of you.
He hesitated for a moment, before lifting his head to look you in the eye. “I want a daughter,” his hand came to rest over your lower stomach. “One of the residents told me I seem like a girl-dad a year or so ago and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head. And now, getting you pregnant… I hope it’s a girl.”
You were torn between laughing and crying. You remembered the off hand comment from one of the bolder first year students, along with the look of utter confusion on Jack’s face. He hadn’t understood the comment, simply telling them he didn’t have kids and to get back to work.
But the tenderness in his voice, the absolute love in his eyes as he looked down at you had a lump forming in your throat.
“You know it’s not that quick,” your hand came up to cradle his jaw covered in that silver stubble you loved so much. “It might take a while for me to get pregnant. And there's no way to guarantee it’ll be a girl.”
His head turned slightly to press a kiss to your palm. “I don’t care how long it takes. I’m happy to keep trying.”
Your cheeks flushed at the insinuation, choosing to redirect. “And if it’s a boy?”
Jack lowered himself back over you, his nose brushing yours. “Then I’ll have a son. The only thing that matters is that the both of you are safe, happy, and healthy.”
“I love you,” the words were tight, barely getting out of your throat around the steadily growing lump of overwhelming emotion.
summary: you and dennis get interrupted while you're...messing around in a call room.
pairings: dennis whitaker x RT!reader (respiratory therapist)
cw/tags: no use of y/n, established relationship, smut (mdni) with afab!reader, fingering, unprotected piv, hickeys, bruising (obviously), biting, typical pitt warnings (depiction of car crash victims and their treatment, involving needle decomps, intubations, medications, compressions, etc etc), inappropriate workplace conduct (fucking in a call room, teasing from your coworkers during an ongoing trauma AND after, sexually suggestive remarks, flirting), dennis' muscles being hot and distracting, you have hair long enough to be tied back in a nondescript way, mentions of you having cleavage and nipples and you’re given visible hickeys. the colour of said hickeys is NOT described so you can picture whatever shade they would be on your skin! other than that no descriptions of you!! swearing. also idk if dennis' chain is a cross but...i made it one in this....so if you would find biting religious paraphernalia offensive then do not read this...
word count: 4k
dennis x RT!reader masterlist
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inspired by this ask from my lovely lotus flower 🪷 anon, @libbyqypu and 2 hands by tate mcrae, particularly the line 'cause I want them all to see, you look good on top of me' because he looks exceptional on top of you your honour
Today’s shift has been brutal.
Dennis has barely gotten a second to breathe all day, let alone chart or just sit down. Seven o’clock doesn’t come with the relief of finally getting to go home, no—it comes with the dread that he’ll be spending at least the next two hours catching up on notes, and he isn’t the only one. Trinity, Mel, and Frank are all scattered around at various computers, eyes half-closed and voices quiet as they dictate. Robby’s doing the same, minus the dictating—since he refuses to chart out loud for whatever reason.
You come downstairs, hoodie on over your scrubs and backpack on your shoulders, swinging your hospital-issued lanyard around your hand. Your eyes pick over the central hub until you find him, approaching quietly, not wanting to interrupt the sentence he’s in the middle of. He gives you a quick smile as he finishes up, then sets the device on the desk.
“Hey, you got my text, right?” He asks, pushing off his chair, standing up.
“Mhm,” You hum, thrusting an iced coffee in his direction, one you had run out to get when he told you he’d be staying late. “Thought this might help.”
His eyes light up, more than they already had at the sight of you, taking it and setting it on his workstation.
“It definitely will, thanks,” He says. “I’ll go grab the keys-”
“I’ll just hangout upstairs until you’re done,” You interrupt. “I already found a call room.”
He frowns. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to,” You insist. “Any chance you can spare fifteen minutes? I got dinner.”
Robby answers for him, sensing the way he’s about to decline and push through, even though he’s on his last legs.
“Go have dinner with your girlfriend, we’ll be here when you get back,” He says. You raise your eyebrows at Dennis expectantly, gesturing in Robby’s direction.
“Boss says it’s okay,” You add.
Dennis smiles, nodding. “Yeah, let’s go.”
He follows you upstairs, coffee in hand, rubbing his eyes a few times, trying to wake himself up. You push the call room door open, dropping your backpack on the desk, unzipping it and pulling out a few containers. It’s nothing too fancy, just some decent things from the cafeteria, but neither of you mind. You lay everything out while Dennis watches, eyes fond and chest warm.
Your hands grab the bottom of your hoodie, pulling it over your head, revealing the black long-sleeve underneath. You don’t think twice as you toss it onto the bed, still focused on setting things up. Meanwhile, Dennis’ eyes fall, landing on the sliver of your waist that’s exposed between your waistband and shirt. He swallows, blinking quickly, already feeling heat spreading over his neck and cheeks.
He’s almost gotten himself together by the time you’re done, but then you turn around.
The long-sleeve is a v-neck, one that would be wildly inappropriate if you hadn’t been wearing a scrub shirt on top for your shift. Your necklace, the one he had saved so hard to get for your first birthday after you started dating, glints against your skin. Your chest is exposed, curves of your cleavage on display. Your pants hang low on your hips, and he knows every inch of you so well by now that he can practically see them through the fabric.
“I didn’t have much to work with,” You admit. “Figured it was better than nothing.”
Dennis nods, stepping towards you. “Yeah, no, this is really sweet, angel.”
You smile when he grabs your waist, pulling you close, kissing you quickly.
“How mad would you be if I didn’t eat any of it?” He asks, voice just above a whisper, forehead resting against yours. You frown, face shifting with confusion, about to ask what’s wrong, he’s sure. He doesn’t let you.
“There are…other things I’d rather do with my time,” He adds, tightening his grip on you, both thumbs dipping under your waistband. “But it’s completely fine if you don’t want-”
You take a second to recover, the proposition shocking, but then you’re all in, cutting him off.
“Fuck the food,” You say lowly, looking over his shoulder towards the bed, the thrum of desire already settling in your stomach. He exhales, mouth tugging up into a small smile. He stares at you for a few seconds, then his lips are on yours again. It starts soft, but it spirals fast, your arms wrapping around his neck, lips locked. He slides his hands under your shirt, cold fingertips digging into your sides, sending a shiver down your spine.
He pulls back for a moment, lifting your shirt over your head, tossing it off to the side. Your heart pumps against your sternum, blood rushing to your chest as you reconnect. You grab either side of his face, trying to get impossibly close, lips haphazard and frantic. Dennis’ movements aren’t any more precise, guiding you away from the table until you feel the wall against your back, both of you almost tripping over your own feet. He reaches towards your spine, unclasping your bra, letting it fall to the floor.
He ducks his head down towards your chest, lips closing around your skin, nipping softly. You gasp, fingers threading through his hair as he leaves small bruises, barely leaving any skin unaffected. He eventually takes your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard.
“Ah, Den,” You sigh, tilting your head back, eyes closing. He unties your scrub pants, shuffling them down your thighs along with your thong. He comes back up, kissing you again, chest heaving. You whimper against him when he drops a hand down, pushing two fingers inside of you.
He doesn’t break the kiss as he pumps them up and down, feeling how you tighten momentarily, thighs clenching and legs already starting to quiver. You rock your hips in time with his fingers, needing more.
“What do you want from me, angel?” He asks, the question murmured against your lips.
You shake your head. “Anything you want.”
He lets out a breathy laugh, licking his lips. “Yeah, okay.”
You can still remember when you first started dating, when he would’ve asked if you were sure. Now he knows that you’re more than sure.
He pulls his scrub top off, along with the t-shirt he was wearing underneath. You watch his chain fall back against his chest, his muscles rippling as he throws his clothes aside. His collarbones catch your eye, and you kiss the left one, then the right. You nip at the bone, knowing how sensitive he is there, then you give him a bruise to match the myriad he’s given you. It throws his focus for a second, his breath catching with a soft groan.
He grabs the back of your thighs, setting you on the bed, climbing on top of you. He puts his lips back on you, starting just below your ribcage, leaving bruises and kisses all over your stomach. He continues down to your thighs, occasionally biting into your skin. You admire the gradient of hickeys he’s left, the ones on your chest already dark. You bite back a comment about him ‘marking his territory.’
He lifts his head, panting, one hand holding himself up on the mattress while he raises the other, turning his watch towards his face. The action is so unreasonably hot you have to bite the inside of your cheek to avoid moaning.
“Eight minutes,” He comments, looking at you. His eyes are dark, matching your own. “I can get you off-”
“Don’t worry about me,” You breathe, eyes flicking between his face and his chain, which is hanging off his neck, swinging back and forth lightly. “Just fuck me, please.”
He raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t object, especially when you reach out, fingers curling around the silver necklace. You tug on it, pulling him close. He fumbles with his own scrub pants, untying them and pushing them down, keeping them around his thighs. His muscles press against the elastic waistband, visibly flexing.
“Jesus fuck,” You say, making him look at you, eyes wide.
“Something wrong?” He asks, concern flashing on his features.
“No, no, fuck, you’re just-” You pause, his thigh muscles still commanding your attention. “I love you so much, and you’re so hot.”
He smiles, all worry washing away. “I love you too, baby.”
You gesture to his watch. “Eight minutes, Denny.”
“Right, right,” He says, shifting so he’s in line with you. You arch your back as he slides a hand underneath you, bracing your pelvis as he slowly pushes in. The lack of foreplay makes it hurts a bit more than usual, your face scrunching up, grip on his chain tightening. He watches you closely as he moves, making sure he’s not going too fast.
You wince at one point, and he freezes.
“You want me to stop?” He asks.
“No, please don’t,” You say, visibly relaxing a touch. “Keep going.”
Your eyes rolls back once he’s in, reaching for him. He lowers himself onto his elbow beside your head, his other hand coming up to your cheek. The feeling of cold metal on your chest makes you flinch, looking down to see where the bottom of the cross grazes your bruised skin.
“Jesus,” He murmurs, hitting your cervix easily. The cross moves with each thrust, occasionally hitting your jaw. “You feel amazing, angel.”
You moan in response.
“Shh, don’t want anyone hearing you,” He murmurs, adjusting so the pendant hangs above your mouth. You take it between your teeth.
He rolls his hips again, making your eyes flutter closed as you whine. Dennis looks you up and down, realizing that you’ll definitely be sensitive for the next few days while your bruises heal. He’s about to speak again when there’s a knock on the door.
You both go still, listening closely, not entirely sure if it was really a knock or just someone out in the hallway. Dennis turns his head towards the door, squinting.
“Was that-”
There’s another knock followed by his last name, then yours. It’s Lena, undoubtedly. Dennis is off you in a second, already pulling his pants back up. He scoops his t-shirt off the floor, yanking it over his torso while you do the same with your long-sleeve, pulling the thin blanket at the end of the bed over your exposed legs after. You reach your arms up, acting as though you’re tying your hair back when he turns around, making sure you’re decent before opening the door.
“Hey, Lena,” He greets. “Everything okay?”
“We’ve got a pileup,” She explains. “Four victims, five minutes out. We need all hands on deck.”
“Shit, okay,” Dennis says. “Yeah, we’ll be right down.”
She gives him an apologetic smile, looking past him towards you. “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Oh, uhm, you didn’t,” He says, stuttering, face heating up quickly. “We weren’t-”
“See you downstairs!” She calls, walking away from the door. Dennis let’s it close, leaning against it when he faces you again.
“You think she knew?” He asks. You laugh, swinging your legs out from under the blanket and standing up, stepping into your pants and shimmeying into them. You press a quick kiss to his lips and pass him his scrub top.
“I think she definitely assumed,” You say, pulling your own scrub top out of your hoodie and back on. “You played it off nicely, though.”
“Really?” He questions, voice slightly muffled from behind his shirt, his head poking out the top a second later.
You grin, patting his shoulder as you step into the hallway.
“No, not at all.”
He huffs, following you out. You take the stairs down, stopping at the bottom, moments away from shouldering the door open. You stop, reaching out for him. He takes your hand in his, bringing it up, lips grazing your knuckles.
“Ready?” He asks.
“Lets do it.”
Jack spots you immediately, calling your last name.
“Need you in here,” He says. “Whitaker, help Ellis in trauma three.”
“On it,” Dennis says, dropping your hand as you go your separate ways, both already focused on the task at hand.
You follow Jack into the trauma room, the number of people half what you’re used to. You aren’t sure how many dayshift doctors are still around, but Mel’s already there when you walk in. The patient is tugging against restraints, ones EMS must’ve put on, as she tries to finish up her primary exam.
“Ready for RSI,” Bridget says. Jack nods.
“On her,” He says, nodding his head towards you. “Findings, Mel?”
“GCS nine, confused, unresponsive to questions or commands,” She explains. “Decreased breath sounds on the left, gurgling. GCS is right on the brink, but I think we should intubate.”
“Do it,” He says, already halfway out the door. “Come to trauma three when you’re finished!”
“Wait, where are you going?” Mel asks, worry edging into her tone.
Jack pauses, watching as you move to the head of the bed. “You’re good, she’s got you.”
The door closes behind him, and she looks at you. You give her a reassuring nod.
“We’ve got this, Dr. King,” You say. “Let’s push paralytics?”
She nods. “Yes, please.”
Bridget administers the meds, and you open the patient’s mouth, positioning the blade correctly and turning the light on.
“Do you, uhm, do you want the monitor?” Mel asks.
“Nah,” You say. “Seven-five.”
You’re finished in under thirty seconds.
The patient’s sats come up, but they plateau in the high-eighties. Mel listens to the chest again, frowning.
“eFAST,” She says, lifting his shirt up and placing the tool against his chest. “No lung sliding on the left.”
“Tension pneumo,” You agree, also looking at the screen.
“Decompression needle,” She orders, putting the wand back and pushing the screen off to the side. She takes the needle in her hand, positioning it above the correct intercostal space. You’re squeezing the bag attached to the patient’s tube, watching as she inserts it, hearing the telltale rush of air escape.
“Sats improving,” You say, seeing them climb into the mid-nineties. “Nice work, Dr. King.”
Someone yelling your last name makes you look away from the monitor, passing the bag off to Bridget and running out of the room. You pull your gloves off, throwing them out, seeing Parker standing in the doorway of trauma three.
“What’s going on?” You ask, skidding past her. She takes her place beside the bed again, where Dennis is already doing compressions, each push showing up as a wave on the screen. “Shit.”
“We need an airway, now,” She says, despite it being obvious.
You grab new gloves. “Mac blade with video scope.”
“Rhythm check,” Parker says, making Dennis stop, raising his hands. The line flattens, the hallmark ‘beep’ ringing out. He leans back over the patient, one knee resting on the edge of the bed, not noticing when his shirt gets caught underneath.
“Do you want a pause?” Parker asks, looking at you, rolling her sleeves up in preparation to take over compressions if needed. You shoot her a glare, one that makes her smirk.
“Need me to teach you how to intubate through compressions, Dr. Ellis?” You counter, already visualizing the chords on the screen. “Don’t stop, Whitaker.”
He doesn’t, but his mind drifts for a moment, seeing countless times you’ve said those two words to him in a vastly different context. The door swings open, revealing Trinity and Robby.
“How long has she been down?” Robby asks.
“Four minutes,” Parker says. “Rhythm check.”
Dennis leans back again, his knee still up, pulling his shirt down even farther. He’s panting, and he takes the opportunity to wipe his forehead with the back of his hand.
“Push another epi,” Parker directs, looking up at Dennis, her eyes landing right on his collarbone, where a dark bruise is forming. “Uh, compression swap.”
He steps back, his shirt springing back into place as someone else takes over, but it’s far too late. Robby’s obviously averting his eyes, Trinity is nodding, swallowing whatever comment she wants to make, and Parker’s trying to stay professional.
You place the tube, letting one of the nurses put the bag on. Parker slips her stethoscope in, placing it against the patient’s chest, nodding.
“Good breath sounds,” She says.
“Want some ice for that bruise, Huckleberry?” Trinity asks, tone completely serious.
Robby closes his eyes, shaking his head.
“What?” Dennis asks, confusion obvious, but you know exactly what she’s referring to. You take over compressions, desperate to be doing something in this moment, knowing that the two of you will never live this down.
“On your collarbone,” She says. “Looks painful.”
You can’t see his face, but you can picture how red he is as he starts to stutter.
“I, uh, no, I’m fine-”
He stops, not wanting to dig himself any deeper.
“Rhythm,” Parker says. “Keep it together, everyone.”
You lift up, identifying the waves quickly, placing two fingers against the patient’s carotid. “Pulseless.”
“PVT, let’s charge to two-hundred,” Parker says, taking the defibrillator pads in her hands. “Clear.”
You’re back on the chest the second you realize that she hasn’t gone back into sinus, sweat starting to drip down your neck from the exertion.
“Walk me through reversible causes,” Robby says.
“Uh, hypovolemia, but her BP’s okay and we’ve already given two units,” Dennis starts. “Hypoxia, but her sats have come up. Acidosis?”
“I can grab an ABG if someone can switch,” You say, breathless.
“I’ve got it,” Santos says, stepping up beside you, taking your place once you come off.
“Keep going, Whitaker,” Robby instructs.
“Pneumothorax, good breath sounds though,” He adds. “Tamponade.”
You’ve moved towards the patient’s thigh, heparinized syringe in hand, palpating before inserting it. The tube fills slowly with blood, the colour deep red, a result of her low perfusion. You cap the tube, passing it off to a nurse, then you return your focus to the airway. You set your own stethoscope to the patient’s chest. Air is moving, but it’s not sufficient.
“I’m adding a PEEP valve,” You say, grabbing the piece from the drawer, attaching it to the exhalation port, setting it correctly.
Trinity takes her hands off the patient.
“Charge again, two hundred,” Parker says. “Clear.”
The phone rings, and you rip a glove off, grabbing it off the wall, saying your last name once it’s against your ear. Robby and Dennis wait for you to say something, ready to take action based on whatever the lab says.
“Potassium seven-point-three,” You say. “pH is the same.”
“What next?” Robby asks.
“Calcium glutonate, three gram IV push over two minutes,” Trinity says, letting someone else take over compressions. “Ten of insulin, one amp D50.”
There’s only two nurses in there, and both of them already have their hands full, so you step in.
“I can do calcium,” You say, grabbing three syringes and three bottles. You draw the medication up, setting each down on the tray beside you. “Going in.”
You push each syringe over fourty seconds while the insulin and dextrose are set up, everyone moving in sync, compressions still ongoing under Parker’s lead. The third shock finally gives sinus rhythm, and you sigh in relief, tossing the used syringes and vials into the correct bins, then adjust the vent settings to avoid hyperventilation.
“ET looks good, fourty-two,” You say.
“Whitaker, place an arterial line,” Parker instructs. “Let’s give norepi.”
“Got any beds upstairs?” Robby asks, and you laugh.
“For you? I’ll make it work,” You say. “Give ‘em a call once she’s back from CT, tell them I’ll bring coffee on Monday.”
You walk out of the room, stretching your arms above your head, tilting to one side to try and ease the ache that’s starting in your muscles.
“Jesus, what happened to you?” Jack asks, stopping mid-stride, looking down at your slightly exposed stomach. You drop your arms once he gets closer, but he’s already seen enough, one eyebrow raised as he gives you a stern look. “I’m gonna’ kill him.”
“What?” You ask, laughing through the word. “Relax, I was a willing participant.”
“Oh my god, I did not need to hear that,” He mumbles, reaching out towards your shirt, patting it down.
He sighs, closing his eyes. “Those things can give you a stroke, you know.”
“They’re not on my carotid, Jack.”
“Doesn’t matter,” He counters. “You should ice them.”
You roll your eyes as you walk away, wanting to get your charting over with so you can go home.
Back in the trauma room things have settled down. Dennis finishes with the arterial line, repeat labs are drawn, and the patient is taken up to CT. Trinity reaches towards his shirt, tugging the collar down, exposing the bruise again. He swats her hand away, yanking it back up, cheeks burning again.
“Had some fun in that call room, hey?” She asks.
Dennis shrugs, knowing he can’t defend himself. “Maybe. Whatever.”
“I knew I was interrupting,” Lena adds, holding the door as people start to file out. Trinity calls your name, pointing to his collarbone with her thumb.
“You trying to kill him or something?”
You glance over, shrugging. “He bruises easily.”
“Hang on, he has them too?” Jack asks. “This is a hospital, people.”
“Too?” Trinity echoes. “Oh my god, this is the best day of my life.”
“Leave them alone,” Parker says. “If my girlfriend looked like her I’d be marking her up all the time.”
Dennis’ face scrunches up. Robby pats him on the shoulder.
“You good?” He asks, genuinely curious, not trying to embarrass him any further.
“Uh, yeah, all good,” He says. “You wanna’ finish the charts at home?”
You’re already turning the computer off. “Yes, definitely.”
“Need to finish what you started?” Trinity asks, but Dennis is half-way to the locker room.
“It'll help him get the charting done,” You say, face completely blank. "Positive reinforcement, or whatever."
Trinity’s jaw drops, Robby rubs his eyes with the heels of his hands, Parker loses it. Jack raises his arms, walking away from the hub, calling over his shoulder.
“I expect no errors in those charts!”
“You know I’m very thorough!” You call back, not able to stop yourself from smiling when he groans from across the department. Trinity’s typing quickly on her computer, too fast to be updating a chart. Parker snorts from where she’s working, and you determine that they’re almost certainly sending messages back and forth.
Dennis comes back down a few minutes later with your belongings, having gone upstairs to grab them while everyone was distracted. He passes you your hoodie, and you tug it over your head. You bid them goodnight, getting some waves and ‘night’s in response, along with a very pointed look from Trinity. Dennis’ hand hovers over your lower back as you leave the department.
You wait until you’re in the car to bring it up.
“Sorry, baby,” You say, tugging his shirt down, exposing the injury. “I didn’t mean to do it so hard. Does it hurt?”
“No, no, it’s fine,” He promises, laughing a bit. “That was…something.”
“That’s what they get for interrupting,” You say, softly running your thumb over it. “You do bruise easily, hey?”
He jokingly pushes your hand away. “I’m…pale!”
“Right,” You say, smiling. “Seriously, we should ice it when we get home. Might as well ice your arms while we’re at it.”
“Why would you ice my arms?” He asks, face showing that he knows your answer is going to be far from serious.
You shrug, leaning over to him, rolling his sleeve up a few centimetres. Then, you bite his fucking bicep, just for a second. It’s light, but Dennis still flinches, despite the fact that you do this constantly.
“Every time,” He murmurs. You kiss his arm after, laughing when he flexes it, kissing it again.
“Let’s go home,” You say, tilting your chin up. He looks at you for a moment, face soft and eyes loving in the way that makes your stomach fill with butterflies.
executive summary :
⤷ In which you refuse to align sex with anything more than an act committed for the benefit of status gain. You’re a whore by choice and it works… until it doesn’t?
associated parties (pairings) :
⤷ jjk (office) men x f!reader, gojo x f!reader, nanami x f!reader, higuruma x f!reader, shiu x f!reader, kusakabe x f!reader, & ino x f!reader, (brief yaga x f!reader).
{ m.list }
——GOOD DICK OR A STEADY JOB? What's more important to a woman in her early 20s? Well, if you’re being completely honest with yourself, it should be that second option of a steady job, of course. Yet, there you were risking that very thing for the first option; a good dicking.
Bent stupidly over your boss’s cold mahogany desk as small piles of paperwork go fluttering over its edge, there you were fulfilling the unspoken requirement of your job as an assistant. With a fat cockhead sloppily kissing the inner depths of your sweet cunt and your tongue lolling out of your mouth as you found yourself drunk off of the mean thrusts you’re being gifted with, you were assisting your boss with something alright.
Now, this wasn’t exactly how you planned for this morning to go buuut, one thing led to another and now you’re here anyway.
Babbled throaty attempts of his name escaped you as your glossy eyes traveled to the back of your skull in pure fucked-out ecstasy. Sure, you were supposed to be attending a meeting with the man right now but having your face smushed up against some expensive wood and listening to the string of wonton groans ‘n grunts that left your employer’s throat was far more enjoyable.
This probably wasn't one of your smartest decisions considering the meeting you’re supposed to be in is probably one of high importance. And yeah, this teeny tiny mistake of yours may or may not lead to one of the most bizarre tales of your life but hey, in your defense, you were too fucked-out to think of your future at the time.
Especially with the way your head gets tugged up from the desk so rudely by a fistful of your hair, drool spilling past your wet parted lips, legs shaking, and hips faintly bruised by the edge of the desk you’d been tossed over. How could you think about anything or anyone else when—
“‘Michi,” Was all that you could moan out over and over and over again. So stupidly loud too as if you didn’t have a care in the world, “H-Harder, mmphf-, fuuck..”
Pulling your head back enough to give you the perfect chance to angle your gaze over to meet eyes with him, Yaga greets you with this fucked-out grin and a husked tone, “You’re too loud,” Before you can even fathom a reply, two thick fingers are getting shoved into your mouth. “Just beggin’ to be caught, huh?”
Talk about foreshadowing…
Your eyes roll in a mix of annoyance and pleasure, hips pushing back against him just as he presses himself forward. Then you feel his lips meet the crown of your ear and there’s a slight stutter in his thrusts.
“Lift your leg,” Yaga grunts hotly, to which your left leg pushes up to rest against the desk. “Fuck-, just like that,” He groans, removing the hand from your hair and moving it to your hip.
With your leg propped up against the desk, his cock hits a new angle inside you and even with his fingers pressed right against your tongue, you still manage to choke out a pleasureful whimper. Yaga’s feet shift against the floor a bit and he takes that sound of yours as a sign to keep hitting that spot over and over and over until—
His fingers soon fall from your lips and you flop right back down against the desk, one of his pencil holders going scattering to the floor as an arm of yours extends out to grab a hold of the surface's edge. Both of his palms meet your hips and he pins you down into the position you’ve found yourself in, drilling into your sopping hole like he’s grown addicted.
That rude plap plap plap! echoes all throughout his office along with each desperate moan that pours from your lips. At this point, neither of you were trying to be quiet anymore.
Before you even realize it, you’re making a filthy mess around his cock, tugging him deeper than before each time he reels his hips back and invoking the deepest groans of your name from his throat. Yaga found himself tossing his head back and the only thing he could focus on was that nasty squelch leaving your cunt.
A rough hand comes down on your ass somewhere throughout your high and you can’t even think anymore. You were too lost in all that felt good and didn’t exactly register the particularly pitched moan that left you until it was much too late.
Yaga could feel himself growing close so he leaned over you a bit, pushing his weight against you and moving a hand to the space on the desk right next to your side. You lift your head a bit, panting heavily, and his lips meet your neck.
Warm wet kisses are peppered all over the side of your neck and you feel him throbbing inside you, aching for release. “How mad do y’think the board will be?” Your boss utters into your skin, “Think they’d forgive me if I explained why I was s’late?”
You grit your teeth for a moment before choking out a response, feeling him smile against your neck as you do so. “I-I think you’d l-lose your-, hnngh… job i-if they knew what… hah, what you were doin’.” You stammer out breathlessly.
“Yeahh?” Yaga rasps, “I think they’d understand. Especially if I tell ‘em just how needy my pretty assistant’s been all day.” He emphasizes with a harsher thrust forward, causing you to choke on your own moan.
“Sir,” You gasp suddenly, eyes fluttering shut.
Your boss lets out a throaty sound, “Fuuck, d-don’t do that.” That simple gasp of yours was all it took for his cock to begin throbbing and aching for release inside you.
He was right there on the edge—ready to bring this quick fuck to an overdue end, shuffle your clothes back on properly, and then go stumbling into that meeting as late as ever. And yet, somewhere throughout the next groan that leaves his dry throat, his office door flies open.
“Mr. Yaga, I can’t hold this meeting off any longer, we need—” You honestly feel bad for the poor woman who had to walk in on the two of you.
The scene laid out before her widened eyes was like something straight out of some cheap porno. Papers and other desk items were splayed out all over the floor surrounding Yaga’s large desk, the two of you were as disheveled and debauched as ever, and the position both of you stood in wasn’t something you could try and pass off as anything aside from what it was.
Not to mention the way you feel Yaga’s cock twitch inside you wildly just as he spills filthy ropes of cum into you. Looking back on this whole thing makes you laugh because it was probably then that you realized the man had some kinda kink for that situation. Y’know, getting caught.
Earlier you said something about how he’d probably lose his job if the board found out about what the two of you were doing but that couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Nope, instead it was you who lost your job. Obviously, the lady who caught you wasn’t going to keep her discovery to herself and she practically sprinted back to the meeting room just to tell them about you and your boss.
Less than twenty-four hours later and you found yourself jobless.
Being unemployed wasn’t that bad if you’re being completely honest with yourself. Or, it wasn’t too bad for a couple of days. At the time that this all happened, you were living with Yaga. He wasn’t just your boss but he was also a lover of yours.
The relationship was kept very private for reasons concerning your job so when you lost it, you thought that your life would go in a different direction for the better. You and Yaga could openly go on dates, finally work toward the future he claimed to have wanted to build with you, and basically live your life freely.
You were able to live on with that mindset for a wonderful duration of… three days.
Yeah, three days and then Yaga dumped you and kicked your ass to the curb. For a time, you were devastated about this. He had promised you so many things, treated you with so much love and respect, and cared for you in the ways any decent partner would but, you eventually came to the conclusion that he only did all of that because you worked under him.
The event that caused you to lose your job also put a nasty stain on your previously crisp and meticulously crafted résumé. Before getting caught having sex with your boss, you would’ve been a shoo-in for any and all office-related jobs that were hiring.
But after that? You could kiss an easy work-life goodbye.
You’d been aware of the risk that came with having a romantic relationship with your boss from the moment you and him started to cross those professional lines. Though, you honestly didn’t expect to get caught like that.
That doubt behind your expectations probably blossomed from the lust and romantic clouds that left you blinded for months. Yaga was amazing until he wasn’t. Nothing could’ve prepared you to lose your job, boyfriend, home, and a large piece of your dignity in less than a week.
Since then, you swore to yourself that you’d never allow work and romance to blend. The sex you had with Yaga, whether it be in or out of the office, should’ve remained as it was—just sex. Unfortunately for you, things with him became more than that and you foolishly let your heart get involved with something that could & should have remained strictly lustful.
It was always more than Yaga just being your boss. He was tied with most things that held importance to you, which is exactly why you lost so much so ridiculously fast.
The only positive factor about that entire ordeal is the fact that it happened six years ago.
You’re an entirely different woman now, as to be expected.
While the stain on your resume made things very difficult for you for a good half of those six years, you weren’t left completely ruined. You managed to get decent jobs here and there—not that you ever stayed for long. And no, you weren’t constantly getting fired or anything.
This time around, you were actually learning just how easy it is to wrap men around that perfectly manicured finger of yours. Job after job after job and they all proved to act the same way.
You’ll never forget the way things went with Yaga but, you eventually learned that you were just doing things with him all wrong. You lacked both control and confidence over your life with him—a mistake which you’ll never make again.
· · ──────── ·𖥸· ──────── · ·
Today marks the day that you walk into a new company. It’s a bit generic—your average supply company but, the pay was enough to spark your interest (among other things).
After a flawless interview, you were hired almost immediately and today was your first day in for training. You lucked up enough to score a decent position and it was from this first day there that you knew you’d find your way to the top in no time. Not to mention the previous owner of your new position had recently been fired so, the company was already looking for someone new & you just so happened to be in search of a new job.
And while you readied yourself for said first day, members of the office you’d be arriving to within the next few minutes were sharing their opinions on the woman who’d be soon to join them; you.
“I’m calling bullshit,” Was the first properly formulated opinion on you as a whole, not that you were able to hear it. “She sounds way too good on paper.” Gojo Satoru scoffs out to his favorite cubicle of assorted people.
His words earn a laugh or two from those listening, which only encourages him to continue his ranting.
Resting his chin against his palm as he eyes down the moderately distant entrance on the other side of the large office space, Gojo puffs out an impatient sigh, “I mean seriously, her résumé’s almost better than mine! Not to mention,” His head cocks over toward one of the separated rooms, “She gets her own office. Do you guys remember how hard I had to work for mine?!”
A few nods of agreement go out to the complaining finance director but for some reason that doesn’t seem to satisfy him so he turns to his trusted assistant; the unfortunate Ijichi Kiyotaka—a man who almost always has to listen to whatever rambles Gojo spews.
“Can you believe this?” Gojo asks with a faintly pouted lip and slightly tensed brows, eyeing the stressed assistant standing a few inches away from him.
Ijichi merely shrugs, “You were made aware of her addition to this company over a week ago, sir. I thought by now you’d have accepted it considering—”
A lengthy finger meets Ijichi’s face before he has time to finish his sentence and Gojo turns his head away, “Wait, shhh, I think I heard something.” He interrupts, pushing up on his toes a bit just to get a better look at the steadily approaching figure about to round the distant corner and enter the office.
With that, everyone else’s head turns to get a look as well but they’re all quickly disappointed when only the company’s marketing VP, Higuruma, walks in. The tired-looking man raises a brow at all the attention fixated on him but many quickly play it off with a greeting gesture of a raised hand and wave.
Higuruma waves back, a bit of confusion vexed onto his features considering he doesn’t typically receive that much attention from that side of the office but he shrugs it off after a moment and continues his walk onward.
“Damnit,” Gojo grumbles, bringing his wrist up to check his flashy Rolex for the time. “She should’ve been here by now, no?”
One of his nearby interns let out a snort, “Y’know, this is the longest I’ve ever seen you outside your office, sir.”
Moving his hand just to meet eyes with the recently spoken, Gojo quirks a slim brow, “It is not.” He breathes out dramatically, trying to defend himself for the past thirty minutes he’s been lingering around awaiting your arrival. “A-And even if it is… Color me intrigued, I just want to see if the woman matches all that I’ve heard about her. It’s not like this is an easy company to get into, so—”
“..It wasn’t an easy company for you to get into, maybe,” Another intern murmurs jokingly, earning some chuckles.
“I heard that,” Gojo grumbles, “But my point still stands. I’m just curious and want to welcome her in.”
Ijichi clears his throat a bit, tempted to toss in his two cents regarding Gojo’s presence around the main office. His boss pauses again and slowly turns to send his assistant a look, “Is there something you’d like to say, Ijichi?”
“Well,” Dropping his dark brown eyes to the floor and moving a nervous hand to awkwardly push his glasses up a bit, Ijichi swallows thickly. “It’s just that you called her joining us ‘bullshit’ only a few minutes ago, a-and you don’t even think she’ll last long but now you want to welcome her in…?”
Gojo’s quickly taken back by Ijichi’s mentioning of an earlier comment he’d made out of annoyance—having grumbled something about how you’ll only last a week or so before you’re onto the next company or even fired. A couple of whispered agreements are exchanged by different employees, followed by giggles and other murmured comments that point out the inconsistency in Gojo’s attitude toward the newcomer.
Placing his hands on his hips, Gojo tuts, “Okay, yeah, I did say that but can a man not have a change of heart? I haven’t even seen the lady yet. For all I know she could walk in here all shy ‘n worried about joining us, which will make me feel bad and—”
Someone clears their throat, “Mr. Gojo.”
“—then I’ll take back everything I said, welcome her in, act like I haven’t been waiting on her for hours, and pretend to be surprised that she’s likely just as impressive in person as she is on paper. I was just a bit bothered by the fact that—”
“Mr. Gojo!” They whisper-shout this time, finally earning his attention.
Gojo sighs and looks at them for only a moment before that person nods their head over toward the entrance to the office and when the man follows the gesture, all of his word vomiting dies out on his tongue and just about all thoughts go flying out the window.
Many nearby heads turn, just like the first time when Higuruma had entered, except this time around it’s not in vain.
Around the corner comes a woman with her head held high and a determined look fixed firmly onto her features—that woman is you. Ignorant of all the talk about your arrival, you waltz right into the office behind someone by the name of Kusakabe.
The brunette that was leading the way for you was apparently your new assistant, which you thought was a wonderful perk to this job. He’d been giving you a tour of the building and the two of you had finally reached the floor you’d be predominantly working on.
As your heels go click-clacking across the cool flooring with each step you take, many eyes trail your every movement—only one pair in particular miraculously earning your gaze.
Kusakabe was explaining the layout of the office to you, telling you about how there were a total of two separate offices, one of them now belonging to you, and that the common space was where everyone else under you worked. As he points and shows you things, your eyes naturally wander elsewhere to get a look at all that he’d yet to explain and you finally notice how much attention is on you.
Heads popped up from a bunch of different cubicles and many were trying to play things off as if they weren’t looking at you but it was still obvious despite the magazines some hid their faces behind. The few people trying to look inconspicuous as they took in your presence sparked a warming smile to spread across your face but that’s not what really drew you in.
No, what captured your attention was the set of cerulean eyes focused solely on you from across the room. As your gaze met his, an unspoken vestige of tension drafted into the air. The office was huge so there was a great deal of space between where you and him stood but you still felt something upon meeting eyes with him.
Kusakabe soon noticed where your attention had landed and he stepped closer to you only to casually point in the direction you were already focused on, index aiming at the man staring at you, “That man over there is Gojo Satoru, our financial director.”
You nod slowly and your lips are steady to part as you reply in a whisper, still holding eyes with the man of current conversation, “I see. Does he stare at everyone like this or…?”
Your new assistant chuckles and turns his head to look at you, “Honestly? Yes,” He says lightheartedly.
To which you’re the first to break the little staring contest and return your attention to Kusakabe, “Wait, really?” You gasp slightly, noticing the way the brunette laughs again.
“No, not seriously but he does do that with new people. You’ll meet him more formally later and see for yourself,” He explains to you, earning a simple nod of your head in response.
Then, Kusakabe turns to show you into your office and you motion to follow after him once more.
You’re not sure what, but something tells you to look over to that guy again. Gojo Satoru you repeat mentally as you shoot your eyes over one last time. He was looking away but as soon as you turn, he does too, and another long distant staring contest is held between the two of you before you watch his face twist up a little.
With the cockiest smirk you’ve ever seen in your life, and although you can’t hear it from where you are, Gojo lets out a scoff before looking you up and down and then turning away—quickly disappearing into his nearby office with a slam of his door.
You bat your lashes and your brows are quick to meet in a mix of annoyance and confusion. You haven’t even officially spoken to the man and yet he has this nerve to flash such a displeased look at you? Or was it more a look to flaunt his ego—perhaps something to hide his intimidated demeanor?
Whatever it is, you merely brush it off with a roll of your eyes and turn to follow after Kusakabe.
First day into this place and you’ve already managed to leave a sour impression on someone, great.
· · ──────── ·𖥸· ──────── · ·
Inside that office of his, Gojo’s returned to his desk in a fit of… well, he’s not quite sure what he’s feeling right now.
You haven’t even done anything yet but, without a doubt, Gojo does not like you. Eyes narrowing as his thoughts begin to consume him, all he can replay in his head is the initial image of you rounding that corner behind Kusakabe. Unfortunately for him, you’re gorgeous. Which is an annoyance already because that makes you a distraction for him.
Not to mention the way you hold yourself together, head all high ‘n mighty with this confidence that bothers something deep within him—something he can’t quite put a finger on.
His hands shift to swipe up a pen from his cluttered desk and Gojo begins to twirl the item in between his fingers as he contemplates a few things. Ijichi soon comes sliding into the office quietly, not daring to say a word and disturb Gojo’s focus on whatever thought he's having.
A flashback of your resume, which Gojo only got a glimpse of because he was busy bothering the HR department instead of being productive, comes popping into his head. Absolutely flawless. Hell, he would’ve hired you instantly too if he’d been your employer. Even after reading over just the first few lines but shit, the perfection behind your résumé was uncanny.
And above all else, Gojo’s jealous. He’s been working at this company for almost two years now—steadily climbing up, of course, but it still took him a long time to get to where he is right now. Which doesn’t even make sense to him. He went to college with the CEO!
It’s not like Gojo exactly needs this job, he’s rich. He’s only here because of that recently mentioned CEO. Gojo’s had money all his life so by the time he reached his late twenties, he found himself bored. He felt like he’d done everything he was meant to do in life except get a proper job.
Which is why he’s here now. This job gave him a challenge, he had to work hard to get hired, work harder to get promoted, and damn near stress himself just to get a conversation or two with that guy he went to college with.
Then there’s you. You who got to walk in here and have everything served to you on a silver platter right before his very eyes. And you have the nerve to be stunning?
Talk about greed…
The way you had turned and flashed such a warming smile to everyone when you came in—too friendly for Gojo’s liking, might he add, all beaming and welcoming… His eyes just roll at the memory of it. It was probably fake, that smile of yours. Fingers crossed and you turn out to be a bad person so he can have a real reason to dislike you.
Shaking his head, Gojo realizes he’s overthinking this whole thing. He doesn’t care about you. You're just some newcomer! You’ll be gone in a week—the last chick in your position had only been here for two months before she was gone so he doubts you’ll last longer.
Or, that’s what he tells himself anyway. Because not even two minutes later and he’s standing from his desk and pacing over to his office windows, peeking through the blinds and trying to get the best view of your whereabouts from where he can.
Your office door is now closed so he can’t see anything that’s going in there but he can’t help but wonder what kinda person you are. The previous marketing director and Gojo didn’t get along too well so maybe that’s a part of whatever stigma he’s attached to you already. Hence his nebby nature now.
Watching your office door like a hawk from the confines of his own space, Gojo’s got one hand separating the blinds for a good view and the other tightly clasped around a warm cup of coffee. In the midst of sipping on that morning beverage of his, a sudden choke on the liquid alarms the nearby Ijichi, who comes rushing forward as Gojo begins to cough and then point at something.
“Sir, are you okay?” Ijichi asks as he approaches his boss with an abundance of napkins.
Gojo starts shaking his head but doesn’t spare the poor guy any more of a reply before swiping the napkins from Ijichi’s nerved palms, briskly wiping his mouth off, and moving to swing his door open.
Still confused, Ijichi merely follows after Gojo with furrowed brows and ends up walking right into him. At the same time, both men stumble to get a full view of what caused such an abrupt reaction.
“You’re joking,” Gojo mutters under his breath, now glaring across the office with an irritated eye twitching in tandem with his emotions. Because not only did Nanami Kento—the company’s CEO—go out of his way to visit this floor for the first time in weeks but of course he’s only making an appearance to talk to you.
When Gojo first saw the tall blond round that entryway corner, he thought he was just imagining things. But now that he’s stepped out of his office to get a better look, he’s left baffled. Your office door is open and Kusakabe is clearly panicked as he talks to the very intimidating Nanami. Although Gojo can’t quite make out the conversation from where he’s standing, watching you walk out only a few moments later tells him all he needs to know.
Gojo’s eyes follow every movement of yours as Nanami gives you a nod of his head, and clearly tells you to ‘follow him’. Then comes that annoying smile of yours before you so graciously trail behind the man. Without even thinking, Gojo swats his mug back to Ijichi, who barely clutches onto the item, and then his feet begin to move.
Being curious is one thing, nosy is another. Doubting you is one thing, talking shit about you before you even got there is another. And having your position as Marketing Director handed to you is one thing but earning Nanami’s attention on your first day here is another ordeal entirely.
Just who the hell are you? And why were you gaining all the things Gojo’s wanted since his first day here on your first day?
Gojo makes it halfway across the office just as Nanami disappears behind that corner, heading toward the elevators. You, following closely behind, stop for a second and it’s in that instant that Gojo’s feet pause flat on the floor.
He’s not sure why he’s stopped so suddenly but he doesn’t get much time to think about it before you turn your head back and look directly at him—almost as if you knew he left his office just to follow you. The sudden eye contact makes Gojo swallow down this weird feeling in his throat he wasn’t aware existed until now.
You watch the way his eyes narrow at you and, as if to get back at him, you then let your gaze fall downward along his body before rising back up. A natural twitch in the corner of your lips is felt before you mock his earlier expression with an attitude somehow cockier than his was.
Gojo is left visibly offended; brows so frustratedly scrunched up, eyes carrying a level of irritation that almost makes you want to take things a step further and laugh, and hands balled into tight fists at his sides. His lips part ever so slightly and you can tell it’s killing him not to say something right now-, anything, really.
The sound of your name being called from around the corner breaks the tension entirely and he watches the way you flinch a little. Your eyes get a bit wider and whatever mask of confidence you just put on falters for not even half a second before you turn away with a prompt reply of ‘coming, sorry!’ and then disappear within the blink of an eye.
It’s only day one but, without a doubt, Gojo cannot stand you. A feeling of which he highly doubts will ever change.
m.list | taglist | next file >
author’s note: pls do not ask to be added to the taglist under this chapter (or future ones) !!
summary: sukuna has loved you since you were in high school, and when he finally gets his chance with you, four years after graduation, he's the perfect boyfriend.
he treats you like you're worth more than the entire world, devoted solely to you, committed to keeping you healthy and happy in his arms for all eternity.
if only he wasn't killing people behind your back.
content: 18+ mdni, smut, dub-con in the later chapters, rough sex, yandere sukuna, obsession, stalking, murder, blood, gore, manipulation, deception, unhealthy dynamics, jealousy, cheating (reader cheats on her bf with sukuna), sukuna is awful in this but he's LOVELY to reader exclusively, more tags to be added on a chapter by chapter basis!
what the medicine packaging says: "new and improved orange flavour!"
what I expected: orange juice
what I got: the taste of your parents just told you they're getting divorced, and your mum said she was taking you out for ice cream after but she actually took you to the "healthy" frozen yoghurt place and would only let you order the non-dairy orange cream soda flavour
got a crick in my neck and a frog in my throat and a chip on my shoulder and a stick up my ass and now you're gonna stand there puttin words in my mouth? haven't I been through enough?
titsay
kianamaiart
baratheonpilled
pixelskylines
izzy806
origamiaround
