Tying You To Me — Part 2
Summary: Lonely hearts meet at a bar and one thing leads to another. Can broken hearts and burned bridges be mended while twisted up in bedsheets?
Content Warnings: MINORS DNI Casual drinking, mentions of hook-ups/one night stands, running themes of infidelity, sexual innuendo. SMUT: dom!Spencer sub!Reader (will be Switch for both eventually), Pet Names: Good Girl, Sweet Girl (don’t yell at me because I used that one 11 times, it’s my FAVORITE), Praise, Light humiliation/degradation (slut/whore), ingestion of cum, Oral Sex (female receiving), Penetrative Sex without a condom, Birth Control (Shots) mentioned
Word Count: 9,700 (it's my longest fic yet!!)
Author's Note: Well here's the next part!! Thank you to @reidslibrarybook for being the best beta I could ever ask for! And thank you to everyone who read the first part! This is where things start to speed up! As always, every comment & reblog makes me so happy! I hope you all enjoy this part, it was a lot of fun to write
Part I- Illicit Affairs | Series Masterlist | Part III - TBD |
PART II - Motion Sickness
“You are going to get hammered or laid. Or both. At least buzzed, Y/N,”
“Liz,” Y/N says, holding her temples in anticipation of a headache, “is a Divorce Party really necessary? I mean is it really a celebration that I wasted 10 years of my life on that douchebag?” she laments, flopping on the bed next to her sister.
“It’s been, what a year since you’ve known he was fucking your neighbor? And you’re finally done with him. Now it’s your turn, Y/N, your whole life, you’ve been perfect,” Liz eyeing a group of man playing darts in the corner of the bar, “You deserve to let loose and get with a hot guy who’s name you won’t remember in the morning,”
“Liz, I think you forget I’m a mother,” Y/N says, reminding her sister that she’s the only responsible parent her daughter has.
“So? That doesn’t mean you don’t deserve love, Y/N,” Liz consoles, smirking when Y/N rolls her eyes at her, “or at least treated very generously for one night by an attractive stranger,”
“One drink,” Y/N barters, fixing her work blazer as she settles on to the barstool, “And only because mom agreed to be with Aster. James is too busy trying to get his dick up to even think about a plan for childcare. I mean, does he actually expect me to do this by myself,”
“Y/N, I love you. But let’s forget about James and what he did to you. Please, just get drunk and forget about that asshole,” Liz orders, waving over the waitress, “We’re so getting pretzel bites,”
“You give excellent advice, Liz,” Y/N says, sarcastically as she looks over the drink menu. Her sister means well, but doesn’t fully understand the complexity of a husband being unfaithful. On top of an already rocky marriage, it’s hard to explain that she’s almost happy he finally fucked up so badly that a divorce was acceptable.
Now she’s the sad little wife that got cheated on, but before she was the nagging wife who complained that her husband never did the dishes. Now, the world can sympathize with her. But before she would’ve been the villain. She'll have to be whatever version of herself that's most palatable to the world.
“Y/N here will have something strong. Lots and lots of alcohol,” Liz says as she orders their drinks and snacks, “Oooh how about a Mojito, you always liked those in college,”
College, the days when James’ impish smile and young spirit charmed her into believing that what she needed in her life was a little youth.
“Whiskey Sour, actually,” Y/N smiles, thanking the waitress, “Tonight is not a night that I want to be reminded by my college mistakes,”
“Sorry,” Liz apologies, realizing the misstep and what her sister was referencing, “I should have realized-”
“Lizzy, it’s fine. You mean well. You all mean well. You, mom, even dad. But it’s hard when you can’t actually feel what I feel. He humiliated me. Made me feel like I was crazy and I hate who I’ve become when I was with him,” Y/N whispers, circling her finger around the rim of the water glass.
Liz nods her head, unsure what to say to comfort Y/N, as she munches on the ruffled chips the waitress dropped off.
“ ‘Would Fuck My Dickhead Ex’ Shots fix this situation?” Liz asks, an coy smile, not unlike James’ on her face, but it’s a smile that’s more comforting than aggravating when it comes from her sister, “Indulge me, Y/N,”
“Fine,” Y/N says, pretending to be annoyed and give into Liz’s wishes, even though she knew it’s hard to resist her younger sister’s shenanigans, “but only because it’s you,” Y/N adds, smiling as she picks at the bar chips.
“First round is on you,” Liz says, holding her hands up in faux innocence, “Hey, you’re the corporate lawyer, I’m the artsy one in the family,” she laughs, “And there might be some cute lonely hearts at the bar that you can practice flirting with,”
“I’m not practicing flirting with anyone,” Y/N says, noticing the way Liz emphasized practice, “But what do you want? Peach Tart?”
“Whatever you want, you’re paying,” Liz says, “And hurry back, our pretzels are back!” she announces as the waitress brings over their pretzel bites and drinks.
Y/N had never been to this bar before. It was new, built in the last 2 years or so, which was just around the time when she became a partner at the law firm. An accomplishment that seemed to not even elicit a congratulations out of James, despite him being very excited about the pay raise. The bar’s soft lighting hung way above their heads. The Edison light bulbs gave it a quieter feel than louder bars. In a way it was even more lonely than a louder bar, kind of like how large parties are more private.
The bartender takes care of a couple of college kids, getting them their beer before asking Y/N what she wants. Two men sit a couple feet away from her, talking quietly amongst themselves. And a familiar mop of messy brown hair and hunched shoulders sit two seats away from her.
Spencer Reid, the only soul who knows exactly how complicated her life is.
His shirt smells like expensive perfume. The kind that women wear when they want men to notice them. She doesn’t blame her for wearing it, it’s nice to be noticed. It’s nice to lock eyes across a crowded room and wait for everything to start to move in slow motion. You get motion sickness from it. The feeling of his eyes on you, only you. The rush, the adrenaline, the way you’ll cast your gaze down. Playful, bashful, sexy. You’ll be anything he wants you to be because he notices you.
She probably wore it just for him. Picked it out because he’d liked the scent of it on her skin as he kissed her neck, leaving her mark on a taken man. Was that part of the thrill? Like wild animals marking a tree, is this expensive perfume a sign?
Y/N wants to wash away the smell of it. The evidence of his infidelity on his clothes lingers even when the act has ended. All that remains is the smell of his treachery, the bonds broken and vows severed. She should be mad, scathing mad. She should be ready to burn bridges until they’re torched, just ashes.
But all she feels is humiliated. Her husband, the man that stood up in front of her promising love and loyalty to the very end, decided that those very same vows weren’t worth it anymore. Y/N throws the shirt on the floor. It burns in her hands, leaving invisible scars on her skin.
It’s all over her now. The smell of James’s infidelity. The humiliation of his mistakes. Y/N isn’t a cowering lily. She doesn’t back down from a fight. She won’t let James have the satisfaction of thinking he hurt her, even though he did.
Yet, when she sits down on their bed she feels like it can swallow her whole. She feels tiny in the sea of messy blankets and wrinkled sheets. The perfume scent, expensive and potent, stains her skin. It’s dizzying and that familiar motion sickness creeps up on her. Her throat goes tight, tears threaten to sting. She won’t let him have this power over her. She won’t let him have her spirit after destroying her heart.
“Spencer Reid, in a bar,” Y/N says, quickly glancing over towards her sister before bringing her attention back to her neighbor, “that’s something I never thought I’d see,”
“Well neither was your husband fucking my wife, yet here we are,” he says, taking a sip of his beer. He grips the bottle like a lifeline, like it’s the only thing keeping him on this barstool. There’s a loneliness in his shoulders that Y/N recognizes, but it’s something they’ve both carried long before their spouses’ infidelity.
“Touché, Dr. Reid,” Y/N muses, sitting next to Spencer at the bar, “And she’s not your wife anymore?”
“The neighbors talk,” he observes, neither confirming or deny the status of his marriage, “and for the record, Y/N, you’re not the bar type either,”
“Alcoholic, workolichic, both end marriages. And I guess in the end it doesn’t really matter which one you are, does it?” Y/N speculates, thanking the bartender for her shots. The warm yellow and orange color is cheery and happy, a contrast to their dull and dim conversation. She slides Liz’s shot over to Spencer, thinking to herself that he probably needs it as much as she does.
“To workolichics whose spouses never quite understood them,” she says, looking Spencer straight in the eyes as she raises the shot to her lips. He mirrors her, bringing the glass to his lips, eyes never leaving her face. They burn as he stares, looking so intently at her. It’s like she’s under a microscope.
Neither of them say a word, yet they communicate. They notice each other. And it takes one to know one when you haven’t been noticed in a while. He drinks the shot with her, making a face at the tartness of the drink. The sweet peach flavor evens it out, coating her tongue with sweetness that masks the sourness of the lime juice.
“Is that what you think happened? Is that why you think they did what they did?” Spencer asks, his voice but a whisper. His finger runs around the rim of the shot glass, tracing it over and over as his mind races, “because I’ve been thinking about it. I actually can’t stop thinking about it. I thought I was a good husband, I thought she loved me,” he adds, his voice raising up an octave.
“I’m sure you were, Spencer. I’m sure you were the kind of husband that never forgot birthdays and gave gifts for anniversaries. Or the kind that would do the dishes and make dinner just because,” Y/N says, thinking her sister was right to get drunk tonight, “But have you considered that Rebecca was a shitty wife?”
“No,” Spencer says, waving the bartender over for another beer perhaps, “I love my wife. I love my wife so much that I was blind to how she was. I ruined our marriage. I hurt her by not being there,” Spencer murmurs, “Another Sierra Nevada, please,” he tells the bartender, thanking her as she takes away their empties.
“You give her too much credit,” Y/N remarks, “You’ve been through so much, more than I know. I’ve been through so much, more than you know. But do you know who does? Rebecca and James. They knew exactly what they were doing. Fucking us up let this. Fucking up our lives to what get laid?” she scoffs.
“Like we’re not already fucked up, Mrs. Young,” Spencer teases, an uncharacteristically dark smirk coming to life on his life.
“It’s not Mrs. Young anymore. Dr. Reid,” Y/N comments, staring directly at Spencer, similar to how he looked at her moments before, “but I don’t even feel like Y/N Y/L/N anymore. I’ve been with James since before law school. It’s hard to be my old self again when I don’t even know who she is,”
His eyes are dark with something that Y/N can’t quite pinpoint, but it draws her in. His hair is tousled, maybe he’s coming home from a case and hasn’t had a chance to shower yet. He licks his lips, studying Y/N’s face. She doesn’t know much about his job, except that he’s some sort of detective for the FBI. Spencer reads people. Reading their microexpressions, their body language, their silent expressions that reveal so much. It must be what he’s doing right now.
“Like you said, it takes one to know one,” he toasts her non-existent drink as he sips his beer. He’s cryptic and guarded. A very different man than the friendly neighbor that she’d cross paths with at late hours, both coming home late from their demanding jobs.
But under that dark glimmer in his eye, Y/N, if she looks hard enough, can see that man. The man that would bring her trash to the curb because James always forgot or helped her shovel the snow off her sidewalk when James would refuse to do it. He’s still there, he’s still neighbor Spencer and somehow, she’s still neighbor Y/N.
Maybe it’s the shots, Spencer’s dark glimmer pulls her in closer. Like a fish caught on a line, she’s reeled in closer and closer.
“And I didn’t qualify for the friends and family discount,” Spencer whispers, his voice breaking the silence and bringing her back to Earth.
“Oh really,” Y/N says, mirroring Spencer’s playful tone as she leans in closer, his pink work shirt with the top buttons undone and sleeves rolled to his elbow, showing off his forearms. On his wrist is a tarnished watch, it’s so old that Y/N wonders if it’s more for sentimental value than everyday use, “I could swear that your wife sleeping with my husband would qualify you for at least 10% off,”
“Was that a joke?” Spencer deadpans, “From you, you’re even more serious than me,” Spencer muses, tapping his fingers rapidly on the counter. He still wears his wedding ring, even though the divorce has been finalized for weeks. Rings, like the vintage watches that don't work, are more sentimental than practical, despite not meaning that to Rebecca.
“There’s an awful lot you don’t know about me, Spencer,” she whispers, talking low in the quiet murmur of the bar. It’s well past 11, meaning the drunk college kids have left, probably searching for 24 hour diners to fill up on greasy cheese fries and sodas that help their inevitable hangovers.
It’s quiet in the bar, the regulars close their tabs and a few tables remain filled including Liz, who chats with a redheaded woman who sits alone at a high top table.
“You’ve always been one who’s hard to get to know,” Spencer observes, “I always thought you were lonely, like me. Never understood by James. Maybe that’s what it is, maybe they never got us,”
He’s not drunk enough to be having sober thoughts, but buzzed enough to be looser than he would anyway. Before Y/N can respond, Liz and a woman, following close behind her, rushes to Y/N and Spencer at the bar.
“Y/N, Y/N,” she says, “Ooo, so you are talking to a man, I knew a divorce party was what you needed-”
“I’m not talking to a man. This is just Spencer, he’s my...we’re uh. Spencer’s my neighbor,” Y/N stresses, hoping that her sister has enough clarity to realize what she’s implying.
“Divorce Party?” Spencer intjects, “Huh, Penny didn’t throw me one of those, and what I think Y/N is trying to say, without being impolite, is that woman James cheated with is, or rather, was my wife,”
“Oh,” Liz says, “So you’re Spencer,” she smiles, wearing her reactions on her sleeve, unlike Y/N, who hardly ever lets anyone in, “Well, uh, you good to drive? Gwen and I are going to go to her place,” Liz tells Y/N, giving her a sly look and looking directly at Spencer.
Liz has never been one for subtly, but at least Spencer is polite enough to ignore her antics.
“Be safe, Lizzy,” Y/N says, kissing her on the cheek, “And I’ll take your car to mom’s and you’ll have to Uber because I have to leave for work by 6,”
Waving away her sister’s constant worries, Liz turns, still holding the woman, Gwen’s hand as they walk out, “Love you and use protection!”
Feeling her face heat at Liz’s lack of filter, Y/N refuses to meet Spencer’s eyes. She doesn’t know him that well, but from what she does, he seems like a very reserved, quiet man. And reserved quiet men don’t particular care for sex jokes about the woman who’s husband slept with his wife. Even as complicated as their situation is, that would make it even more complicated.
“I am so sorry about my sister. She is, she’s just-” Y/N starts, looking for the right words to apologize for Liz.
“She has a point,”
“Excuse me,” Y/N says, her eyes going wide as his words process, “That’s highly inappropriate. That you would...that we would...-” she stammers, unable to even articulate what Spencer and Liz insinuated.
“That we would sleep together?” he asks, way too comfortable about this for a man that she assumed to be reserved and quiet. Maybe he’s hiding secrets under all those soft cardigans and kind eyes.
“Why not?” Spencer says, shrugging his shoulders. The dark glimmer in his eyes washes over his face again. It’s not threatening, but enticing and inviting, “We’re both single now, work terrible hours, and are ridiculously lonely. And what’s better than a little revenge,”
Revenge.
Sleeping with Spencer as one final screw you to James, and especially Rebecca. It's a slippery slope, but that glint in his eye latches on to her, pulling her in. He notices her. Spencer notices her because he recognizes himself in the shattered pieces of glass. He sees his own fractured heart in hers and for their last act to be revenge. It’s revenge against the person that hurt them with the other person that they hurt. For a moment, maybe they’d let go, pretend to recognize their old selves as jagged and broken as they are.
But she can’t
“You’re out of your mind, Dr. Reid,” Y/N says, taking her purse and tossing a couple five dollar bills on the counter for the bartender, “I’ll need to get you a cab, because there’s no one you can drive. You’re probably drunk out of your mind-”
“I’m not drunk, Y/N,” Spencer says, his voice steady and strong as he looks at her with that dark glint again, “And I’ve not been so sure of something in a very long time,”
“Spencer,” she starts, “You’re a kind man. And maybe if it wasn’t the way it is. Maybe if Rebecca wasn’t your wife. And fuck, maybe if we meet ten years ago, maybe things would be different. But I can’t. I can’t get involved in something with someone as broken as me. Not when Aster needs me,”
“Of course, Y/N,” Spencer says, slipping his cardigan over his shoulders. He nods good night, but Y/N stops him before he can leave. She squeezes his hand in some sort of abandoned spouses solidarity and kisses his cheek. Her lips brush over his days old stubble, and it tickles her skin. Letting go as quickly as she held him, their eyes meet again, only for Spencer to squeeze her hand back again.
“Good night, neighbor,”
“Good night, neighbor,” he says, slipping past her and out into the misty night.
She’s alone again, sitting at the bar. Maybe it’s a bar thing because all she can think of is the regrets she has. Marrying James in the first place. But at least that gave her Aster. Letting James take tiny pieces away from her with each fight, each snide comment, each critique until all the pieces were gone. She has a lot of regrets, a lot of maybes, a lot of what ifs.
Maybe Liz is right. Maybe Spencer’s right. Maybe he’s exactly what she needs. And she won’t deny that the dark glint and controlled smirk made her want to know more about her mysterious, quiet neighbor. For a man who’s so controlled and quiet on the outside, she can’t help but wonder what makes him tick. What he would be like when the mask of composure comes off and the Spencer she’s never known comes out of hiding.
She’s on her feet and out the door before she can even realize. The buzz of liquid courage no longer coursed through her veins, only the temptation of something a little scandalous, a little daring.
He’s getting into his car, an old Volvo that’s parked in front of her house many times before. He must see her standing out in the rain because he slams his door shut, jogging over to her in the parking lot.
“Are you okay?” he asks, “Do you need a ride home?”
“Yes,” she says, her heart thumping in her chest. She doesn’t do things like this, but neither does Spencer Reid. And here they stand in the drizzling rain, “I need a ride. But to your place. So you can fuck me in the bed that you once shared with your wife,”
“Are you sure?” Spencer says, taking a step forward, not touching her as he gazes down at her, reading her micro-expressions for even the slightest bit of hesitance, “I want you to be very sure, Y/N,” he whispers, tucking a stray piece of hair behind her ear.
“I’m sure, Spencer,” she says back, not backing down from his intense stare, “I’m not made of glass. So don’t treat me like it,”
“You’ll be eating your words, my dear,” he says, darkly, running his thumb over Y/N’s lips and across her jawline.
She’s not sure who leaned in first. And in the end, it doesn’t really matter. Spencer’s hand, large on her cheek, holds her steady. Just as his lips are ready to brush across her's in a heated kiss, he pulls away. Leaving her dizzy and desperate, a whimper of annoyance and frustration escapes her lips.
“I want you to be sure, Y/N,” he whispers, tracing her lips. Their almost kiss makes her head spin, making her wonder what kind of drunk she’ll be when he finally kisses her.
“I want you, Spencer,”
Nodding, Spencer drops his hand from her cheek. He gives her a small, almost shy, smile. Staring at each other, standing in the parking lot, neither of them are daring enough to make their way to the car. Spencer’s hand, the same one that warmed her cheek, makes its way to the small of her back, guiding her to his car. His steady hand and lingering tingle of the stubble on her cheek is tantalizing. And though James shattered her glass heart, something small, yet hopeful tells her it might be repaired again one day.
She didn’t even get a chance to kick off her shoes before Spencer practically rammed her up against the wall. Behind is lanky stature, he hides a lot of strength. His hands wrap tightly into Y/N’s hair as his shoulders pin her against the wall. The pictures rattle when he moves. His fingers and hands gripping her face tightly to control the kiss. Everything about the way his lips move against her mouth is calculated. Spencer knows exactly when to nip at her bottom lip, tugging and biting in a way that sends shivers down her back. Somehow, despite barely knowing each other, it’s like Spencer has her body memorized.
In an effort to get his cardigan off, Y/N pushes against Spencer. No longer pinned against the wall, she waits as he slips off his cardigan, his shirt even more wrinkled now. His gaze, in the dark hallway, burns her. The way Spencer looks at her lights her aflame. His eyes burn into her skin, making the spots he touched miss his fingers and long for bruises to remember him by.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Spencer whispers, drawing his finger up the side of Y/N’s jawline. His eyes study her face, moving rapidly, proving that his mind that’s constantly on overtime, “Tell me what you want, sweet girl,”
She can’t help it. The pathetic little whimper that slips out of lips, which only seems to entertain Spencer even more. He grins devilishly, his fingers still lingering on her face, just giving her the tiniest taste of what’s to come.
Leaning in so her breath is hot against his ear, Y/N whispers, “I’m thinking about how you’re going to fuck me like you should’ve been fucking your wife,”
His reaction, though immediate, is calculated like everything he does. Slowly, he leans back down, blocking Y/N’s view of everything, except for him. He brushes his lips against hers, talking in a gravely tone that makes Y/N want nothing more than to obey him for the rest of the night.
“You sure about that?” he says, mirroring his words in the parking lot just minutes before. He smiles as Y/N nods, giving him even more confirmation, “Go sit on my bed and wait for me,” he orders, his hand catching Y/N’s as she walks away.
Spencer stops her, pulling her body flush against his as he kisses her again. It’s impossible to not get lost in the way Spencer kisses. He knows exactly where to rest his hands with one on her waist and the other on her cheek. She vows to herself that if it’s only tonight it's okay to let herself get swept up in the way Spencer’s fingers tickle her skin or the way his lips pressed up against burn into her heart.
“You’re very distracting,” Y/N says, their lips brushing, neither wanting to go too long without having some physical contact.
“You’re the one that’s distracting,” Spencer says, smiling widely as his hands sneak up Y/N’s shirt.
Slipping away from his grasp, Y/N finds her way to his bedroom. The layout is simple and she navigates her way around the books and clothes clutter the floor of his bedroom, but his bed is neatly made with a soft looking duvet. Carefully, she sits on the bed, trying to talk herself out of the plethora of nerves that threaten to send her running back to her mom’s.
“Well looks like you can listen, after all,” Spencer says, shutting his bedroom door behind him as he walks towards Y/N on his bed.
Just like in the bar, Spencer’s intense gaze makes her feel like she’s under a microscope. Except, she doesn’t feel judged, but noticed. And after a long time of not being noticed, it’s more than nice to be seen.
He kneels down, his hands resting on either side of Y/N’s thighs. Her work skirt and blazer make her feel so out of place with Spencer’s tousled hair and wrinkled button up. His watch catches the moonlight that drips in through the cracked blinds. Spencer looks up at her, his lips dark and swollen, begging for her to kiss them again.
He slips in hands under Y/N’s skirt. They are cold against her warm skin, the contrast making her lean her head forward against Spencer’s forehead. He must like that because he continues to graze her thighs with his hands. His calloused fingertips linger on skin long after he’s moved on.
“You don’t get touched often,” Spencer observes, not a single drop of judgement or even pity in his voice, but understanding, “How? God, you’re so beautiful like this. All needy for me, and I’ve hardly even touched you,” he muses, removing his hands from inside her skin. She’s cold without him, already hating being deprived of his touch.
“Spencer,” Y/N whines, dizzy from him and wondering what his next move is, “Please,”
“Shh, be patient, Y/N. I’m going to take my time with you,”
His words from before ring in her head.
You don’t get touched often.
The way he said it, it’s like he knew exactly how it feels to be neglected. To be so starved for intimacy that the tamest kiss will leave you desperately needing more. A taste, when it’s been so long going unnoticed, isn’t enough to quench the thirst. She wonders how he’ll react when she gets her hands on him. Will he call her name out, begging for her touch? Will he whimper sweetly as he comes undone all because of her? Will he forget the pain he’s been through, even if it’s just for a night. Will their broken hearts be shoved into drawers for the night, not neglected, but noticed.
“Let’s get that blazer off, Y/N,” Spencer says, sliding the navy blue jacket down Y/N’s arms and tossing it towards the pile of clothes in the corner of the bedroom. Now rid of the blazer, Spencer’s cold hands travel up her arms, down to her waist before untucking her silk shirt from the waistband of her skirt.
His frigid hands are icy on her hot skin. Spencer’s hands move up to her bra, squeezing her breast lightly through her bra. He closes his eyes for a second, enjoying the feeling of his skin against his and the tiniest noises she makes as he continues to touch her.
“I’m on the shot,” she says, waiting on the bed for Spencer to do something, “And I’m clean,”
“Good,” he says, short and sweet. Unbuttoning her shirt, Y/N watches as Spencer moves with a quicker pace than before, his fingers fly down her shirt, unbuttoning before he helps her slip it off her shoulders.
“Come here,” Spencer orders, flicking her fingers forward in the wordless motion. She listens like a Marionette following the words of her puppeteer. He holds her chin, forcing her eyes to stay on him as she leans forward. He kisses her yet again, even more dizzying than the last. She can taste the faintest taste of peach and lime on his tongue, proving that this night is actually happening.
“So you can be a good girl,” Spencer observes, “here I thought you would be a little brat. But all you want is some to take care of you. Is that right, sweet girl?” he says, his voice laced with fake pity. One hand grips her wrist, holding her in place and the other remains on her chin, keeping her attention on him.
“Yes,” Y/N stutters out, her body growing hotter and hotter, the longer Spencer holds out on her, “please, just please,” she whines, no longer caring about keeping her composure. He unfastens her bra, watching as her bare breasts sit before him.
“Lean back, baby,” Spencer says, “and scoot up to the pillows,”
Following his directions, Y/N frantically slides up his bed. His soft duvet cover under her and his plush pillow under her head. Spencer slips off his shoes, still fully dressed compared to Y/N who remains only in her work skirt. Crawling up the bed, Spencer’s arms rest on either side of Y/N’s head. His lips dip down to her collarbone as he places wet, open mouth kisses all the way down her bare skin. Unlike his cold hands, his mouth is hot, drawing out moans of pleasure as he gets closer and closer to where she wants him most.
Fueled on by the promise of pleasure, Y/N grips onto his wild hair, hoping he’ll get the message to stay where he is. Leaning on his knees, Spencer slowly slides her skirt down her legs. Words of praise tumble from his lips as he peels back her skirt, leaving her only in her underwear.
“Spencer, please,” Y/N begs, feeling him spread open her legs when his hands grip her thighs. He draws shapeless shapes on the soft skin of her inner thighs, chuckling darkly as her breath hitches when he skims over her underwear.
“So responsive,” he coos, drawing with his finger along Y/N’s hip bone before looping her waistband around his finger, “you can be as loud as you want, sweet girl,” he whispers, leaning her head down to kiss her soft stomach. He peppers the lightest kisses along her belly, smirking proudly to himself at every whine and whimper.
“I need you, Spencer. Please, I need you,” she says, getting more and more desperate by the minute, “I need you,”
As much as it’s nice to be wanted, it’s even nicer to be needed. And from the familiar glint in Spencer’s eye, Y/N doesn’t doubt that Spencer needs her as much as she needs him. Her heart thumps in her chest, an unfamiliar pang of excitement and adrenaline brought on by another soul does something to her. Like it’s an instinct she picked up years ago, Y/N’s hands travel to Spencer’s hair, gripping tightly. He must like the sensation because as he kisses the inside of her thighs, he moans into her skin.
Kissing and nipping, he leaves marks for the morning, the only proof for tomorrow that tonight actually happened.
“Are you okay?” Spencer whispers, worried in his voice as his finger loosen their bruising grip on Y/N’s thighs. Her hands, still tight in his hair, loosen as well. Paralleling the way he gently stroked her cheek outside his bedroom door, Y/N’s index finger moves up and down his sharp jawline. His stubble tickles his fingers and his pink lips tempt her to touch them.
“I’m perfectly fine,”
“Good,” Spencer says, before drawing his finger along her inner thighs. His fingers ghost up towards her clit, rubbing small circles. He looks up at her, daring her to play a strange, adult staring contest. Spencer’s palm hovers over her pussy, encouraging her to rut against him as he smiles with delight. Despite being naked while Spencer is fully dressed, Y/N doesn’t mind.
“That’s it,” Spencer encourages, “But you look too good to not taste,” he mutters, lowering his head as his face grazes her sensitive clit. His large hands hover over her thighs, holding her in place as his tongue flickers, tasting her. Taking his time, Spencer nips and sucks, making his own sounds of pleasure as Y/N nears the edge herself.
“Oh, god,” she moans, gripping Spencer’s hair as another wave of pleasure crashes into her. She can feel it in her toes. The relief melts away the tension.
She’s not the sad single mother, she’s the overworked attorney, she’s not the neglected and ignored wife. She’s Y/N.
He’s not the lonely, mysterious neighbor who went to prison, he’s not the exhausted agent, he’s not the misunderstood husband. He’s Spencer.
They're broken hearts, fractured and jagged, seeking a ill-thought out, albeit, erotic rebellion against the people who promised to love and cherish them forever.
It’s twisted and sick that it takes another man to fuck her for Y/N remember her old self again. With the way Spencer’s groans of pleasure grow and his hardened dick rubs against her leg, it’s no hidden secret how this is going to end for both of them. It’s no secret that all people want is to be wanted, noticed, needed.
“Did your husband fuck you like this?” Spencer whispers, his voice cutting like shards in the room, otherwise quiet, except for whimpers and whines coming from Y/N.
No, he didn’t. He never wanted tasted her like this. He never tried to get her to come to the edge over and over. He never nipped and sucked and kissed her thighs before he ate her out like a starved man. He never wanted to, yet Spencer needs to.
“No,” Y/N says, honest to Spencer, because who can lie with a beautiful man in between her legs, “Never, he, ugh, Spencer,”
“God,” Spencer says, taking a break as he look her in the eyes, “I knew he was dumb, but that’s just fucking foolish,” he says before swirling her tongue over Y/N’s clit again and sucking softly. He searches for her hand, finding it in his hair. Holding her hand in his, he squeezes as her moans of pleasure grow more and more frequent.
“Are you going to come? Hmm, are you going to come all over my face like a good girl?” Spencer asks, the condescending tone fitting him surprisingly well, “good girls ask for permission, sweetheart,”
“P-please,” she whines, not caring how pathetic she sounds. She clutches onto Spencer’s hand, holding him like a liferaft, “Please, Spencer. Please let me come,”
“Come, Y/N. Come on my face, sweet girl. I know you can do it,” he says, humming encouragement. The vibrations spur her on, her legs shaking as she comes undone with Spencer’s mouth still working on her clit. His hands gather up her release, slick on his long fingers.
“What a good girl,” he muses, clicking his tongue, “You want to see how good you taste?” Spencer asks, bringing his slick finger to her lips.
Y/N takes his long middle and index fingers into her mouth. Swirling her tongue around it, tasting herself on him. Keeping eye contact with Spencer is hard, but especially when his fingers are buried in her mouth and his puffy lips still wear her release. A trail of spit ties her lips to his fingers as he removes his fingers.
Spencer’s eyes flicker up to Y/N’s. Her legs lay lazily on his and his hands hover hesitantly over her shoulders. Sitting with him in silence it’s awkward, but almost peaceful. They move in simultaneously, as if pulled by an invisible string. Eyes meet and then flicker away shyly, a touchless kiss shared even before lips meet. The distance grows shorter, spurred on by the promise of being wanted, of being noticed. It keeps that familiar motion sickness feeling away. In this quiet little bedroom far away from the mistakes of neglectful husbands and disloyal wives, steadiness and peace thrives.
“It’s not fair,” Y/N huffs, adding levity to the quiet, Spencer’s lips work down from her mouth to her shoulders and down her arms.
“What’s not fair, sweetheart,” he asks, still kissing her skin. Maybe it grounds him, maybe it reminds him that this is all real too. That there’s something after you lose everything.
“That you’re not naked,” Y/N says, bringing her fingers up to unbutton his shirt. Smiling, Spencer stands up from the bed, happy to rid himself from the confines of his clothes. His pink shirt and dark pants get tossed into the void, long forgotten with Y/N’s shirt and skirt, “You’re taking too long,” she says, pulling down his boxer briefs.
“Maybe you’re just impatient,” Spencer jokes, kicking his underwear down his legs and crawling back into bed. He attacks Y/N’s neck, kissing and nipping the sensitive skin. She giggles at the sensation of his stubble tickling her neck. The momentarily sweet gesture is only that, before can feel Spencer’s ever pressing erection against her leg.
“We don’t have to go any further, Y/N,-” he starts, but is cut off by Y/N planting a kiss to shut him up. For someone that really short circuited her brain by barely touching her, Spencer is awfully unsure that she wants this as much as he does.
“I want you to fuck me Spencer. Fuck me like you wanted to fuck you wife. You don’t have to hold back,” she says, licking her lips in anticipation as Spencer’s eyes darken with something that looks like jealousy. He leans back, resting in between Y/N’s legs, pumping his erection.
He looks down at her with so much intensity that Y/N can’t help but feel like the bed is going to swallow her whole. She’s wonderstruck, watching him hover above her. She anticipates his every move, wondering exactly what he’s going to do next. His hands cover her stomach, ghosting over her skin.
“More,”
“More what?” Spencer asks, playing the fool, when they both know he’s the master of all, “You need to use your words, sweetheart,” he mumbles, mouth latching onto her breast as he swirls his tongue around her nipple. Proud of her response to his ministrations, Spencer decides to give into her wants, which elicits more whimpers.
“So good, baby,” Y/N says, finding home in his messy hair again, “So good, Spencer. Please, fuck me now,” she begs, the whimpers of pleasure tumbling from her lips as Spencer cuts her off with another kiss. She wonders if he can taste herself in the kiss and if that makes him want her more.
“Are you sure, you’re ready for me, sweet girl,” Spencer whispers, his mouth brushing against Y/N’s neck, leaving trails of marks that will be puffy by the morning when their little escapade is nothing but faint memories in the back of their heads.
“So ready, so ready, Spencer,” Y/N chants, not beyond begging for Spencer to fuck her. He smiles to himself, secretly enjoying the feelings of being wanted by someone you want.
He kisses Y/N as he buries himself deep inside her, letting the sensation of his mouth and the stillness of his movements make her dizzy with anticipation. It feels so good with him deep inside her, not moving, just breathing in slowly and steadily, that Y/N swears to herself she can get drunk off the feeling. It’s sweeter than motion sickness, which only leaves you empty with dread. But this- this makes her feel full, complete…
“Shh,” Spencer coos, slowly moving as he begins to thrust in and out, taking his time. He kisses up the side of Y/N’s face, leaving opened mouth kisses on her cheeks, collarbones and shoulders. Spencer leaves no stone unturned, kisses every inch of her body as she clutches his back, “Let me take care of you, sweet girl,” he mutters, seeming to finally lose himself in the feeling of her wrapped around him.
“Spencer,” Y/N cries out, unsure what to say exactly. Words can’t quite describe the feeling of his body flush against hers, holding her steady as he moves in and out from the place where their bodies join as one. Words don’t do him justice.
“Please don’t hold back,” she says, wondering if she’ll regret the words in an hour or so when she makes the awkward walk back to the bar.
It’s like a coil snapping. The shift between the slow, languid thrusts and sweet kisses that Spencer leaves. His hands hover over his waist, ghosting along her soft skin and moving quickly to latch onto her nipple. He sits up, resting on his heels as he gazes down at Y/N, spread out before him, wanting- no - needing his next command.
“Did your husband make love to you? Hmm,” Spencer says, dragging his fingers down to Y/N’s clit as he begins to rub dizzying circles, “Did James fuck you sweetly?”
“Yes, yes, he uh,” Y/N stammers, her face flushed with humiliation as James’ name slips between Spencer’s lips. She doesn’t want to think about him right now, because thinking about him will only make her realizes that James could never compare to Spencer, “not like this,”
“No, not like this. I’m not going to make love to you, sweet girl. I’m going to fuck you,” Spencer says, his voice oozing with false pity. His fingers don’t let up, as Y/N squirms in place, trying her best to get off without Spencer permission.
“Don’t be a brat,” Spencer orders, “I don’t like when good girls pretend to be brats. Your husband must have been so pathetic. I’m hardly even touching you. And look at you. You’re a messy, messy little whore,” Spencer observes, his finger sliding up her and much to her excitement all she can do is let out mangled cries of his name and curse words.
“Aww is it too much? Is it too much for you, slut? I can stop right now. I can stop right now and call James up. Maybe he can finish the job?” Spencer asks, saying the forbidden name yet again.
“No,” Y/N says, finding her voice amongst the dizzying sensation of Spencer’s fingers and voice, “I want you,” she cries, “I need your cock inside me, Spencer. Please I need it,” she begs, humiliation growing in her belly as Spencer taps her cheek patronizingly.
“What a good girl. Looks like I don’t even have to fuck the brat out of you. You’re so eager you do that without being told,” he coos, leaning down to kiss her cheek and forehead.
It’s a mixture of sweet and sadistic that she knows she can get drunk off. His searing kisses and his wandering fingers force all her energy to focus on him. The way his tongue flicks across her bare chest, giving her just enough to be hungry for more. Sex must be an adult version of the teacup ride. You know you’re going to be all dizzy and woozy, but somehow it’s worth it all. Her skin tingles and she swears that Spencer’s touches are electric.
“Please fuck me, I need it, I need it so bad. So bad,” she pants, gripping Spencer’s forearms, pleading with him to take mercy on her. He listens, for once, kisses her forehead sweetly before thrusting in exponentially more quicker and faster than before.
She can feel him everywhere. His hands on her scorched skin and his thrusting in her sensitive sex. Spencer is calculated. He knows exactly how powerful to make the thrusts, he knows how to make her squeal and squirm with delight. His arms are on either side of Y/N’s head like a protective shield. She wonders if he’ll hold her sweetly after this, as if that wouldn’t make their relationship even more complex.
“Oh, god, Spencer,” she stammers, “More, more,” she pleads, knowing she’s signing her name to the devil if he’s going to fuck her like this.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m taking it easy on you tonight. You’re a lucky girl,” Spencer whispers, his sweet, albeit patronizing words conflicting the way his hips snap meeting Y/N’s in fast paced, unrelenting thrusts or his fingers on her clit or his mouth against her skin, “My lucky whore,”
“No one can fuck you like this,”
The words- and their very salacious meaning- ring in Y/N’s ear. And even though her cheeks and chest flush with embarrassment, she knows that Spencer makes a point. Sex with James was more of a chore. Something Y/N felt compelled to do because maybe it would make him want her more.
Wanting. Being wanted. Wanting someone that wants you back. It’s what got her here in the first place, with her legs stretched out and her recently divorced neighbor fucking the life out of her.
“Say it,” Spencer orders, though it comes out more of a strained beg, his thrusts, once calculated and precise, grow more sloppy and slower as he reaches his climax, “Tell me no one has fucked you like this. Say it, I know no one could fuck you like the slut you are, sweet girl,”
“No one,” Y/N starts, trying to concentrate on stringing the words together. It proves to be difficult when Spencer is hell-bent on making walking difficult the next morning, “No one’s fucked me like this. Not James. No one can fuck me like you do, Spencer,” she calls out, clawing towards him and latching on to his hair.
Layers of sweat and tears cover their skin, a dizzying cocktail of desperation and despair. For a moment in time they forget about the heartbreak. For a moment, they let themselves simply feel good, even for just one night.
“Never forget that, sweetheart. It will be like no one else has ever fucked you after me. They won’t measure up,”
They won’t. It couldn’t even if they tried.
She’ll hate the way his fingerprints are shadows on her skin. Tattoo kisses, once wet and fresh, but now long forgotten. She’ll crave his touch more than her husband’s. She’ll rewind the tape, pausing at the moments when she sees them unmarred with neglect, but golden with temporary joy. She doesn’t particularly like the idea of “ruined for other men” but, again, Spencer has a point. Y/N wonders if that neighborhood gossip of him being a genius is actually true.
“I’m going to come, Spencer, please,” Y/N cries out, coming undone for a second time tonight. She can feel her toes tingle in anticipation. The alcohol far gone from her system, but drunk off Spencer. He’s worth the regret flavored hangover that she might nurse tomorrow, “I need you,”
“You’re so cute, all messy like this. Messy little slut for me. I bet you want to come all over my cock, huh? Gonna let me fill you? Fuck you so hard that you’ll always feel me there,” he whispers, his hot breath foggy up her mind.
“Yes, please. Oh god yes,” she chants, his name on her tongue like a prayer. She’s a sinner and if he got even an ounce of saintliness in his pinky, she’ll worship him in the dead of night.
“Look me in the eyes as you come, sweetheart. Remember how I fucked you,” he dares, his lips latching onto her neck leaving marks, “just like that, sweet girl. Such a good girl for me,” he praises. His words stick to her like glue, daring to burrow deep inside her heart.
“So fucking cute when you come,” he muses, his thumb rubbing quick circles around her clit, simpering as Y/N bites her bottom lip as her climax approaches. Spencer, leaning down so his lips capture her bitten bottom lip. He tugs, smiling when she whines at the sharp pain of his teeth against her puffy lip.
She lays blissed out in his bed transfixed as the white milky substance leaks out from Spencer’s cock onto her stomach. His large hand hovers over her hip bone keeping her still as he reaches his release. Like a domino effect, as soon as Spencer meets his climax, her second one of the night hits her like a tidal wave.
“Come for me, sweet girl,” he commands, yet again conducting their salacious dance, even to the very end.
Y/N can feel the coils loosen deep her belly and tingle all the way down to her toes. Her head spins, drunk off the smell of Spencer’s spicy cologne and the sight of him relaxed as he kisses along her shoulders, whispers sweet nothings as she comes undone at his hands.
“Oh, fuck,” she says, cursing as she feels her muscles ease and the tension from her neck melt away, “Holy fuck. I didn’t think you had that in you,” she teases, pushing Spencer’s hair from his forehead. It sticks to his skin with his sweat. And in the moonlight, he looks younger and more carefree than he actually is.
“Are you okay?” Spencer asks, back to the reserved, cautious neighbor that always made her wonder, “You should use the bathroom, you know while it’s not medically proven, it’s highly recommended that you urinate after engaging in penetrative sexual intercourse to prevent UTIs,” he states, rattle off the factoid like he’s reading from a sex-ed handbook.
Sexual intercourse. Didn’t this man just say she was a good girl when she came when told? And he’s too bashful to say sex.
“Is that true?” Y/N asks, silently wondering how much longer she has until he inevitably wants her to leave. While there’s no hand book for fucking your ex-husband’s mistress’s ex-husband, cuddling and waking up to pancakes isn’t the expectation, “as much as I’d like to avoid that, I think I need you to help me up. My bones feel like they’re made of jelly,”
“Guess I did fuck you that good,” Spencer whispers darkly, sliding his arm under Y/N’s back to help her out of his bed, “it was good for you though?” he asks, worry in his big, sad eyes.
“Are you kidding me? Spencer, I’m not kidding when I tell you that I’m struggling to walk here. You were more than fine, you’re hiding an awful lot behind those cardigans and sweater vests,” Y/N teases, standing up and putting her hands on Spencer’s shoulders as his legs dangle from the bed.
His hands find home on her waist and his eyes silently thank her for the reassurance.
“You can stay,” he whispers, “I’ll help you clean up and we can go to sleep. For the first time in a really long time, I’m not dreading going to sleep. And I think that has something to do with me not being alone,” he reveals, quietly retreating into himself.
“Of course,” she tells him, trying to conceal that staying the night is exactly what she hoped for, “I’ll be right back,”
“Let me get you a towel first,” Spencer says, squeezing her hand as she sits back down on the bed. He comes back in with a warm damp towel that he drags up and down Y/N’s legs and across her stomach.
Silently, brazenly, he places kisses that make her skin goosebump and prickle. She licks her lips, watching him care for her. The dark glint in his eyes, the one she noticed in the bar and then when he hovered over her, is gone. It’s replaced by something sweeter and a little sadder. Eyes, they say, are windows into the soul. She speculates that Spencer must be a sad one to have eyes that shine like glass and are bittersweet like haunted dreams.
“I think you’re good,” Spencer whispers, his voice breaking the silence, “the bathroom’s to the left. And I’ll have some clothes for you to put on,” he says, standing up to help her out of bed.
“Thanks,”
As she uses the bathroom, she doesn’t let herself think about the strangeness of this. She always wondered about the shy neighbor who she would stand near during neighborhood get-togethers and events. And especially after he went away for a while and came back quieter and even more secluded. Now, she supposes that lonely hearts find each other.
Finding her way back to Spencer, she finds him sitting on his bed. His lamp is on, lighting up his room with a warm glow. He leans back on his bed, his glasses resting on his nose. He looks at peace like that, relaxed in his own space that he offered to share with her, even if it’s for just one night.
“Hey there, neighbor,” Spencer says, “As much as I enjoy the view, I think you’d be more comfortable in some pajamas,” he offers, holding out a pair of men’s boxers and a faded gray tee-shirt, “And I have lots of cardigans if you get chilly,”
“We’re technically no longer neighbors,” she says, putting on the tee shirt and boxers, “But thanks for the shirt,”
“I guess so,” Spencer observes, watching her from under his glasses, “You’re getting the house, I presume,” he says, “I don’t mean to pry, but I am the person to talk about this stuff, you know,”
“You, me and like 35% of marriages,” Y/N teases, amused by Spencer’s baffled expression, “What? You’re not the only one who can memorize statistics.”
Spencer spreads the covers over Y/N’s shoulders and leans over to turn off the lamp on his nightstand. He lays flat on his back, his eyes refusing to meet Y/N’s as she turns over on her side. Neither of them dare to move, even though it’s like there’s an invisible magnet pulling them closer and closer together.
“Good night, neighbor,” she whispers into the dark, feeling that dizzying feeling again when Spencer finally turns to face the same way she does. His face hovers above hers, his hands ghosts on her waist, not touching even though she wants him too. It would be nice to be held as she sleeps.
“Good night, Y/N,” Spencer answers back, closing the gap and pulling Y/N in close.
He holds her in his arms, flush against his chest. She can feel his thumping heart on her back. Trying to steady her heart rate, she tries to count her breaths.
One. Two. Three.
In and out.
Slow and steady.
Pretending this is real. Pretending that she’ll wake up and this will all be real. His warm body against hers is real. And the teacup ride will stop, the motion sickness will melt away, and all that remains is the dizzying sensation of being wanted by the one you want.
The last thing she remembers before she falls asleep is the smell of Spencer's sheets. They smell like sea breeze and salt air. His breathing is like the ocean calling out her across the short, yet vast, distance between them. They're castaways lost at l
She’s up before he wakes. Like he did last night, Spencer looks younger when he sleeps. His wrinkles from stress and worrying are less prominent, and a small smile is etched into his lips. Spencer’s arm is heavy against her upper torso. He’s warm and his shirt smells like clean cotton. Y/N wishes she can ignore her responsibilities and let herself melt into the sheets with Spencer’s arms wrapped around her waist.
But she can’t. She’s not his to want, he’s not hers to want either.
Slipping from the bed, she searches for her clothes that are scattered around the floor. Liz will know exactly what happened when she goes to her mom’s to get Aster wearing the same outfit she went out in. As much as she hates her sister being right, she doesn’t regret their night.
Before her fears get the best of her, Y/N scribbles her phone number on loose sticky-note on Spencer’s dresser. She’s not even sure if she wants him to call her. Or if this was a one time thing, and she’s nothing but a notch on his bedpost.
Turning the door, Y/N sneaks one look back at Spencer. His sleeping form threatens to call her back into the warm bed. Selfishly, she wants coffee-breath kisses and jokes shared while listening to morning news with the only man who can’t give her that. Painfully, she walks through the door, deepening the distance between them and ignoring the way her heart races at the sight of his curly brown hair messed up along his pillow case.
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