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sweet as sugar

| summary: you go to Frank’s door with a pie as an excuse to see him- you have been crushing on him for a while after all? He lets you in and you find out there’s mutual feelings for more than cherry pie.

| authors notes: Been wanting to post an age-gap fic with Frank for a while so… here we are. kinda an au where he isn’t the punisher?

| content: fem reader, smut, p in v, softdom!frank, agegap, comfort, fingering, frank being a fucking tease, praise, pet names, dirty talk 😛, frank taking care of you, experienced!frank x inexperienced!reader, frank lowkey having a moral dilemma

| word count: 8.6k

Everyone knows Frank. If you were to ask, they’d tell you: “that quiet, handsome guy down the street.” But nobody really knows him. He’s the city’s favorite loner, and admired from afar by all of the women- single women, divorced ones, even married wives. They hang on his every manly step like he’s something out of a daydream, watching him in awe. Frank notices, of course. But all they ever get from him is a soft smile and polite nod as he walks away.

So, you don’t know how or why exactly you got to his door, but you know you’re here now, a gentle breeze blowing through your hair on this cozy autumn day, and a fresh warm cherry pie in your hands. You don’t know what you were thinking to be honest, as if he’s going to even spare a glance at you, a younger girl in this city full of experienced women. But try as you might, you couldn’t stop yourself, so you’re here now, skirt blowing in the breeze as you build up the courage to knock on his door.

Considering you’re already on his doorstep like an idiot, with a pie in your hands and a bullshit excuse ready to go, you figure there’s not that much more to lose. You steady the pie against your hip, smoothing down your hair with your thin fingers. You take a deep breath before hesitantly rapping your knuckles against the door.

knock, knock, knock.

You hold the pie steady with both hands again, heart pattering in anticipation. Truthfully, you’re thinking about turning around and calling it a day, but you hear a gruff, “yeah, yeah, I’m comin’, hang on.” and then shuffling behind the door. Before you know it, the door swings backwards, and the man who’s been living in your head the past few nights is stood there.

He hooks a hand above the doorframe, like he’s bigger than the frame itself, and nods at you, that same polite, friendly expression on his face. “Hey,” he says, “Everything okay sweetheart?” His gaze flicks over your body before settling on the pie in your hands, his eyebrows tilted slightly in confusion.

There’s a second where you just stare at him. Up close, he looks exactly the same as always, that worn flannel, those rough hands. The kind of man everyone on the street waves to. The kind of man whose house you definitely don’t show up to unannounced at eight thirty. You shift the pie against your hip. “Uhm, I made too much pie.” you say quickly. One of his eyebrow lift as he asks, “That right?” His tone isn’t suspicious, but there’s clearly confusion beneath it. Like he’s trying to figure out why this girl from a street down is standing on his porch.

“Yeah, and it’s um, cherry,” you add, because apparently that helps. His mouth twitches amusedly. “Well,” he says slowly, “that explains absolutely nothing.” Heat creeps into your face and you start blabbering, “I just thought maybe-” You stop yourself. “Well my aunt said you live alone- and I felt bad- and so I had extra pie and then-”. Waving around his hand, he cuts you off and asks,“Your aunt gossips about me?” The second you spoke, you wish you could reverse it. “Well yeah, but she gossips about everyone” you say nervously, and that gets a chuckle out of him.

The porch light hums softly overhead, and suddenly, you become hyperaware of everything, the cold night air, the warmth of the pie bleeding through its tin and the fact that he’s looking at you like he still hasn’t quite figured out what this visit it. He watches you carefully, thinking about his choice of words and finally nods his head at his door, “Alright sweetie, you better come in then, it’s freezing out.”

He moves to the side to let you step inside, then shuts the door behind you with a click. By natural instinct, you begin observing everything you see. You scan his hallway with your eyes; his house is clean, it has this warm, comfy feel, and- is that a plant? Not that you’ve been thinking about Frank (well?), but you wouldn’t have thought he’s a plant guy.

You smile to yourself as he leads you into his living room, walking infront of you. As he walks past his rustic timber table, he taps his fingers on it gently, like it’s an old friend. “You can put the pie here sweetheart”, he says gently, in a paternal tone. You do as he suggests, placing the warm tin down onto the table and stay stood up, scratching the back of your leg with your other foot.

He watches you attentively, clearly wondering why you’re so nervous when you were the one who showed up at his door. “You alright?” he asks, tilting his head forward slightly. You glance up at him, startled out of your thoughts. “Oh- yeah, sorry,” you mutter with an awkward smile. He just shakes his head, a quiet smirk tugging at his lips as he heads toward the kitchen, like you’re some unintentionally hilarious kid amusing him without even trying.

For some reason, that gets under your skin, the idea that he might see you as childish, and you have to physically stop yourself from frowning as he walks back. “Plates,” he announces proudly, holding one in each hand like a trophy. You smile like you’re in pain- “Plates,” you repeat dryly, lifting your brows sarcastically.

Frank sets the dishes down on the table, even pulling out a chair for you before turning back with a thoughtful look. “Oh, want anything to drink?” he asks, and honestly, you’re still intimidated by him and the fact you’re actually here. “Uhm, sure,” you say shyly, as you sit down in the chair he pulled out for you, trying to seem a little more outgoing. He shrugs lightly, “What do you want sweetheart? I’ve got milk, uhm- tea if you want,” he says, gazing off at the ceiling in concentration while he thinks.

You nod along as he speaks, his voice smooth as the polished timber table between you. “Have you got any whiskey?” you ask quietly, looking up at his manly figure. He frowns immediately. “Ain’tcha a little young for that?” he asks, perplexed. You glare at him with a sigh. “You’re so not funny,” you mutter, scooting your chair closer to the table to get comfortable.

He scans his eyes up and down your figure. “I’m serious; besides, whiskey with pie?” he asks with a grimace on his face. His hands are on his hips as he speaks, and you can’t help but scan your eyes over his muscles, over his broad chest pulling on the fabric of his shirt, like it’s about to tear any minute. “Oh, I don’t want any, I don’t even like cherries that much.” you shrug, running a finger around the edge of your empty plate.

He raises an eyebrow, tracing his tongue over his teeth as he watches you curiously. “What? It’s too sweet.” you protest, wondering why it’s a big deal. His eyes flicker over you, and suddenly the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk. “Huh, you made too much of a pie you don’t even like?”

Your lips part to answer him but you realise you’re stuck. His stupid smirk only gets wider when you don’t say anything, and he folds his arms across his chest. “Right then.” he says softly. You look down at your plate, suddenly very interested in the lack of food on it. “I just thought you might want some.” you mumble. He raises his eyebrows again and asks, “Even though you don’t like it?” he asks. You finally look at him again, “Well- I can bake things I don’t like.” you shoot back quickly. He studies you for a second too long, eyes narrowed with a quiet amusement, then huffs out a laugh through his nose. “Alright then.”

The room goes quiet after that, hot and awkward in a way that makes your stomach twist. You pray he doesn’t think you’re some weirdo who knocks on peoples doors with pies. God, you’re losing your mind. He glances between you and the untouched pie sitting on the table before turning around and leaving the room, his footsteps hushing as he walks away. You throw your head in your hands- you’ve actually made him walk away.

After a moment, he enters the room again with two forks in one hand and a glass of milk in the other. He places the glass onto the table with a clink. “Well, if I’m gonna eat pie from some kid who accidentally made too much, I’d hope it’s safe.” He slides one of the forks across the table toward you, and you reluctantly pick it up. He sees your hesitation and tilts his head slightly, leaning onto the table with his arms holding his weight as he stands. “You really don’t like cherries?” he asks gently.

You shake your head, muttering, “Not really,” and somehow his face softens. He nods, pulling a chair out and sitting down, “That’s alright sweetheart.” He pulls the dish towards himself, lifting up his fork. His eyes flicker to yours for a moment before he cuts himself a piece, carefully moving it to his plate. Your eyes can’t peel away from his every move, and he can tell. Slowly, he lifts his fork to his mouth and takes a bite of your pie. He nods as he chews, eyes closing for a moment. Of course, you can’t help but smile proudly, he actually likes it. He likes the pie that you made.

Once he’s finished the first bite, he looks up at you, wagging a finger. “Tell you what, you sure can make a pie kid.” he says appreciatively, taking another bite. “Thank you,” you reply, the tips of your ears flushing red. He notices it course, but quietly continues eating his pie. You take the glass of milk on the table and raise it to your lips, just to give yourself something to do. Eventually, he finishes his pie, and slides the fork down onto his plate. He doesn’t let go of it straight away though, his eyes lifting back to yours instead. “So,” he says slowly, “You gonna tell me why you actually came here, or are we sticking to the pie story?”

You open your mouth, then shut it again when you realise you have no follow up lie prepared. Heat crawls up your neck and he catches it immediately. “Is it so hard to believe I wanted to do something nice for a neighbour?” you ask defensively, the room suddenly feeling really hot.

He looks over to your almost full glass of milk and pulls it across the table, stopping it in front of himself. His eyes flick over your lipgloss imprint on the rim of the glass, and he lifts it to his lips, taking a painfully slow sip. He intimidates you, but for some reason you can’t look away from him. Slowly, he swipes his thumb over his lip, now tacky with your lipgloss. You swear your stomach physically flips at that.

With a low grin to himself, he stands up, stacking the dishes and glass onto each other. He gives a small nod to you and turns to leave the room again, presumably taking the dishes to the kitchen. You hear the rushing of water and the clinking of dishes. He’s really washing up right now? When there’s literally someone at his house?

You roll your eyes, frustrated at yourself more than him. You had one chance and now you’ve blown it. You’re gonna go home and live with the fact that tonight will haunt you for the rest of your life, and he’s gonna forget about you next month. Mention you on dates, simply remembering you as that loser kid who showed up to his door with a sad cherry pie.

You sit at the table, sulking about the past twenty minutes and eventually, you hear Frank’s footsteps getting gradually louder as he walks back into the room. He’s rolling his sleeves back down when you catch his eye. “Oh, you still here?” he asks casually, like your presence isn’t all that important to him. You frown confusedly as you scoot your chair back to stand up and say, “Well, where else would I be?” While he watches you move, he shrugs indifferently, leaning onto the wall behind him. That boils your blood. “Thought you’d have gone.” he says coolly. You bite the inside of your cheek, looking for a smart answer, but you can’t find one.

The thing is, he’s right. You should be gone now, because it’s not like you’re friends or anything? You just brought a pie and a stupid excuse to his house, you don’t even have a reason to stay.

The longer the silence drags on, the more obvious it becomes that Frank’s right. You should probably leave. He’s already had some pie, your excuse for coming over was bullshit to begin with, and now you’re just hovering in his living room looking ridiculous. Frank watches the thought settle over you and, unlike before, the careless expression on his face softens slightly around the edges.

“Hey,” he says, quieter this time, like he can tell you’re starting to feel embarrassed. “I’m messing with you.” You glance up at him uncertainly. He’s still leaning against the wall, relaxed as ever, but there’s something steadier in his expression now, less amused and more patient. “You get embarrassed too easily sweetheart,” he says softly, observing your face. “That’s not my fault,” you mutter, barely making eye contact.

A small laugh leaves him at that, low and easy. “Nah, I guess it isn’t.” Your eyes drift towards the half eaten pie on the table and your face warms all over again. “You didn’t have to eat it, you know.” you say quietly, cringing at yourself. “Course I did.” He shrugs like it’s obvious. “You brought it all the way here, and I couldn’t refuse it from a sweet girl like you.” he says simply. You shrug, insides churning with heat.

You feel like you’re losing your mind, so you cross your feet to give yourself something to do. “It was a stupid idea.” you breathe out. Frank nods, his eyes not leaving your turned down face. “Maybe yeah,” he admits, “but it was nice.” The words catch you off guard because he says them so simply, and yet you still can’t understand what he means.

He notices the way you go quiet after that and shakes his head faintly, pushing himself off the wall. “Stop hovering around like you’re about to get told off.” he sighs, gesturing his head to the chair you previously abandoned. You hesitate before sitting back down slowly, and he watches you for a second with that same knowing look he’s had all night. “You know,” he says casually, “you could’ve just said you wanted to stay.” Immediately, you look down at your hands, your body flooded with embarrassment. “I didn’t know if you wanted me here.” you mutter, like it’s hard to speak. Frank’s expression shifts at that, softer now in a way that makes your chest ache a little. “Kid,” he says, almost amused, “if I wanted you gone, you’d know.”

You feel like you’re going insane to be honest. Only now, you’re realising what a dumb idea it was to come to his house in the first place. He probably couldn’t care less about your crush on him if he found out, he thinks of you as some ‘kid’ anyways. But you’re not, and you’re desperate to prove it to him. Your mind races at a million miles a second, desperately thinking of something to say to end this awkward moment. But it’s not your words that break the silence. Your ears perk up like a puppy when you hear his deep, low voice. “You wanna tell me why you’re really here darlin’?” he asks, trying to coax the answer out of you.

You should’ve known what you got yourself into when you tapped on his door. When you entered his house with your little cherry pie. Heat grows at the bottom of your stomach, and you’re desperate to hear more of his low, manly drawl.

He tips his head to the side, and you lose all feelings in your legs. “I’m, well- I wanted to,” you begin, your mouth suddenly filled with dust. Frank just smirks that low, teasing smirk and whispers, “There’s nothing to be scared of sweetie, just tell me the truth.” You swear he’s doing it on purpose, he has to know the effect he has on you, especially when it’s so clear on your face.

“Hm?” he taunts, stepping towards you slightly, and your breath catches in your throat. There’s still a metre between you, but your skin is actually radiating heat now. “Well I just wanted to come and see you.” you choke out, eyes glued to the floor. “Hey,” he says, voice barely a whisper, “look at me when you’re speaking.” The way he says it makes your heart stop, and not because he says it in a patronising way, but because it’s like he’s teaching. Like he cares about you, like he wants the best for you.

Your eyes slowly unstick from the floor, moving up to meet his and he cracks a smile. “Alright good,” he nods, his arms crossed over his chest. Your stomach flips at his authoritative tone when he asks, “Why’d you wanna come see me then?” You’ve already got yourself into this shit, you think, so you might aswell tell the truth. “I thought you were handsome,” you shrug, “I wanted to get to know you a little- everyone talks about you.” you say bluntly, heart pounding in your chest at your own directness.

“S’that so?” he smiles, stepping away, walking towards his tv, which has a bottle of some fancy wine and a half empty glass of it placed besides it. You watch him grasp the bottle and lift it to his face. He huffs a short laugh through his nose and says, “That’s funny.” but you assume it can’t be anything that amusing.

He places the bottle back down while his back is to you, and picks the glass up like a feather, before raising it to his lips. You’re still wondering what he’s chuckling about? He turns back to look at you, the distance between you much wider now, while taking slow sips of the wine, like he’s choosing the words that are gonna leave his mouth very carefully.

His eyes flick over to the pie on the table for a second before he looks back at you. “Could’ve just knocked on the door, honey.” he says, stepping back towards you. You roll your eyes immediately to hide how badly he affects you, and of course he notices it. You’re just praying he can’t see you pressing your thighs together beneath the table. But he just says calmly, “You didn’t have to make the pie excuse up.”

You can’t help but let out a small laugh, it sounds so much sillier now that the words are leaving his lips. Your gaze meets his as you smile, and his heart warms. “You’re a pretty girl,” he whispers, returning your smile as he sips his wine. You blush at his words, but you can tell there’s a ‘however’ incoming. He lowers the glass down, parting his mouth to talk. “But I’m way too old for you sweetheart.” he breathes out. Slowly, you shake your head in protest. “You can’t just decide that for me.” you say, finding your voice. He raises his eyebrows in surprise, not used to you being opinionated before. He likes it.

“Yeah?” he asks. “I’m not the boys your age sweetheart, I don’t do the shit they do.” he chuckles, shaking his head. “I know,” you start, “I’m tired of the boys my age.” you huff, hands holding your head as your elbows rest on the table. He doesn’t answer that, just turns towards a window and keeps taking small sips of that stupid wine. You can’t help but stare at his back, and the muscles of his arms. Imagining what they would look like holding you down. His arm wrapped around your waist, his mouth on your neck, his-

For goodness fucking sake.

You sigh, breaking the silence filling the atmosphere by pushing your chair back with a creak. Frank turns around slowly to see what you’re doing. “Why?” you hear him ask, the atmosphere of the room so thick you could cut it with a knife. “Why what…?” you raise a brow as stand up straight, patting you skirt down.

He doesn’t even say anything, just watches you with narrow eyes and somehow, you’re compelled to walk a few steps across the room and sit on his leather brown L-shaped couch. It’s like he’s challenging you silently, daring you to leave, but of course you won’t give in.

As you slump onto the couch, he takes a couple steps over, finally standing right at your feet. “Why are you tired of boys your own age?” he asks, like he’s genuinely curious. You look up at him, chest suddenly feeling tight. “Hm?” he urges, and you tell him awkwardly, “Well, they’re idiots,” you sigh, “and they don’t make me feel good.” Frank raises his eyebrows, clicking his teeth, as if to say he’s not surprised.

You don’t expect to feel so flustered by telling someone about your love life. It feels like your chest is growing tighter, especially when he asks so casually, “Yeah? They don’t know how to take care of you?” while shaking his head, like they’re commiting crimes.

You shake your head slowly, wishing he would stop talking and actually get on top of you. Your heart is pattering like a drum as he stands in front of you, but what you don’t expect him to do next is crouch down to get level with you. “You ain’t satisfied darlin’?” he coos as he sits eye to eye with you, his voice barely a whisper. You don’t know what to do but shake your head, and that’s what you do.

Your eyes drift away into your lap as he sits there and observes, like he’s never seen someone as small and sweet as you. “Hey,” he breathes out, and your eyes move up to meet his. The heat in your stomach is expanding, moving dangerously lower and Frank orders you plainly, “Open your mouth.”

You obey of course, opening your mouth, waiting patiently for what he’s going to do next. As your soft lips part in anticipation, he lifts his glass of wine to your lips, tilting it forward for you to have a sip. The acidic, earthy taste floods your tastebuds, and you realise why he found the bottle so amusing.

It’s Pinot Noir. And it has strong notes of cherry.

You swallow the wine, your doe eyes never leaving his. Slowly, he raises his hand to your mouth, wiping your lip dry with his calloused thumb. “There,” he says, “because you’re such a big girl and apparently you drink.” Even when he pulls his hand away, your lip burns with the reminder of his touch. He slowly gets back up, pushing his hands on his thighs to stand, and walks to the armchair opposite you. Carefully, he takes a seat, finally placing the glass of wine down onto a coffee table beside him.

“What then, you think I could treat you better, sweetheart?” he asks, leaning forward to brace his elbows against his thighs. The shift in posture does something unbearable to you, the casual spread of his legs and the way he leans in making heat coil low in your stomach. Everything about him is making you wet, and you can’t help it when your breath hitches at him leaning forward like he’s telling you off.

Suddenly you feel far too aware of him, of the weight of his attention fixed entirely on you. When you don’t answer, he tilts his head slightly, his voice firmer this time. “Wanna answer me when I talk to you, hon?”

God, that goes through you. You feel so dirty, but when he talks to you like he’s in charge, you just feel like melting. You nod “Mhm” submissively, but you’re just met with his fixated gaze. “I asked if you think I’d be better than those idiots.” he says calmly, waiting for your answer. You hear him this time, and not wanting to disappoint him, you answer back, “I- yeah. yeah I do” all hesitantly.

He nods slowly, dwelling over your words. “Okay,” he says steadily, dragging out every word, “and what makes you think that?” He frowns with those gorgeous eyes of his, waiting for your answer. “Well, you’re surely more experienced.” you start, and he nods as you speak, showing you he’s listening. “And you’re a gentleman.” you breathe out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. Your face flushes as he watches you with that brooding stare.

He lifts his wineglass and drains the last of it in one swallow, setting it down with a soft clink. A sigh slips from him as he turns your words over in his mind. “Well, darling,” he says at last, rubbing a hand over the stubble along his jaw, “I don’t know what to do with you.” You aren’t sure what possesses you then, what loosens the thought from wherever the fuck you’d buried it, but the next words spill from your mouth before you can stop them.

“Whatever you want.”

Suddenly, your mouth feels full of honey, thick and suffocating, as though it’s sealing your lips shut and stealing your ability to speak. You want to apologise, to tell him what you said was stupid and immature, but no matter how hard you try, your mouth refuses to move. You want to run too, but you can’t. The honey is spreading through you, sinking into your muscles, weighing you down from the inside out.

Frank’s expression softens as he says, “Sweetheart I know, but I’m so much older than you.” There’s sympathy in his voice, quiet understanding that makes it seem like he knows exactly what it is you want from him.

Of course he wants it too. There’s nothing he wants more than to fuck you right here, to keep going until you’re a breathless mess beneath him, trembling and begging. The thought alone nearly undoes him. But you deserve better, and he knows it.

With a strained groan, he drags a hand down his face, the conflict written plainly across his features. “Look, you’re young, honey, you should have someone your age.” he says with a weary sigh, shaking his head as though he’s trying to convince himself as much as you.

You whine, frustrated. Frustrated that he’s a good man with morals. But that’s not what you need right now. Right now you want to forget everything, to feel nothing beside his rough hands on your skin. “Please.” you sigh, the need between your legs spreading upwards and around. Your tits ache, your thighs ache, your heart aches.

“Darling, you have to understand I’m experienced okay? he sighs, “I don’t want to be taking advantage of you.” You watch him with your big eyes, waiting for him to change his mind, to reconsider it. He throws his head down, rubbing the back of his neck, and you can tell he’s contemplating it.

He leans back again with a low chuckle. “Honey, you’re killing me.” Before you can stop yourself, your thighs press together for the second time that night, a small, instinctive movement. Frank notices immediately. His eyes flick downward, lingering for a moment before lifting back to your face, amusement softening his expression. “Oh, darling,” he murmurs gently, almost pityingly, “you’re aching, ain’tcha?”

Somehow that makes you even wetter. That pitying, condescending tone that laces his every word. You were annoyed earlier that he treats you like a child, yes. But you’re so hot and bothered now, drowning in need that you couldn’t care less. As long as he agrees to fuck you, he can treat you however he wants.

A quiet whimper slips past your lips, and Frank realises how much you need it. There’s a slow change in his expression then, and amusement gives way to something quieter, more curious. “Oh sweetheart,” he chuckles softly, like he’s finally accepted it. You whine, your whole body aching for him, and he leans back on the armchair with a soft creak, beckoning you over with the flick of two of his fingers.

Tentatively, you stand, legs peeling away from the brown leather of his couch with a faint sting. As you take a few small steps toward him, he leans back even further, as if he has all the time in the world, sprawling his legs apart slowly. He shifts his hips, creating a space between his thighs on the couch, and your legs nearly become limp at that basic act.

But god, he’s the epitome of a man. Rugged, handsome, caring.

Frank tilts his head to the side, watching you stand infront of him like a little deer caught in headlights. “Yeah sweetheart?” he asks, adjusting his hips purposely. “Please” you mewl, face screwed up in frustration as you stand in front of him, begging without words. He just smiles at you understandingly and it drives you nuts. How he’s able to be so calm when you’re bursting with need. “Please what?” he coos, “Tell me what you need and I’ll give you it,” he finally breathes out, patting at the space free between his legs.

You want to crawl into his lap, but when you move closer to him, he moves his hands to your hips, guiding you carefully to sit between his legs, with your back to his warm chest. He runs his palms down the length of your arms, prickly with goosebumps. His head is right beside yours as he leans forward, and when you feel his warm breath fanning on your neck, your mind goes blank. “I need you to touch me,” you whine, on the verge of tears from how sensitive you are.

All you can hear is him breathing, and your core aches in desperation and need. Slowly, one of his large hands settle possessively on your thigh, sliding the hem of your skirt up slowly, calloused fingertips tracing the sensitive skin there like he’s got all the time in the world. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest so you can feel the steady heat of him, the solid muscle beneath his flannel.

You whine, feeling like you’re about to explode if he doesn’t just touch you. “Easy, sweetheart,” he murmurs against your ear, his voice rough and warm. “Just let me take care of that ache f’you.” The words slip out so naturally it makes your breath hitch, heat flooding your cheeks. His fingers keep traveling higher, brushing the edge of your panties, and finally he turns his head a little, looking for confirmation that you want this.

You whine “mhm” before he even gets the words out, and slowly, his fingers start to rub soft circles on your inner thigh, before silently slipping beneath the thin fabric of your panties. You’re already soaked, embarrassingly wet, and he lets out a quiet, appreciative groan when he feels it.

“Fuck, darlin’. This little pussy’s drippin’ for me already?” he chuckles softly, the sound vibrating past your neck. “Such a needy girl, comin’ over here hopin’ I’d touch you like this.” Suddenly, two thick fingers glide through your slick folds, spreading the wetness, teasing your entrance without pushing them in yet. He circles your clit lazily, applying just enough pressure to make your hips twitch. All the while, he’s watching your face, taking in your every reaction.

You whimper, head falling back against his shoulder, and he presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck. “That’s it. Let me hear those pretty sounds. You been thinkin’ about this, haven’t you sweetheart?” he coos, voice barely above a low groan. But he’s still not giving you the pleasure you crave- just touching you softly.

Then, he pushes a meaty finger into you, stretching you open until you’re moaning. If his finger is this filling, what would his cock feel like?

A second finger slides into your heat, and he pushes his digits in slowly, feeling you suck him in tightly, inch by inch. He curls them just right and the stretch is perfect- his fingers thick and experienced as he starts moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm that has you gasping. He pumps them steadily and his thumb finds your clit, beginning to rub slick circles while his other hand holds your hip firmly in place, keeping you right there in his lap.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” he praises, his voice gravelly with lust. “Squeezin’ my fingers so good, sweetheart. Oh, those boys didn’t know what to do with a girl like you.” He curls his thick fingers again, stroking that sensitive spot over and over, and your thighs start to tremble. You can’t take it anymore, his fingers mixed with those dirty words spilling out his mouth. “But I know. I’m gonna make you feel so fuckin’ good, baby. Just let go f’me.”

As he painfully forces a third finger inside you, your head falls back on his chest. You moan louder, grinding down against his hand and chasing your pleasure. He keeps that same steady pace, whispering filthy praise right against your ear as you become wetter and wetter. “Look at you, ridin’ my fingers so desperately. So wet I can hear it, darlin’.” he whispers into your ear. He knows what he’s doing.

The pressure coils tighter in your belly and heat spreads through your whole body. His thumb words rapidly at you clot and his fingers thrust deeper as he holds onto you, moving them perfectly. “C’mon, sweetheart. I know you’re close, cum f’me.”

Before you know it, your back arches, breath coming in gasps as the orgasm crashes over you. Pleasure explodes through every nerve, your walls fluttering and squeezing around his thick fingers while he keeps stroking you through it, murmuring low praises the whole time, “That’s it, good girl… just like that.” until you’re shaking and whimpering in his lap, completely shattered.

His fingers stay inside you as the last of your orgasm ripples through you, your walls still fluttering around them. You’re trembling in his lap, head heavy against his shoulder, and he holds you there with one strong arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand continuing with slow, gentle strokes in and out of you, to ease you down from the high.

Fuck. What the hell am I doing?

The thought hits him like a freight train even as his cock strains painfully against his jeans, throbbing at the way your soaked pussy is still gripping his fingers desperately. You’re so damn young and soft and sweet and looking up at him with those trusting eyes like he’s the answer to every ache you’ve ever had. He should stop. He knows he should stop. You deserve someone closer to your own age, some kid who doesn’t have years of rough hands and a lifetime of mistakes behind him.

But God, you feel like heaven. Wet, hot, and so responsive, soaking his palm and making those little whimpering sounds that go straight to his dick.

She came over here with a goddamn cherry pie, for Christ’s sake. She’s barely more than a girl, and here I am knuckle-deep in her like some dirty old man.

His jaw clenches. He slowly pulls his fingers free with a squelch, but your pussy is desperate and so reluctant to let them go. His fingers are glistening with your release as he watches the way you feel so empty once they’re pulled out of you. That sight nearly breaks him right there. He brings his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers clean with a low, involuntary groan, savoring the taste of you- sweet and salty- before the guilt comes back twice as bad.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” he mutters against your hair, voice rough. His free hand strokes soothing circles over your thigh, pushing your skirt back down gently like that small act of modesty could somehow make this better.

She trusted you enough to walk through your door. You’re supposed to be the responsible one here. The adult. Not the guy who fingers his neighbor’s young niece on his armchair after one slice of fucking pie.

You shift in his lap, still breathing hard, pressing back against the obvious bulge in his jeans, and Frank hisses through his teeth. His hips twitch once before he forces them still.

Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare take this any further.

He’s painfully hard, aching to replace his fingers with his cock and bury himself inside that tight heat until you’re crying out his name. He wants to ruin you for anyone else, to show you exactly how a real man takes care of a woman. But that’s exactly why he can’t. You’re not some experienced woman who knows what she’s getting into. You’re the girl from down the street who blushes when he calls her “sweetheart” and bakes him pie because she heard he lives alone.

His chest tightens with the conflict. Part of him- the darker, hungrier part, wants to flip you over, spread your legs wider, and fuck the innocence right out of you until you’re shaking and addicted to his touch. The other part, the one that’s kept him a quiet, respected loner all these years, screams that he’d be no better than every other selfish bastard if he does.

“You okay, darlin’?” he asks softly, pressing a kiss to your temple even as he argues with himself. His voice is steady, but inside he’s going insane. His egos inflated by making you come so hard, but he’s full of shame at how easily he gave in to touching you in the first place. He wants you. More than he’s wanted anyone in a long time. But he’s not sure he can live with himself if he takes any more.

You’re trembling in his lap, breath ragged, head heavy against his shoulder. But the pleasure only increases the ache between your legs. It’s not enough. You need more.

You whine softly, twitching restlessly, grinding back against the thick bulge pressing into your ass. “Frankk” you moan, the sound coming out needy and broken. Your hips roll again, desperate. “Please- I need you. I need you so bad.” you cry. He lets out a low groan, his arm tightening around your waist like he’s physically holding himself back. His fingers slip out of you slowly, leaving you underwhelmed and empty, clenching around nothing. You sense the trouble he’s having and the tension in his body, but also how his dick is hard against you even as his breathing grows ragged.

“Honey,” he mutters, voice strained, “you don’t know what you’re askin’ for. I’m so much more experienced, I-” You turn in his lap, straddling his thick thighs so you’re facing him. Your hands claw at his flannel shirt and you whine, “I know Frank. I know, but I need you inside me- please, Frank. I need you now.”

His jaw clenches, eyes burning with lust and that heavy guilt. He grasps your chin as his thumb brushes against your lower lip. “Use your words then, darlin’. Tell me what you need.” he drawls. Heat floods your face in embarrassment, but the hot need between your thighs wins. You look him in the eyes, voice shaky but determined. “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fill me up- please.” you whine, desperate for him.

Frank exhales like your words just winded him. For a long second he just stares, clearly battling with himself. You can see the conflict in his expression- the good, responsible man fighting that raw, animalistic need to ruin you right here. Your eyes meet his and you stutter out, “I came here knowing my intentions,” you whisper. “I baked that stupid pie because I wanted to get alone with you. I’m not some fucking kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing. I wanted this.”

Something inside him finally snaps. A low groan rumbles from his chest as he stands up slowly, lifting you effortlessly. Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, arms around his neck, and he carries you down the hallway without another word. He takes you up the stairs, his feet making every wooden step creak. Then he turns, and you can see that you’re heading towards a door.

His bedroom door creaks open. The room smells like him- that faint leather and that laundry detergent mixed with a deep, masculine, scent that makes your head spin. His bed is large and sturdy with a heavy dark wooden frame, covered in rumpled navy sheets that look like he’d been tossing and turning in them. A small lamp on his bedside table casts a gentle, golden glow over everything, highlighting the simple space. It feels safe. Intimate.

He lays you down on the bed with surprising care, but his eyes are bright with fire. Without wasting any time, he starts to rip open his buttons, before finally yanking off his flannel in one rough motion to reveal the broad, muscled chest you’d fantasised about for weeks. As you lay back, propped up in your elbows, his hands move to you next, peeling your skirt and soaked panties down your soft legs, then tugging your top off and unclipping your bra until you’re completely bare beneath him, and all of your clothes are pooled together on a the floor.

Your mouth isn’t that far away from beginning to water as you watch his muscles work to undo his belt. His fingers frantically work at the clasp, and once it’s undone, he’s hastily pulling off his jeans and throwing them to the side to join the growing pile of discarded clothes. You lay on his bed, too needy to even think of being self conscious, and he’s crawling onto the bed, his frame covering yours.

“You sure about this, hon?” he asks one final time, hovering over you, his voice struggling with need. As he moves closer, his thick, heavy cock rests against your thigh, already leaking and throbbing. “Yes,” you breathe, pulling him down by the shoulders. “Please Frank- I need you.”

He curses under his breath before smashing his lips into yours, finally giving in and kissing you deeply. Your mouths are clashing together, his tongue between your lips, but he finally pulls away like a starved man- ready to move on. One calloused hand spreads your sensitive thighs wider as the other one finds his dick and hastily lines it up with your dripping core.

The blunt, swollen head of his cock nudges your slick entrance, and then he pushes in slowly, stretching you open inch by inch as he lets out low groans, in awe at how good you feel. Your cunt greedily sucks him in, needing him even deeper.

“Oh, you’re so tight,” he rasps against your mouth with a screwed up face, his forehead pressed to yours. “Takin’ my cock so well- good girl, keep breathing.” he groans out, watching your every reaction and expression. You gasp at the overwhelming fullness, and your nails dig into his shoulders while he bottoms out inside you. He turns still for a moment, letting you adjust while he murmurs praise right against your ear. “Such a sweet pussy squeezin’ me like that. You feel amazing sweetheart.”

Then he starts moving. His thrusts rock the bed beneath you, every powerful stroke dragging perfectly against that sensitive spot inside, his experienced hips rolling with precision. One hand grips your thigh, holding you open for him, while the other is beside your head.

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands softly. When your eyes lock with his, he leans down and kisses you again, slower, tongue sliding against yours as he fucks you deeper. “You feel so good wrapped around me. Been fightin’ this urge, tryin’ to be a decent man, but you make it so hard.” he shudders, his lips glistening with your saliva.

You moan loudly, your legs wrapping tighter around his waist. The heavy weight of his body presses you into the mattress, filling you completely- it’s everything you’d imagined and more. He angles his hips and keeps hitting that perfect spot until you’re crying out with every thrust, the sound of skin slapping filling the once quiet room.

“That’s it, darlin’,” his voice is low, “let me hear those pretty noises,” he growls, thrusts growing harder and more possessive. “This is what you wanted, ain’t it? My cock stretchin’ your needy little cunt open.” you let out a vulgar moan as his shaky breath fans over your face. You swear you’re gonna cum, just from his voice. He lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah? You like hearin’ me say filthy things sweetheart?” he grunts, knowing you can’t answer back. You just nod, eyebrows knitted together in desperation. “Oh- you’re such a good fucking girl for me.” he says in awe.

His dirty words and the raw pleasure you feel push you closer to the edge again. Frank can feel it- the way you flutter and squeeze around him. He reaches between the place you’re connected, his thumb finding your swollen clit and rubbing hot, sticky circles onto it. You moan as he keeps driving into you.

"Attagirl. Cum all over my cock this time," he praises, his voice low and filthy. You can't help but moan at his dirty words, you're actually fluttering around him now. "You're mine tonight, sweetheart. Gonna fuck you until you can't cum no more." he groans, hips thrusting into yours still. You head falls back in ecstasy, senses overwhelmed- you feel like crying, or screaming- maybe both.

As your legs begin to shake, Frank notices it and starts frantically rubbing your clit even faster, his fingers wet and sloppy. The coil in your belly snaps hard. Pleasure crashes over you in waves as you cum hard around his thick length while you moan his name, your body shaking under him. Frank groans deeply, thrusting through every pulse, his own control fraying as he continues moving, trying to chase his own release while whispering more praise against your damp skin.

"Fuck darlin'-" Frank groans all broken, burying his face in the crook of your neck as his hips stutter. He thrusts once more, before he loses control. Then, he slams deep into you and stays there, pulsing thick and hot inside you as he cums hard. His dick throbs with every move, filling you up while he holds you tight against him, murmuring ragged praise between shaky breaths. "Good girl, takin' everything so perfectly for me" he praises. You feel that thick, hot spend ooze out of you, creating a messy white ring around the base of his cock.

You’re both panting messes, and for a long moment, the only sounds are your shaky breathing and the faint creak of the bed as he slowly relaxes on top of you. He stays buried inside you, not daring to pull out yet- instead, he just presses lazy kisses along your jaw while his hand strokes soothingly up and down your side. You clench around him, having aftershocks. You’ve never been fucked like that. With care, with understanding.

Eventually he lifts his head a little, his deep brown eyes searching yours with that familiar mix of satisfaction and lingering guilt. "You alright, sweetheart?" he asks softly, brushing damp hair from your forehead as he looks down at you. You nod, smiling up at him sheepishly, still shy and warm all over. "Mhm- more than okay. I wanted this, Frank. I still do." you whisper, your big sweet eyes looking into his.

He lets out a long breath, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna kill me, y’know that kid?” he sighs. There’s a tired, affectionate look on his face now. “I’m too old for this shit” he chuckles.

You bite your lip nervously, and Frank runs a finger over it to smoothen the skin of your lip. He looks into your eyes for a moment, before tilting his head softly. “I’m gonna pull out, okay sweetheart?” he tells you, wanting you to be comfortable through it all. You nod, not excited for the overwhelming emptiness to consume you. Frank trails his hand down to meet your pussy, and his fingers become soaked in the mixture of your juices. He pulls out slightly, only a couple inches, watching your face for confirmation. When you nod quickly, he pulls his hips back, robbing you of the feeling of fullness.

He shifts away, to stop hovering, and then slumps down beside you with a content sigh. You tilt your face in his direction, face flushed and fucked out. “Thank you.” you manage to pant, chest still heaving from your two orgasm.

Frank shakes his head modestly, but you can tell there’s still a sense of shame in his expression. “Frank,” you sigh. He meets your gaze silently, eyes curious at what you have to say. “Thank you for making it good for me.” you whisper, suddenly feeling self conscious that you’re done, and just laying down besides him without clothes, your whole body visible. “That’s alright hon, you deserve it,” he smiles softly, admiring your bare body.

You feel his rough hand slowly move over your stomach to rub it, and life suddenly doesn’t seem so bad. You giggle softly, the sound muffled against his chest as you burrow deeper into his embrace. Frank’s arms tighten around you in response, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your neck with a tenderness that makes your heart ache. “Stay tonight,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple. “Stay with me.”

You nod, your throat too tight to speak. He exhales, long and slow, like he’s been holding his breath in for too long. When he pulls you closer, there’s no hesitance in it- no careful distance or restraint. He just holds you, warm and certain, wrapping his arms around you like he doesn’t intend on letting go. The faint, sweet taste of cherries lingers on his lips from the pie you’d nervously brought over earlier, the one he happily tried while you watched with hopeful eyes.

You came here convinced you’d be leaving with an embarrassing rejection and a quiet walk home. Instead, the man that no one has ever properly known is holding you like you’re something precious, something he’s been waiting for.

Honestly, you don’t know what’ll come out of this- what you’re gonna do in the morning once you’ve came to your senses and calmed down. What you do know though, is that for tonight, the handsome stranger down the street doesn’t feel lonely anymore, and neither do you.

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