ׂ 𓈒 ⭑ vamps n banshees. iwtv. sinners. hannibal. music. horror. film. superman. lion kaminski’s wife. strawberry shortcake. writing. dystopian. spiderman. december bby. louis lovebot. vanilla cashmere. pink. claudia defender. night owl. baby blue. portal 222. ᝰ.ᐟ
𝐢𝐢. ℒatest. winner takes you (l.kaminski). thatorchia (remmick). red tease (remmick). ain’t nothin’ sweet (r.goode) fresh cut (e.love) circle one : limbo (remmick) occupied (j.cook) all of his ghosts gathered at your throat (p.sumner)
ᰋ ˓ . content. established relationship, unprotected p in v, prone bone, cum inside, rough sex, messy sex, size kink, marking, dirty talk, praise kink. mdni 18+
The motel door barely clicks shut before you have your hands on Lion.
He laughs against your mouth, breathless and surprised, though there’s hardly any room in him for real surprise when you’ve been looking at him like that since the final bell. Since he lifted his bruised fists under those cheap lights with sweat shining down his chest and blood drying at the corner of his mouth.
You kissed him in the hallway before Stan could finish talking, kissed him again by the ice machine, and by the time he gets you inside the room, you’re already tugging at his shirt like you’ll die if there’s one more layer between you.
“Baby,” he murmurs, voice rough from adrenaline, from shouting, from all the pain he swallowed in the ring. “I gotta shower.”
“No,” you breathe, catching his bottom lip between your teeth until he groans low in his chest.
That does something to him.
You feel it in the way his hands tighten on your waist, in the way his eyes go dark and soft all at once, like he can’t decide whether to be gentle with you or ruin you for making him feel wanted while he’s still damp with sweat, still sore and buzzing—still half-wild from the win.
He kisses you—deep, messy—with open-mouthed kisses that taste like salt and blood and victory, his hands roaming beneath your clothes with a clumsy hunger that only makes you need him worse.
He backs you toward the bed until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, then follows you down without breaking the kiss, his body heavy over yours, warm and solid and trembling faintly with leftover fight.
“You were lookin’ at me like you wanted to climb in that ring yourself,” he says, mouthing down your jaw.
“I did.”
Lion huffs a laugh, but it catches when you pull him closer by the waistband, shameless with it, needy enough that his face changes and the teasing slips.
His mouth finds your neck, and he kisses there first, sweet and hot, then harder, teeth grazing until your back arches. He leaves marks because you ask him to without words, because your fingers dig into his shoulders and your breath breaks every time he sucks another bruise into your skin.
By the time he has you turned over beneath him, your cheek pressed to the motel pillow and your body stretched out under his, he’s lost the last of his restraint.
He’s still in his fight-worn skin, still warm with sweat, still breathing like he’s trying to keep himself together, and the thought of it makes you dizzy.
Lion leans over you, one hand braced near your head while the other grips your hip, and bends low enough to kiss the corner of your mouth from behind.
“You sure?” he whispers, rough but careful.
You don’t answer with words. You just reach back, shove your own pants and panties down your thighs in one frantic tug, kicking them off one ankle so they bunch around your knee. Lion’s hand is already at his belt—quick, clumsy, the buckle clinking once before he yanks his jeans open. He doesn’t bother pushing them down past his hips. He just hooks his thumb under the waistband of his boxers, shoves them roughly beneath his balls, and pulls his flushed cock out.
You push your ass back against him in answer, and his composure breaks.
The first blunt press of his thick, heavy cock makes your breath catch into the sheets, your fingers curling tight in the blanket as your body struggles to take all of him at once. The fat, flushed-dark head leaking thick, shiny strings of precum that smear messily between your cheeks and make the stretch wetter.
He sinks in inch-by-inch, forcing you open wider than you thought you could go, the sensitive head twitching hard every time your hole clenches around it.
Lion groans like it hurts him, like the tight heat of you is punching straight through his chest and straight to the needy, desperate cock he never knows what to do with until it’s buried inside someone who wants him this bad.
He kisses your shoulder, your neck, the side of your face, messy and desperate, his mouth dragging over your skin as he eases in slow enough to make you feel every veiny inch, every pulse, every helpless spurt of fresh precum that just keeps dripping out of him the deeper he gets.
“Christ,” he breathes, voice shaking.
He’s trembling above you, trying so hard not to lose it right there, but the way his hips twitch—chasing the wet heat like he can’t help it—tells you he’s already fighting that embarrassed, needy edge that always undoes him.
You can barely answer. You only whimper his name, and that ruins him.
He starts slow because he has to, because even when he’s rough, Lion can’t stop being Lion. He watches the way you tense, listens for the little sounds you try to hide, kisses the back of your shoulder when you tremble beneath him.
But once you start pushing back, once your hips meet his and your voice turns needy, his grip tightens and the rhythm changes into something harder, deeper, less polished.
The bed creaks under you. The cheap headboard taps the wall. His body covers yours completely, hot and solid, his chest brushing your back as he leans down to kiss you again, awkward from the angle but so hungry it makes your stomach twist.
His mouth catches yours over your shoulder, all tongue and breath and broken noises, and every thrust drives the kiss messier until neither of you can keep it clean.
“You like me like this?” he pants against your mouth. “All sweaty after a fight?”
You nod helplessly, and he gives a rough little laugh that turns into a groan when you squeeze around him.
“Yeah,” he murmurs, kissing your cheek, then your jaw, then the marked-up side of your throat. “I know. Couldn’t even let me wash up first.”
“You won,” you manage, breath hitching as he rolls his hips deeper, that sensitive blunt head grinding right against that spot and making his cock twitch hard inside you.
That makes him curse under his breath. His hand slides up your body, fingers spreading over your spine, holding you down with just enough pressure to make your head go light.
He isn’t cruel with it, but he is rough now, needy, his hips snapping harder while his mouth keeps finding places to mark.
Everything turns up. The room full of skin against skin, the filthy wet sound of his cock plunging in and out of your dripping hole, breathless praise, the broken sound of your name in Lion’s mouth.
He keeps kissing you wherever he can reach, like he can’t help himself, like he needs to remind you he’s there even while he’s taking you apart. His tenderness makes the roughness worse somehow, makes every hard thrust feel intimate enough to ache. He’s leaking so much inside you now that it’s squelching obscenely with every snap of his hips, precum and your slick coating his heavy balls and dripping down your thighs in warm trails.
“You feel so good,” he says, voice wrecked. “God, baby, you feel so good.”
You reach back for him blindly, and he catches your hand, lacing his fingers through yours against the sheets.
For a moment, even with his weight over you and his hips moving hard enough to make you sob into the pillow, there’s something soft in it. Something almost shy in the way he presses his forehead to your shoulder and groans your name like he’s grateful.
Then you push back into him again, greedy and trembling, and he loses that softness to hunger.
He pins your joined hands down, kisses the side of your face, and drives into you with a rough, breathless rhythm that has you falling apart beneath him, all heat and sweat and bitten-back cries.
Lion follows you there, shaking against your back, his mouth open against your neck as he spills out praise between ragged breaths, telling you how badly he needed this—his cock pulsing hard as he floods you with warm ropes of cum, the sensitive head twitching with every spurt.
And afterward, when the room finally goes quiet except for the buzz of the old lamp and the sound of both of you trying to breathe, he stays right where he is for a minute, his lips brushing the newest mark he left on your throat.
“Still need that shower,” he mumbles.
You laugh weakly into the pillow.
Lion kisses your shoulder again, softer this time. “You comin’ with me?”
You turn your face enough for him to kiss you properly, slow and sore and sweet, and he smiles against your mouth like winning the fight was nothing compared to this.
Just a lil something about Eric that's been on my mind. Part one of a two shot series!
There is some smut in this, but none between reader and Eric. Part two will be the conjugal visit 🙂↔️
pairing: (aged up) Eric Love x Fem!Reader
summary: You had been dating Eric for a few years now, having been used to just phone visitations and swapped letters. Upon learning that Eric would become eligible for conjugal visits, you take it upon yourself to break the news, in the mean time, you send your boyfriend some gifts.
Part One
Find Part Two here.
unedited.
wc: 7.1k
warnings: a little canon divergence obviously, established relationship, (reader has hair) fluff, coarse language, mentions of prison (obvs), blood, bruises, fighting/violence (none towards reader), desperate Eric!, mutual bullying, sexual tension, nude pictures, male masturbation, mentions of titty-fucking and oral, lingerie, bodily fluids.
let me know what you think!
______
"Baby."
"Love," You reply with a grin, matching his as the wired phone rests in your hand, pressing against your ear. His actions mirror yours, and he shifts on the built in seat of the prison, resting his elbows against the small counter. "You get all dressed up for me?"
He sat as if he had been sitting there longer than usual, comfortable and waiting for your arrival.
Eric rolls his eyes at the same joke you make at every phone session. "Obviously," He still goes along with it, much to your amusement. "Got all dolled up for my lady."
"Mm hm," You nod, looking him over once he settles in his chair. There weren't any obvious cuts or bruises on his skin, and you relaxed just so slightly. "I can tell."
His grey tracksuit hung slightly loose on him, harbouring old stains you had been meaning to ask him about.
Thick glass separates the two of you. A stark and cruel reminder of how close yet so far your boyfriend was.
This was routine for you now.
A grey and dull room. Plastic chairs bolted to the ground. A thick pane of scratched glass filled with little indentations of past inmates names and tags.
It was busier than usual being a weekend - partners subdued with children fidgeting in their laps, guards watching intently for any unusual activity.
There was no place you'd rather be.
Eric's eyes were tired, a reminder that behind those walls he was constantly on guard, constantly on edge. But he never let you worry, never let you see him without a cheeky smile that managed to light up your usual dull booth.
He plays with the wire of his receiver, looking you over this time.
You tuck your chin slightly, bringing your phone a little closer in an attempt to drown out the background noise.
"You alright?" You ask softly, watching as his blue eyes continue gazing over your upper body.
There was nothing remotely sexy about your outfit, seeing as there was a strict dress code in the prison.
But it didn't matter, and Eric lets his eyes linger over your unzipped jumper, raising his eyebrow at the cleavage that peaked out.
He continues to grin, his voice muffled slightly through the plastic phone. "Better now, you know seein' ya makes me whole week yeah?"
You just nod, biting into your lip like a bad habit as you smile, knowing he was being truthful.
"What 'bout you darlin, you been busy?" He continues, nodding towards your hair, seeing it wasn't it's usual style.
You shrugged almost sheepishly, having gone out of your comfort zone and gotten your hair done. "Thought I'd change things up a little," a finger reaches up to adjust a looser strand. "Do you like it?"
He nods eagerly, looking it over. "Looks real pretty, but you'd make a fuckin' bald head look good I reckon."
A playful scoff leaves your lips followed by a small chuckle, and Eric revels in the sound, already considering your limited session a success.
"What about you, everything okay at your end? Eatin' proper?" It was a question you always asked, not wanting to pry too much into the other gruesome and unpleasant woes of prison.
He shrugs, but nods again. "Got everythin' I need, don't ya worry," Eric leans further, both elbows now pressed against his counter as he smiles. "Already told the boys here that I got a woman who tries fattenin' me up."
Your eyebrows raised, once again taking in his slightly loose tracksuit. "Yeah, 'cause you're a real porker aren't you Eric."
"Only when I'm porking you love," he winks, and your eyes widen, reaching out to smack at the glass. "Ouch."
"Keep sayin' shit like that Eric and you'll get calls taken off you," You look around embarrassed, hoping no one heard his stupid attempt at a joke. The man hadn't gotten laid since before he was sentenced. "Bellend."
Your voice dipped as you said his name, and he throws his head back in laughter, his teeth on display as other inmates look at him in annoyance. Eric adjusts the phone once more - switching ears, pressing it further as he straightens up.
"Have you been good at least?" You leaned in just slightly, eyes narrowing as you looked over his now free hand.
Eric shifts, his grin fading just a little to show something softer underneath. "Always, no mix ups, still keeping my head down yeah."
You exhale, tension in your shoulders as you eye his hand again. "What's the bruises on your knuckles from then?"
He pauses at your words, eyebrows furrowing as he looks at his palm, turning the hand over to look at the yellow hues that decorate his pale skin. "Ain't from any fights, don't you worry."
You wanted to believe him, but given his history with the other inmates, the idea of immediately taking his word for it didn't hit you.
As if sensing your hesitation, Eric holds his hand up to the glass, pressing it against the cool surface. "Promise."
He did it every time he wanted you to relax, his own little quirk, and you reluctantly nod, reaching up to press your own hand against his, feeling the cool material between that separated you.
It was the closest you had to feeling his touch, and you'd be lying if you said it was enough.
You missed his warmth, his hands on you - even the innocent touches, his hands on your waist to show his claim. The kisses before bed, the annoying way he'd steal all the blankets. All of it.
“Okay,” you say gently. “I trust you.”
His hand presses even further into the glass, wondering that if he tried hard enough - that he could imagine the softness of your skin once again.
There was a small silence as you just looked at each other. Taking in everything and somehow nothing all the same. It was the same every session, but it was still comforting. You just stared into his eyes, ignoring the distant chatter, the guards, the buzzing lights above.
It was just him. Only Eric.
He did the same, his gaze loving as he sighed.
Eric tilts his head a little, his voice dipping to that low, teasing softness he reserved just for you. "You're so beautiful, ya know that love? I miss you somethin' bad."
He would say the same thing every time. He never wanted you to forget how it sounded to hear his praises, to hear his appreciation and love for you.
You both pull away from the glass as you shrug again, use to rebutting his compliments, to which he'd always tut at you, telling you to accept them.
A buzzing sound goes off, startling you as usual. The rooms cruel way of telling visitors that there was only five minutes left.
Every visit was timed to the second, every goodbye and 'I love you' following sadly too close behind every hello.
Your back straightens as you compose yourself, before you snap your fingers, having nearly forgotten one of the main reasons you had been excited for this weeks session.
"Gift box!" You tap at the glass with your nail, your face lit up as you flashed your boyfriend a toothy grin. "Shit, nearly forgot."
"You what?" He questions, eyes closing in confusion.
"I got a letter that your wards opening' gift exchanges," you continue, now swapping the phone to your other ear as your wrist was getting tired. "I can send you a box of stuff - bunch of rules 'n shit on what I can include, but that's exciting yeah?"
His interest had piked, and he rests his chin on his free hand as he thinks over the revelation.
Eric knew gifting was normal in the prison, many of the other inmates receiving items from their families often, but he had never been eligible due to his poor behaviour.
"What're you thinkin'?" He asks, wondering what he'd be allowed to receive. His mind had honestly gone blank, having already gone so long without pleasantries and little things one would usually take for granted.
"Well, most things on the 'not allowed' part of the list are a given," Your tongue sticks out slightly as you reach down inside your bag beside your foot, wiggling around for the piece of paper you had saved.
Feeling the crumpled letter, Eric watches in amusement as you press the phone between your cheek and shoulder, using both hands to open envelop.
Once it was unravelled, you start listing off the things he can't ask for, nothing he would have considered anyway. "Anything you can think of Eric?"
He shakes his head. "Surprise me love."
"I've already got a box back home half full," you admit, nodding at your mans shocked expression. "Yeah, got some of your favourite books, sweets 'n stuff," you begin to list again, watching as Eric just smiles at your words.
"Even threw in my old iPod, you're not allowed wired headphones so I thought maybe some bluetooth ones, I've already downloaded a bunch of playlists and g-"
"You don't 'ave to buy me anything," he cuts you off, already hating the idea of you spending money on him. "Can listen to music without them."
"I've already bought them," your shoulders just shrug at Eric's expression, but eventually he starts to smile, shaking his head. "Put some teabags in too."
He snorts, but deep down he was more appreciative over something as small as a proper tea. Not that he'd ever admit it.
Eric begins to just stare as you start yapping away at more items you were thinking of including in his gift box, your voice muffling. His chest warmed, his stomach filling with that familiar feeling only you managed to grace him with.
He was utterly and completely in love with you.
It always shocked him how much you truly cared - how much you loved and supported him even when he got himself thrown in this giant concrete shit-hole.
He would never voice it, but there was always a lingering fear that every phone session would be the last - that you would eventually come to your senses and realise you were too good for him and leave forever.
But it never came, and instead you were here, telling him about all the presents you had packed away, how you were already planning the next.
Eric hadn't even realised you had finished speaking, your eyebrow raised at his expression, knowing he hadn't been focusing. "Wanker."
It was a jest, and you both immediately begin to laugh, you at the way his eyes drift when he's not listening, and him at your insult.
Another buzzer goes off, signalling that your time was up, and your shoulders sag.
You reach up again - having already thrown the letter back in your bag, pressing your palm flat against the glass like before. Eric did the same, your fingers just a pane apart.
"I love you," he said quietly, just enough for you to hear. "I'll see you next week yeah?"
"Always," you assured him, ignoring the guard that had come to stand behind you. "I love you too, be good Love."
The phones clicked off just in time for him to hear your words, and he nods, his side of the room now quiet as he hung his phone up.
You didn't move straight away, looking at him one more time, memorising the boyish grin he gave you - the soft crease between his brows, and he nods towards the exit, urging you to go before you got in trouble.
Eventually you stood, pulling your bag along with you as you blew him a small kiss, to which he pursed his own lips with a wink that was undeniable Eric.
With a final nod, you walked away, not looking back.
There was no need too, he always made sure you were gone before he left his own chair. The reassurance that you were safely out of this depressing place just enough to keep him going for the day.
--
It's just gone half ten in the morning when a guard had called Eric's name in his wing. His heart had jumped slightly, as it always did when someone called for him in here.
Making the trek, he reluctantly made his way to the calling guard, Mark, or was it Mike? Eric wasn't sure, nor did he care. But then he saw it: a box. Decently sized. Taped up from the bottom up with his name written on this side in familiar handwriting.
A little heart dotted the 'I' in his name, and he exhaled with a little chuckle.
He tries not to grin too hard as he signs a form handed to him, ignoring the way the guard rolls his eyes, pushing the box towards him - commenting on how there is some weight to it.
Your phone session had only been a few days prior and he hadn't been expecting the delivery so soon - but he couldn't deny the eagerness that filled his chest at what possibly hid inside.
The guard was right, the box was heavy, and he huffed as he lugged the large cardboard box back to his cell, ignoring the jests and comments from his friends in passing.
With the large steel door clunked shut behind him, Eric sits cross-legged on his cot, seeing that his gift had already been opened - no doubt by the guards checking for any contraband.
It felt like Christmas.
He was already beaming, wide and stupid. Chuffed didn't even begin to describe the feeling.
The first thing he was greeted by were books, both worn and new, and he pulls them out one by one, running his hand over the covers before stacking them beside his bed on the built in shelf.
You had even thrown in some comics, remembering he had mentioned in the past about his infatuation with old school stories.
"Oh here we are," He whistles lowly, seeing the black, sleek iPod resting on a box of opened wireless headphones. A sticky note was attached to the back in your handwriting.
"Gotta charge it in the common room, not allowed wires x."
He chuckles, thinking about how you really did go all out. He scrolled through quickly, seeing as it was already on, noticing you had already downloaded a number of playlists.
There were sweets too - loads of them. Haribo, strawberry laces, fizzy cola bottles, even those sour watermelon things he used to throw at you to get your attention when you were busy.
He tosses the numerous bags to the end of his bed. “Fuckin' hell man,” he mutters to himself, grinning. "Gonna get right fat."
At the bottom of the box, lie a bunch of photos in a ziplock bag, an envelop and a travel sized bottle of cologne. Eric reaches for the envelop first, but sees your writing again - just three words.
"Open me last."
Shrugging at the warning, he instead reaches for the ziplock bag, opening and seeing a bunch of printed photos. One of you two on the couch, you snuggling into his neck.
Another of just you, fresh faced and beaming at the camera as you wore one of his shirts, your grin infectious - Eric immediately twisting where he sat on his bed to stick it on the shelf by his head.
There were a couple more, casual pictures of you: some in his hoodie, some of the two of you from various dates, all making him smile as he remembered where they were taken.
He piles them along his shelf, sticking some on the wall when he ran out of room.
Already the space felt more his, more inviting. You would be the first thing he saw when he woke up in the morning and the last thing he'd see when his head hit the pillow.
Taking out the remaining gifts, Eric snorts seeing you had stayed true to your word. Teabags, socks, a beanie, even one of his hoodies he knew you loved to steal, but there was something different about it - this time it smelt of you.
He would recognise your perfume anywhere, and he closed his eyes as he lifted the fabric to his nose, inhaling the familiar scent.
Eric props the box to the ground, hoodie beside him as his eyes dart from item to item, worried he may have missed something.
His pale fingers hover over your iPod again, already picturing his head back on his pillow, headphones in, eyes shut with music he hadn't heard in years singing back to him.
He hides the iPod carefully under his pillow, followed by the headphones. His ward knew better than to fuck around with him or his stuff, but the threat of his stuff being jacked was still there regardless.
Your choice of socks were next.
Most were plain, black and white and navy, but there was one pair that stood out.
Bright red with little frogs all over, the little things smoking cigarettes.
He laughs proper, the sound bouncing off of his cell walls as he throws the socks to his clothing basket in the corner of his cell.
“Bet you pissed yourself throwin' them in," he mutters, grinning from ear to ear at the thought of you buying the pair on a whim. "Idiot."
He'd wear them to bed if anything, knowing he wouldn't be caught dead wearing them out of his four walls. His cologne was last, and he twists the cap, bringing it closer to inhale his past signature scent.
His eyes flutter shut and for a second, he feels like he was back in your shared bedroom in your flat, lights low, your head on his bare chest and his scent lingering in your sheets as you traced his many tattoos.
Finally was your letter, or what he had assumed was a letter, but as he picked up the envelope, he could feel something slightly bulky inside.
He turns the paper upside down, small squares falling out followed by another little sticky note.
"I love you."
His grin hadn't faltered, his finger running underneath your words as he sticks it to his wall beside your pictures.
At first, he thought they were just more selfies, albeit smaller, this time in polaroid form - but Eric's breath hitches in his throat as he starts checking them out one by one.
Eric’s breathing is thick. His grin disappearing and being replaced by a tensed jaw and wide eyes.
The first one could've passed as innocent enough.
You in bed, wearing the hoodie again, your legs bare and thighs on display with a familiar smirk. He already knew what was coming before he flipped to the next.
The second - the hoodie had risen, revealing more of your soft skin and lacy baby blue panties, a white bow in the centre.
His jaw clenches at the sight, seeing it was one of the many favourites that you owned. "Fuckin' hell." He mutters under his breath, exhaling slowly.
The following photo, you're perched on the edge of your bed, eyes soft, his hoodie resting beside your legs, arms pressed in front of you. The bra matched your panties, your breasts pushed up by your arms.
Eric lets out another shaky exhale, running a hand over his face as heat begins to seep into his skin.
His pulse jumps, warmth crawling up his neck as he flips to the next. It was the same angle, this time your bra was gone, your tits half on display, nipples peaking through your hand 'bra' as you were biting your lip.
Eric quickly checks his closed door, worried some nosey sod might see what was for his eyes only.
“Christ,” he says under his breath, swallowing the words as he shakes his head. “There's my girl."
He knew it was coming. Should've stopped whilst he could, but his longing and desire to see what had been hidden from him for so long got the better of him.
The rest of the Polaroids were from different angles, your hands no longer covering your breasts, exposing the skin.
You were posed in all different ways, giving him all the shots of your tits, your ass that looked even more full in your positions - desperate for his hands or his teeth.
One of them, you were on all fours, back arched with your hair flicked over your shoulder. Your clothed pussy just slightly peaking out, and Eric threw his head back against his cell wall, his free hand already reaching down to palm himself through his grey sweats.
He didn't care anymore, his cock had started getting hard from the first photo alone. His erection strained against the confines of his pants, growing by the second as his hand glided over the throbbing shaft.
His hand drifted back to his waistband, his fingers toying with the hem as he contemplated fucking his fist to your pictures.
Eric puts the photos down, his eyebrows furrowing as he realises one had stuck to another, and he pulls them apart gently.
He didn't stand a chance.
His hand already slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants to wrap around his aching cock.
The last photo was of you on your knees, looking up to the camera with your beautiful smile on display.
Your hands were on your thighs, breasts free and your nipples pebbled, but god, seeing your eyes looking up at him through your lashes was nearly enough to make him cum in his sweats alone.
His eyebrows quivered, a low groan escaping his lips as he began to stroke himself slowly beneath his pants.
"Fuck sake," he breathed, his voice strained with pleasure. "Fuckin' tease." Eric's words were choppy, his breathing growing heavier as he lost himself in the fantasy of your bare body, wishing nothing more than to be there with you in your room.
A small sigh leaves his lips, whispering your name. His words sound strangled and thick with desire, and he groans a little louder, his cock throbbing in his hand as he drank in the sight of your perfect fucking tits.
"My fuckin' girl," he growled, stroking himself even faster, dragging his hand up and down his uncut dick underneath his boxers. "Yeah…. Yeah - shit, like that, just like that.”
His blue eyes were dark and intense, filled with a drunken lust as he looked over the various photos sprawled out on his bed.
He panted, his hips rocking into his fist as his face winced in pleasure. Precum leaked from his reddened tip, drooling down the sides of his cock, helping to lubricate every stroke.
Eric licks his lips, his gaze locked onto the picture of you on all fours as he continued to work his shaft with desperate need. It was risky, usually jerking off in the showers when he was alone, but he couldn't stop, not when the sight of you set him off.
He hadn't fucked you in so long, not since he got himself arrested, and hell, usually when he fucked his fist - it was to just the thought of you.
Now, he had numerous little reminders of how you looked under your clothes, not that he had ever truly forgotten.
Your name leaves his lips again, almost in a pleading tone. He places the photo down, reaching for your his hoodie beside him, bunching it in his fist and bringing it to his nose for the second time, almost whining into the fabric as he drinks in your smell.
Eric's eyes close again, grunting in longing as his mind drifts to memories of the last time he had you beneath him. His grip tightens, imagining it was the clench of your warm, soaking pussy around him instead of his fingers.
"Fuck..." he drawls out, his voice muffled by the hoodie, his voice strained with effort in an attempt to hold back his impending release.
His thoughts were low and filthy - breathing growing heavier as he lost himself to the memory of every position he had ever put you in, of your lips wrapped around him, of your own smaller fingers as they'd glide up and down his cock and squeeze his balls.
He pumped his thick cock faster, his hips thrusting into his fist as he chased his high. Eric's eyes opened, the hoodie still wedged between his chest and chin as he smelt you all around him.
God, he couldn't pick what picture to finish too. He loved your breasts, remembering how they looked when they bounced above him, but, fuck - he loved your ass just as much, how much it bounced and jiggled when he fucked you rough and hard from behind.
Eric missed fucking your tits, sliding his cock between the soft flesh until he'd paint your neck and face with his hot cum.
Most of all, he missed sinking into your warm and welcoming body, watching the way your mouth would gasp with each inch he gave you, the way your nails would dig into his back and mark him up for weeks.
"Shit, shit," Eric panted, his body tensing as he neared his climax with each squeezing stroke. ""M'gonna fuck you so good," He whispers, picking the photo where he could see your face the best. "M'yeah, c'mon love, fuckin' show me - fuck."
His words ended in a loud groan, and Eric brings the hoodie back to his mouth, biting into the fabric as his orgasm crashes over him, thick ropes of cum shooting from his throbbing tip as his soaks his boxers and the front of his pants.
Eric's body shudders, panting, his lean frame going rigid as he rides out the waves of his release.
He had cum plenty of times since being sent to prison, but none of the times had felt as intense as this. His shaking hands continued gliding up and down, drowning his hands in his spent until he was borderline whimpering.
Eventually, he leaned his head back against his cell wall, his sweatpants now sporting a wet patch as he pulled his hand out, deciding to wipe the cum from his shaking hand onto his pant leg.
He grins sheepishly to himself, chest rising and falling as he makes sure his hand was relatively clean before bunching your polaroids up.
Eric throws his hoodie to his clothing basket with his free hand, away from any mess, and he pulls his new old iPod out from under his pillow, swapping the hiding place with your risky photos.
"Proper tease mate," he shudders again, reaching down to readjust himself in his soaked boxers. "Proper fuckin' tease."
He eyes the stain before lolling his head around with a sigh, already trying to remember if he had a clean pair of sweats in his cell, but Eric couldn't fight the grin on his face as he looks at one of the innocent pictures of you on his shelf.
A stark difference to the other sneaky photos you had snuck in. He looks down one last time to the sticky note saying 'I love you', his eyebrows furrowing as he flips the paper over, seeing more writing.
"Ash helped me take the pictures before you throw a fit x."
His laugh echoes through his cell again, not even realising the thought hadn't crossed his mind. All of your pictures were hands free, and he shook his head, picturing you asking your best friend to take such tasteful photos.
Fuckin' women.
--
London was surprisingly sunny this morning, but it's light was short lived, swapped once again for the buzzing lights of the prison.
The visitation area was quieter than last week, only a few visitors stuck in conversations with their loved ones.
The room was cold despite the welcoming change in weather, a reminder of the giant concrete box your boyfriend lived in.
Eric was already in his booth, elbows on the metal counter, receiver already in one hand. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, the hoodie you had sent him was folded in front of him, having clearly been worn before he started to sweat beneath his clothes.
Your heart was beating a little harder than you'd like to admit. You had seen him just a week ago, but time dragged on here - and now you knew he had received your gifts.
The box changed everything.
The sweets were lasting, much to his surprise. The hoodie with your perfume still on it was never too far away from him - even going as far as to sleep with it tucked under his head.
The books - he had already started reading one, having let a friend borrow another.
The photos though.
The photos wrecked him.
Eric had spent nearly everyday since receiving the photos just fucking his fist to the sight of them. Every night he had spent lying in his bed, the sheet over his lap with his jaw clenched, spent and breathless.
He sits up straighter as he sees you being guided in, bag slung over your shoulder as you walk with your head held high. The hand not holding the receiver was tapping at the counter, waiting for you to sit.
You beam at him, and he mouths, "Baby," as you get comfortable, quickly lifting your phone to your ear.
"Hi Love," You grin, watching as Eric's eyes narrow playfully. "You like the socks?"
"Socks?" He repeats with a huff, his voice low, warm and intimate. "Oh baby," His eyes trail over you like a memory being refreshed. He leans forward, eyes narrowing even more, his voice lowering. "You're a right tease y'know that? Real cruel."
The phone felt cold in your hand, but you'd be lying if there wasn't warmth in your cheeks at his words. Eric watches you like a man starved, like he was hungry for something only you could give.
You take a breath and smile softly, shrugging at him. "I take it you liked your presents?"
Eric scoffs at you, but there was no malice behind it.
"Liked?" he repeats again, turning his neck to look on both sides, thankful there weren't any other inmates sitting beside him. "You 'ave any idea how many times I've wanked? I'm runnin' out of clean boxers babe."
Your skin turned hotter at his revelation, and you looked around you too, afraid someone had overhead his crude words. A guard just stands by the door, his eyes barely open as he leans against the wall.
"Sorry," you whisper, but the grin that grew on your lips was a clear indicator that you were anything but apologetic. "Thought you'd need a pick me up."
He exhales sharply, shaking his head at you with a deep smile, crooked, wicked but loving, his eyes crinkling at the action.
"Fuckin' love you, you've got no idea," He pauses, looking at you again for a long second - longer than normal, memorising you again. "Thank you love."
You shrug again, just delighted that he enjoyed your presents, but he tuts at you, tapping at the glass to scold at you.
"Nah nah don't do that, I mean it - thank you for all of it, not just the gifts," he says firmly, hoping you feel him pouring his heart out. "For still showing up for me yeah? For bein' mine."
He groans softly, running a hand down his face before he rests his head in his chin, staring at you adoringly.
"I love you too ya softy," your voice was gentle, reaching up to press your hand up to the glass. "Everything okay at your end? Ruined clothes aside ‘course."
He nods quickly, lips quirking at your quip, his own hand coming up to rest against yours, ignoring the glass between.
The fluorescent light buzzes overhead, almost cartoonishly loud, but you tuned it out, starring at your other half like the world was fading away around you.
"I'm doin' good, real good," he says, happy to admit that he had been on good behaviour still. "Gettin' a gut though, think you packed a whole shop in that box," He looks down to his covered stomach for added affect, and you laughed, knowing that beneath his uniform - he was still the same.
“But nah - I'm good love, already half way through that book on mythology you threw in, good shit that."
You laugh even more, and he perks up at his favourite sound.
The two of you pass conversation for a little more, Eric informing you of what's happening at his end of the glass, and you telling him about how work was going, how you had asked your best friends to help you with taking those pictures after a night of wine and movies.
It was mundane, it was boring to most, but to you - it was your favourite thing in the world.
Wanting to have saved the good news for last, you change hands, swapping the phone over. "I've got something to tell you," you say softly after a quiet beat, tucking in your chin as the phone feels fragile in your hand. "Something good."
Eric perks up even more, his curiosity spiked and lips parting just a little as he utters a little 'yeah?' - urging you to continue.
"I spoke to someone on the board yesterday and well, uh- they've noticed your good behaviour these last few months, said you've been staying clean 'n all," You pause, making sure he was listening intently. He nods, eyebrows twitching unknowingly at your comments.
Eric had a bad history of fighting and having intense brawls with other prisoners and guards in his last ward, having spent a lot of time in solitary at his worst.
"And well, if you stay clean and have no write-ups for another two weeks," He still hadn't caught on, and so you say it with a gentle clarity. "I can apply for conjugal visits."
You watch as the weight of your news hits him. For a second, Eric just stares, blinking - stunned, shock running through him.
Was it his birthday and he didn't know?
Was it fucking Christmas?
Christ, was he dead?
He exhales eventually, like he had been punched in the stomach. He speaks, his voice barely a whisper as it comes out muffled through the phone. "You serious?"
"Mm hm," You nod, smiling as he exhales again. "Serious, you just gotta keep behaving yeah? They said they'll send you a consent form in a fortnight, I've already filled out mine."
"Fuckin' hell," he feels breathless now, his freehand in his hair as a cheshire like smile spreads across his face. "So that means we'll see each other innit, no glass, no phone, none of that shit."
"No phone, no glass," You bite your lip, giving him a knowing look. It was soft, a hint of wickedness. "Just us Eric, isn't that great? You just have to keep your head down, be a good boy."
He swallows hard, and any other time he would've rolled his eyes at the 'good boy' schtick, but he didn't bother.
He wanted to be good, he wanted to be good for you and you only. The better he acted, the closer he got to a reduced sentence, the closer he got to you.
"Yeah," he says breathlessly. "I'll be good, so fuckin' good love."
You believed him wholeheartedly. He was trying so hard to better himself, having put his self destructive tendencies behind him.
It was easier now, not being in that prison, away from his noxious family.
You both fell into a comforting silence once more, not heavy, not suffocating, but warm and inviting.
The buzzer had gone off, alerting you like clockwork that you had five minutes left, and you sighed, already counting down the days in your head until you could see him again.
"We're gonna see each other again," his smile was infectious, boyish and bright. "M'gonna hold you again, like proper hold you, none of this glass bullshit."
"I can't believe it either," his excitement was palpable at your words, looking proper chuffed as Eric begins to bounce his legs, ignoring the looks from those nearby. "I can’t believe how long it’s been too, way too long."
The final call buzzes, sharp and loud, causing you both to flinch out of your little bubble of bliss. He doesn't speak right away, his eyes just holding yours, still in disbelief that in just a few weeks, he'll have you in his arms again.
The receiver is still glued to his ear, but his words are caught behind his teeth, afraid he'll stutter and say something inappropriate.
Sensing his hesitation, you smile reassuringly. "I've already started packing your next gift box, any requests?"
He chuckles, knowing you weren't lying. "Pack of boxers, get Ash to take some more pics and," he draws it out as he pretends to list off of his free hand. "Some johnny's, might save my pants."
You snorted at his request, knowing his request for condoms was far from a joke. Regardless, you nod along. "Can do, what size again? Small?"
He laughs again, tutting at you with a throw of his middle finger. "My poor lady, already forgotten my dick yeah? Shame that, send that polaroid camera in too then, I'll remind ya."
A guard clears his throat from behind you, and a light by the phones flash. You both quickly throw in another 'I love you', just in time for the receivers both to shut off, much to your disappointment.
You mouth a 'Be good Love.'
Just like you always did, and he gives you a mock salute, pursing his lips in a stupid way of blowing a kiss.
You return the gesture, standing and throwing your bag over your shoulder as you blow him another kiss.
Like always, he watches you leave, throwing you a wave as you turn around, giving him a meek one as the guard ushers you out roughly, much to his dismay.
Two weeks was so close and somehow so far, and Eric didn't know how he was gonna wait.
Patience was never his virtue, but for you, he would try.
He would try anything and everything.
Until then, he would let your pictures keep him going, knowing that very soon he'd be seeing and feeling the real thing once more.
He'd be feeling you again.
And he was gonna make sure you'd remember the feel of him forever.
heads up y’all… my inbox is acting stupid again so i can’t see any messages 😭 i updated tumblr but it’s still acting stupid, so i’m giving it a few hours before i go banging on support’s door
Warnings: Contains smut, MDNI. Oral sex (f!receiving.) Masturbation (f.) Fingering. Finger sucking. Dom!Reader. Sub!Lion. Hypno-adjacent. Clicker training. Praise kink. Begging kink. Being (a little!) mean to Lion.
Author's Note: Happy Thanksgiving everyone!! Enjoy this one when you have a second to sneak away from your family. That's how it was written, that's how it should be enjoyed. I am very, very thankful for all of you; thank you for all the love and support you've shown to me over the last year. Enjoy.
Special thank you and endless gratitude to abhi @scannainscanrula for beta reading and for all your input on this story! I'm very thankful for you and your worms, mo phéist.
Reblogs, comments, and likes always appreciated! Please reblog if you like what you read; it helps keep writers engaged in fandom spaces and creating cool shit for you!
You sit down on the edge of the bed, pouting up at him.
“Lionnnn…can you help me?
You pathetically kick out one foot, displaying your heel to him.
“Oh, uh, sure,” he stammers.
You’re coming back from a friend’s birthday party, and you’re wearing your favorite white platform heels with the ankle straps. You had a little too much to drink, and wrestling with the tiny buckle around your ankle had proven to be too difficult a task while your head was still spinning.
He kneels down in front of you and gently rests your foot on his knee, his big fingers fumbling with the dainty buckle.
“Thank youu,” you coo at him.
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbles again, his cheeks flushing red.
He frees your foot from the shoe, then picks up your other foot and begins the process again. When he’s removed your heels, you gently bring your hand to his cheek. He glances up at you through his long lashes.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “My sweet boy.”
He gently turns his head and presses a kiss to your palm. You giggle, and his cheeks brighten again at the sound.
“F’course,” he mutters.
It didn’t take long for a delicious idea to work its way into your brain.
Every time you came home from an evening out, you’d sit on the edge of the bed and ask Lion to take your heels off. It didn’t matter if you were black out drunk or stone cold sober, whether you were wearing classic pumps or elaborate laced-up platforms. He became so accustomed to the routine that he eventually began to follow you straight to the bedroom after stepping through the front door.
He’d kneel down, place your right foot on his knee, take the shoe off, then repeat. And you always thanked him, called him your sweet boy, made him blush. But you’d waited a while, established the routine, before introducing your latest toy.
You stand outside the apartment door while Lion turns the key in the lock. When he holds the door open for you, you cross to the coat closet, shrugging off your white wool trench and revealing the outfit you’d worn to dinner. A soft velvet dress, deep burgundy and short, short enough that you’d caught his eyes lingering on your legs more than once throughout the night. You notice him doing it now, too; his eyes drift from your shoulders, following the curves of your body, down to your dark red platform heels. You grin as you hang your coat up in the closet.
“I had fun tonight,” you start. “Did you?”
“Uh-huh,” he says half-heartedly, still looking you over as he takes off his own jacket.
You dig around in your purse for the toy as he hangs up his coat. When you find it, you slip it into your palm, a wicked smile creeping across your face. He shuts the closet door and turns to you, but before his hands can reach your hips, you cross into the bedroom, your heels click-clacking across the floor. When you reach the bed, you spin to face him and sigh as you sit. You lean back on one hand and gently kick your feet back and forth. He sinks to his knees in front of you.
click.
His head cocks to one side.
“What was that?”
“Hm? I didn’t hear anything,” you lie.
He turns back to your shoes and continues his routine.
“Good boy,” you mumble, gently tracing your thumb down the length of his jaw.
His lashes flutter as he closes his eyes briefly, taking in a deep breath. When he removes both shoes, he turns back to you.
“You want your kiss?” you tease him.
“Mhmm,” he hums, the sound low in his throat.
“C’mere,” you grin.
He sits up and gently places his hands on your knees.
click.
His brows furrow for just a second, but he leans up to meet your lips. His mouth presses against yours, warm and wet and wanting.
click.
When he finally pulls back from you, you smile, breathless.
“Good boy.”
You carried on like that for a while. Giving him a single click each time he knelt in front of you, each time his hands rested on your knees, each time he kissed you.
Then, you started to push him.
You’re coming home from a night out with some friends. Lion wanted to object to the length of your skirt, but hadn’t mustered the nerve before you were running out the door, afraid of being late. When he opens the apartment door, both of you a little more buzzed than usual, you head directly to your bedroom, with him on your heels like a puppy. You sit on the bed and he immediately kneels in front of you.
…
His brows knit together in confusion.
“What?” you ask him innocently.
“N-no, no, nothin’,” he mutters, turning his attention back to your shoes.
He lifts your foot onto his knee and tugs at your shoe, gently removing it. When he finishes with both, he brings his hands to rest on your knees.
click.
“Good boy,” you coo. “Thank you for helping me.”
“F’course, baby,” he replies quietly, looking up at you with those big pathetic eyes that drive you wild.
“You want your kiss?”
He nods silently.
“C’mere.”
He pushes himself up to meet your lips.
click.
He kisses you slow and sweet, his hands drifting to your waist. You pull back from him, and his hands halt their wandering movement. You bring one hand to the back of his head, holding his forehead to yours.
“Good boy,” you sigh, the air leaving your mouth and entering his as he gulps down quick, erratic breaths.
He hums in pleasure, eyelids fluttering closed.
He once again brings his hands to your hips, softly skimming the fabric of your dress that doesn’t leave much to the imagination.
“Y’look so pretty in this dress,” he mumbles, his voice low.
“Awww, thank you kitty cat,” you murmur. Lion flushes at the nickname you only use when you’re especially sweet on him.
“Can we…d’you wanna…”
“I wanna take a shower,” you yawn.
“O-okay,” he stammers.
You run your hands over his shoulders and down his arms.
“Thank you for takin’ care of me, kitty,” you purr.
“Y’welcome.”
click.
Lion began to love the clicker. He’d eagerly kneel at your feet, remove your shoes as quickly as he could, and bring his hands to your knees promptly just to hear the sound. You were still pairing each click with a bit of praise; you hadn’t quite weaned him off of rewards yet.
You stand at the mirror in your bathroom, fiddling with your earring. You carefully remove it and set it to the side before starting on the other one. Lion slinks into the bathroom and stands behind you, gently wrapping his arms around your waist. You smile at him in the mirror and grab the clicker from where it’s sitting on the counter in front of you.
“Y’need help with your shoes?” he asks timidly.
You roughly grind your hips back against his and a tiny noise escapes him.
“Mm, what do you say?” you chide him gently.
“Please?”
click.
“Good boy,” you grin. “Sure, you can help me.”
You turn to face him, your face tantalizingly close to his. He glances from your lips back up to your eyes. His brows are drawn together in a pathetic pleading gaze. You gingerly take his hand in yours, running your thumb over the bruises that paint his knuckles.
“Y’wanna do it here? Or the bedroom?” you ask him sweetly.
“Can we go to the bedroom?” he mumbles. “The tile…”
click.
“Please?”
You smile.
“Of course, sweet boy.”
You drop his hand and brush past him back into the bedroom, Lion following behind you. You take your usual seat on the edge of the bed.
click.
Lion drops to his knees and gets to work. He sets your shoes to the side when he’s done.
click.
He rests his hands on your knees, his palms hot over your skin.
This is usually where you’d ask him if he wants his kiss—dangling a treat out in front of him like a carrot on a stick. Clicking to make him lean up and crash his lips into yours. Lion stares up at you intently. You smile down at him sweetly.
And then you part your legs.
His rough hands are still on your knees, and his eyes dart down between your thighs.
“Shit,” he breathes.
“Yeah? See somethin’ you like, kitty cat?” you tease him. “See somethin’ you want?”
“Yes…” he mutters under his breath.
click.
“Yes, please.”
“Good boy,” you hum.
“Y-you’re…you’re not wearing…” Lion swallows.
“Well what’s the fun in that?” you taunt.
“All night?” he asks weakly.
“Alllll night, baby boy,” you grin. “Coulda been playin’ under the table the whole time. If you were payin’ attention to me.”
You punctuate your last sentence with a pout, exaggerating hurt.
“I was-I was payin’ attention,” he chokes, his eyes still glued to your exposed cunt.
“No you weren’t,” you whine. “Too busy talkin’ to everyone else.”
You had spent the evening at a dinner to celebrate Lion’s recent win. He hated going out to eat after a fight—all he wanted was to go home, cover you in kisses, and sleep—but you found a compromise. He’d let you schedule a nice dinner with a few close friends the day after a win; it did occasionally result in a few cancelled reservations, but generally, it was a good middle ground.
Lion had spent the night being a little more sociable than usual. He made polite conversation with your best friend’s newest boyfriend whom you weren’t entirely sure you liked yet. He even remembered that your friend Liz had started a new job recently and asked her how she was liking it. You were proud of him for going out of his comfort zone a little more. He was ordinarily pretty shy and reserved at these dinners, uncomfortable being the center of attention. You’d seen a change in him over the last few weeks, and were pleased that he was getting more and more comfortable in his own skin.
But you were so pissed that he had politely taken his hand off your knee when you placed it there instead of fingering you under the table like you wanted.
“Too busy talkin’ to Liz…and Molly…” you guilt him. “Didn’t even notice I wanted these inside’a me.”
You slowly lift one of his hands from your knee and bring two of his fingers to your lips. You greedily take them in your mouth, staring at him as you suck on them. You can feel his fingernails towards the back of your throat, the calloused pads of his fingertips pressing into your tongue. He winces when your teeth graze one of the bruises blooming on his knuckles. You pull him out of your mouth, a string of saliva stretching between you obscenely.
“Still hurts, baby?” you ask softly.
“Mm–mhmm,” he hums, his brows knitted together against the painful sensation.
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
You run your hand through his hair, using your nails to gently scratch his scalp. He groans under your touch. You draw your hand into a fist, grabbing his hair at the root.
“Gimme my kiss,” you tell him.
He brings his free hand back to your knee and goes to sit up. You tug on his hair, yanking him back down. He cries out in surprise.
“Not your kiss, silly. My kiss.”
You part your knees further and angle your hips up towards him, your skirt riding up around your waist. Lion gets the hint. He leans forward and presses his lips to your folds, placing a delicate kiss over your clit.
click.
A sigh tumbles out from your lips. You release his hair and fall back onto the mattress, propped up on one elbow.
Lion drags his tongue down your folds, the warm, wet feeling of his muscle against your sensitive skin relieving some of the pent-up frustration that’d been building in you since dinner.
“Fuck, just like that baby,” you breathe.
click.
He speeds up, licking and sucking on your cunt with fervor.
“A little higher, Lion,” you command him gently, your breath light and airy in your throat.
He obeys, dragging his tongue back up to your clit and massaging the sensitive nerves there.
click.
“Gooood boy,” you moan.
Lion hums against you, the low rumble reverberating through your body and making your thighs shake. He mumbles something you can’t hear.
“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” you tease.
He pulls away from you, his eyes glazed over with want. He looks delirious.
“Can I make you cum?” he asks, those puppy dog eyes almost melting you on the spot.
click.
“Please?” he corrects.
“Fuck, yes, Lion, make me cum.”
He dives back into you. His tongue feels divine, the pressure against your clit making it harder and harder to catch your breath.
“Ke-keep going, baby, yes, good boy, righ-ah, right there, right there-!”
He expertly swirls his tongue over you again, drawing the heat in your stomach down into your pelvis.
“Nng–Lionnnn,” you whine. “M’gonna, fuck, I’m…”
He roughly presses your legs further apart, his rough, bruised hands warm against your inner thighs. He sucks your clit into his mouth as he pulls away from you, releasing your flesh with a lewd wet sound. He slides his hands up, resting one on each side of your soaked core. Using his thumbs, he spreads you, the exposed angle making you blush and squirm under his touch. He gently blows cool air against you, the sensation making you even more sensitive. When he brings his mouth back to you, his tongue burns against your clit. A broken cry jumps out of your throat.
“L-Lion, Lion, please,” you pant. You toss your head back, staring up at the ceiling as he brings one thumb up to your clit, firmly pressing and rubbing in small circles.
The heat in your stomach blooms throughout your body, your cheeks flushing as you fall apart under his tongue and his touch. The sound of your groans and his wet kisses on your cunt fill the room as he works you through your orgasm. You gently push against his head when the stimulation becomes too much. He detaches from you and gazes up at you intently, eager for his reward.
click.
“Good boy,” you laugh lightly. “You want your kiss?”
He nods quietly, his chin coated in his spit and your slick.
“C’mere.”
click.
Once Lion started to understand each click as a reward, you began to train him with only the clicker. You didn’t give him praise or call him sweet names or show him affection until after he made you cum, after he obeyed every command. He knew that every click held the promise of a treat, and followed your orders with reverence.
It’s Friday night and you’re coming home from a date at a little wine bar around the corner from your apartment. You’re wearing your favorite dress, the black one that hugs your body just right, the sweetheart neckline displaying your cleavage perfectly. Your black stilettos clack against the floor of your apartment as you enter and head straight to the bedroom. Lion locks the door behind you and follows quickly behind.
He had been especially needy at the bar, stumbling and stammering over his words stupidly as he stared at your chest. When you stepped out of the dimly lit bar onto the sidewalk, Lion produced a pack of cigarettes from his back pocket, shaking one out and holding it between his teeth. He fumbled around in his jacket pockets for his lighter before you opened your purse to let him borrow yours. Seeing the little black clicker in your purse, casually resting next to your lipstick, almost made him faint. Knowing that you carried his sanity around in your tiny designer purse made his knees buckle. He lit the cigarette and took a long drag before grabbing your hand in his and quickly starting towards home.
You sit on the bed now, clicker in hand, as Lion tumbles into the bedroom.
“Kneel.”
click.
He does.
“Take off my shoes.”
click.
He does.
“Get me my vibrator.”
click.
He reaches over to your nightstand and fumbles with the top drawer. He pulls out the small black satin bag and hands it to you. You notice the way his hands are shaking.
“Undress me.”
click.
He brings his hands to your knees and spreads your legs. He reaches under your dress and slides his thumbs underneath the lacy fabric of your black panties, pulling them down your legs and tossing them aside.
You remove your toy from the bag and drag it through your folds, collecting the slick lingering at your entrance. You’re already wet from the anticipation that started building in you when you started the walk home. You love having him wrapped around your finger.
You sigh as you switch the vibe onto the lowest setting, just barely grazing your clit. He watches your every move intently, awaiting his next command.
You tap the button on the toy, increasing the speed. You massage your cunt and the vibrations stimulate your nerves in a way that has your hips twitching into your own touch. Lion just kneels on the floor in front of you as you make him watch you get off on this tiny toy instead of his face.
You cum surprisingly quickly, even on just the medium setting of the vibrator. You can feel your juices coating the silicone and the tips of your fingers as you pull the toy from between your legs, your orgasm making your body feel buzzy and flushed. Lion stares at the shiny remnants of you on the vibe.
“Use your words,” you tell him. It was one of your favorite commands, though it took some getting used to. Where you would ordinarily ask him what was wrong, what he wanted, what he was thinking about, you instead gave him an order.
click.
“Can I have a taste?” he asks meekly.
click.
“Please?” he adds.
“No,” you reply cruelly, relishing every second of it. “Get me a tissue.”
click.
He rises and crosses to the bathroom, returning with the tissue. You take it and wipe your vibrator clean before putting it back in the bag.
“Throw this away,” you tell Lion, handing him the sticky tissue.
You know it’ll kill him, throwing away your cum that he so desperately wanted in his mouth. Not only watching you waste it on a toy, but being forced to be the one to discard the evidence only twisted the knife you’d sunk into his chest.
click.
He reluctantly crosses back into the bathroom and tosses the tissue in the trash can with a wince before returning to you.
“Kneel,” you command him again.
click.
He does.
You stare down at him as he stares up at you, those soft, sweet eyes boring into yours. It takes everything in you to maintain your composure. All you want to do is stroke his hair, pepper his face with tiny kisses, breathe in his breath like it’s your own. But you don’t.
“Gimme my kiss.”
click.
He leans forward and starts eating you like he’s been starved for days. His pace is immediately unrelenting as alternates between swirling his tongue around your clit and dragging it through your folds.
“Lion, oh God, yes,” you huff, your body still reeling from your first orgasm.
His facial hair scratches against your inner thighs as you squeeze them around his head. He hums in satisfaction and tosses your legs over his shoulders, tugging your hips closer to his mouth and the edge of the bed.
You lie back completely, flopping your head against the pillowy mattress. Lion continues to devour you, lapping and slurping up your wetness. It sounds like you’re in a cheesy porno, his weak, tiny moans harmonizing with the vulgar sounds of his tongue.
“Yes, baby, yes, yes, fuck.” You can hardly catch your breath. Your thighs are trembling around his head, your hips twitching and grinding against his face. “Use your words, kitty cat, talk to me.”
click.
He groans.
“Y’so pretty, so gorgeous, baby, couldn’t stop starin’ at you all night,” he mumbles. “Not fair when y’wear this one…”
“You like it?” you tease him through hurried breaths.
“Y’so sexy, fuck, I was gonna cum just starin’ at your tits in the restaurant,” he continues, pressing a sloppy kiss to your clit. “Just wanna make you cum, princess, please, please?”
He runs his tongue along your cunt and swallows the juices that collect on his tongue.
“Please, please, please, baby, please, I need you to…”
He sounds ruined. His breath is filling his lungs almost as fast as yours is, and his voice is wavering.
“I need you to click it baby, please,” he begs.
“Make me cum first, Lion,” you chastise him.
“But ‘m sayin’ please,” he whines.
He was still a little attached to his old habits, seeking clicks like treats. He was still learning.
“You get a click for making me cum, not just for saying please,” you reply sternly. He whines against you.
“M’sorry baby,” he breathes.
“It’s o-okay,” you respond, stuttering when he brings his mouth back to suck on your clit. He lets go of you with a lewd pop!
“Can I use my fingers, too?” he asks you sweetly, staring up at you through those long lashes.
“You can use your fingers,” you whisper.
He brings his hand to your cunt and slowly drags two fingers through your folds, slicking them with you, before he pushes in. You whimper at the full feeling. He usually starts with one, but now he’s pumping two fingers in and out of you at a torturously slow pace while his tongue flicks your clit over and over. You can feel the spark in your stomach ignite again, and you bring one hand down to tangle your own fingers in his hair.
You pull him closer, and he picks up the pace. You can feel him part his fingers inside of you and you cry out at the stretch. He keeps working you, his deft fingers curling up to find that spot inside of you that has your head spinning. You arch your back off the bed, angling your hips towards his face and giving him better access.
“Right there, fuck, yes, Lion, don’t stop,” you cry.
He strokes you again, and you can feel your heart thundering in your chest.
“Cum for me baby, please,” he begs.
He hits that spot one more time, his calloused fingers applying just the right amount of pressure. You scream, gripping his hair so tight you’re almost worried about hurting him. Your orgasm shoots through you, heightened by the first one still lingering in your body. Every limb feels like it’s on fire, and your legs shake around his head. He slurps down the juices you release onto his tongue, savoring the taste of you. When he finally pulls his fingers out of your aching cunt, he brings them to his mouth and greedily sucks off the remainder of your orgasm.
You lie back in the bed, flushed and giddy. You chuckle softly in your bliss. Lion sits back on his heels, staring up at you as your chest rises and falls.
“Good boy,” you praise him through panting breath. “Good boy, Lion.”
You glance back down at him. He stares at you with his giant, sad, puppy dog eyes.
“C-can I have m-my k-kiss now?” he whimpers.
Thanks for reading! As always, likes, comments, and reblogs highly appreciated! Check out my masterlist here if you're looking for more.
♥︎ summary: James Cook spends way too much time at Freddie’s house once his dad Leo remarries, because he’s completely gone on you, Freddie’s sweet, baking-obsessed stepmum–the woman who calls him pet names while walking around in thin tank tops and no bra. What starts as shameless flirting spirals into something messier, hungrier, and impossible to ignore…and one quiet afternoon finally tips them over the edge.
♥︎ wc: 13.6k
♥︎ a/n: okay so the cook thread in the remmick/jack server got a little bit too sprung over the concept of cook x step!mom reader when I brought it up a few days ago so yeah, this happened 💀 huge thank you to @foxtufts @iceemochaa @scannainscanrula and @gravecleric0900 for bouncing ideas back and forth with me and enabling this entire spiral, this one’s for y'all <3 i definitely have enough material for a part 2 at this point lol so stay tuned. title is a play on a lyric from Stacy’s Mom by Fountain of Wayne, or as luna put it: “the white boy song about cracking older women” also big thanks to @amaranthine-enihtnarama for beta reading!!
♥︎ warnings: infidelity/adultery, mommy kink, p in v, unprotected sex, creampie, age gap, breeding kink, possessive behavior, degradation/praise kink, oral fixation/tit play, spit kink, semi-public sex (kitchen), voyeurism risk, emotional dependency, jealousy, canon-typical james cook behavior
♥︎ likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated, please enjoy!!
♥︎ Masterlist
The first thing Cook notices is the shirt.
Not the house. Not the smell of lemon cleaner. Not the stack of Amazon parcels by the stairs. Not even Leo McClair’s voice drifting from the kitchen.
No—it’s your shirt.
Thin. Soft. Loose in the kind of way that looks accidental but feels deliberate.
No bra. Cook clocks that immediately. His brain short-circuits so brutally he steps into the doorframe.
Freddie doesn’t notice. Freddie never notices anything when he’s mid-rant about college applications and the state of the world.
But Cook notices everything.
You turn when the door opens, brushing your hands on a dish towel, smiling the kind of warm, domestic smile that feels like standing in front of an oven.
“Hi, sweetheart. Freddie said you might be coming by.”
Cook forgets how to breathe.
Sweetheart.
Sweet. Heart.
He’s had girls call him “fit,” “fuckboy,” “arsehole,” even “iconic menace,” but never anything like that.
And definitely not from a woman who looks like she actually has her life together.
A woman who has a home, routines, grown-up hobbies like baking, with a soft tank top clinging to her in ways absolutely none of Cook’s poor impulse control is prepared for.
“Yeah,” he croaks.
It comes out embarrassingly high.
He clears his throat, resets, tries again. “Yeah, uh. Freddie invited me.”
Freddie shoots him a look. “No, I didn’t. You just texted me ‘Oi I’m outside’ and walked in.”
You laugh softly—you laugh—and Cook feels that warm little sound hit him right behind the ribcage like a bullet.
He’s doomed.
That fast. That simple.
You turn back toward the counter, reaching for a tray like the world isn’t suddenly tilting for him. “I made muffins. Help yourselves.”
Cook watches you stretch up on your toes, shirt rising, hem grazing the top of your hips. He swallows something that tastes like a prayer and a swear all at once.
He shouldn’t be staring. You’re Leo’s…Well. Whatever polite word adults use for “new wife.”
The first woman Leo started seeing after Mary passed—Cook remembers that whole tragedy, the way Freddie shut down, the way Karen disappeared to Brighton and barely visited.
Leo hadn’t dated for ages. Not until you.
And now here you are, handing Cook a blueberry muffin and smiling at him like he didn’t just mentally thank God for tank tops.
“Here you go, love.”
Love.
You call everyone love. Cook knows that.
But hearing it fall out of your mouth and land on him specifically feels like getting hit by a moving vehicle made entirely of desire.
He takes the muffin without looking at it. Without blinking. His eyes keep dropping to your chest, fascinated, sinful, stupid, young.
Freddie elbows him. “Mate. You’re staring.”
Cook doesn’t even deny it. His mouth is too dry to lie.
You don’t seem to notice—or worse, you notice and don’t mind.
You just keep bustling around the kitchen with soft humming and warm light hitting your shoulders in a way that makes Cook want to sit on the floor and cry.
He shouldn’t be thinking any of this.
A bloody adult woman with a real job and real routines and real compassion, not some drunk girl at a house party who’d let him finger her behind a Tesco.
He leans on the counter—casual, cocky, the usual Cook posture—except his heart is sprinting and his jeans feel painfully tight.
“So, uh,” he says, eyes drifting downward again before he can stop them, “that your…baking outfit?”
Freddie slaps the back of his head. “COOK.”
But you only laugh again.
“It’s just comfortable, honey.”
Honey.
Cook decides spiritually, emotionally, metaphysically—he is not surviving this woman.
You move past him to rinse something in the sink, your body brushing his arm.
Soft. Warm.
You smell like citrus and sugar and something cozy he can’t place.
Cook’s knees nearly give out.
He has to actually step back, palms flat on the edge of the counter, trying to ground himself before he embarrasses himself any more than he already has.
And then he sees it.
Cook stares at it like it’s taunting him personally.
Your hand. The ring. The gold glint of your wedding ring as you push your hair behind your ear.
Something flickers hot and jealous and ugly in his chest before he even understands it.
Leo’s ring. Leo’s wife. Leo’s life.
He looks away fast.
Too fast.
Like he’s been burned.
Freddie doesn’t notice. He’s digging through the muffins like a feral animal.
But you catch Cook’s strange shift.
You tilt your head.
“Are you feeling alright? You look a little flushed.”
Flushed.
Oh, he’s flushed alright. He’s about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting.
“Yeah, I’m—” He clears his throat again. “—I’m sweet. I mean. Good. Sweet. Whatever. The, uh. Muffin’s sweet.”
Freddie stares at him like he’s having a medical episode. “Mate, what.”
Cook wants to crumble into dust.
You only smile, warm and soft and devastating. “You’re always welcome here. Don’t be shy.”
Shy.
Cook, who once free-climbed a stranger’s shed for a laugh. Cook, who jumped from a balcony into a river on a dare. Cook, who’s never met a risky impulse he didn’t marry on sight.
He is suddenly very, very shy.
Because you call him sweetie, love, honey, in that soft voice that makes something primal and needy coil low in his stomach.
Because you’re kind.
Because you’re warm.
Because you look like a woman who deserves someone who actually shows her attention—not Leo, who’s been emotionally absent since Mary died.
Because Cook is nineteen and stupid and ruled by the kind of hunger that doesn’t listen to logic.
Because the way your shirt clings when you reach for another muffin should be illegal.
Cook forces himself to look away before you catch how fully, aggressively hard he is.
But as he watches you, soft and domestic and humming under your breath, something clicks into place inside him.
Not careful. Not polite. Not appropriate. Something much more Cook than that.
So Cook stands in front of his wardrobe for a full five minutes, staring at his options like he’s choosing an outfit for war.
And then he sees it.
The shirt he bought as a joke months ago.
White with bold black letters:
GOT MILF?
Cook grins.
Perfect.
By the time he gets to the McClair house, Freddie is already at the door, arms crossed, shaking his head.
“No. Absolutely not. You’re not wearing that in my house.”
Cook pushes past him, cocky swagger in full force. “Why not, mate? Promotin’ awareness. Helping the community.”
“You are. A disaster.” Freddie grabs the sleeve to read it again, upper lip curling like he got a whiff of spoiled milk. “A literal sex offender vibe.”
Cook shrugs. “Fashion, innit.”
Freddie groans and follows him inside. “Dad’s gonna kill you.”
Cook doesn’t respond.
Because you’re in the living room, kneeling on the floor, reaching under the coffee table for something you dropped.
Your shirt hangs loose.
Your shorts ride up when you stretch. And Cook is immediately, violently erect.
You straighten and turn toward him with a soft smile. “Cook! Hi, love.”
Love.
Cook’s spine nearly melts.
He tries to speak. He really does.
But his eyes betray him instantly, dropping to the way your shirt shifts as you stand—and he wonders, wildly, whether God created this moment specifically to test his sanity.
You notice the shirt. Of course you do. Your eyebrow lifts. “Interesting…fashion choice.”
Cook beams. “Like it?”
Freddie throws a cushion at him. “She doesn’t like it, you twat.”
But you just laugh, shaking your head. “It’s very…bold.”
Bold.
Cook hears “sexy.”
He hears “keen.”
He hears “I’m into this.”
He’s wrong. But Cook is always wrong in the exact way that makes him dangerous.
You stand, brushing your hands on your thighs. “I made scones this time. Want some?”
Cook nods. Too fast.
Freddie watches his friend and mutters, “Jesus Christ…”
You bring the tray over, setting it on the table. Cook takes one like he’s receiving communion.
You move to sit beside Freddie on the couch, but he nudges over. “Sit with Cook. Keeps him from drooling on the furniture.”
Cook eyes Freddie like he’ll stab him, but you laugh and settle beside Cook—close enough that your knee grazes his thigh.
Cook stares straight ahead like he’s looking into the sun.
You pick up a scone for yourself, humming contentedly. Cook almost dies on the spot.
And then—because Cook cannot shut the fuck up:
“You know,” he says loudly, confidently, tilting his head, “older women are proper gorgeous these days.”
Freddie drops his head into his hands. “Cook, please—”
But Cook is on a roll.
“Honestly, yeah? Whole society doesn’t appreciate older women enough. Total crime. Crime of the century, that.”
You blink, amused. “Is that so?”
“Oh yeah.” Cook leans back, spreading his arms on the sofa cushions like he’s giving a TED Talk. “We gotta show ’em love. Appreciation. Support the queens, innit?”
Freddie makes a strangled sound. “You’re gonna get banned from my house.”
Cook continues, undeterred. “’Cause like—who’s gonna show ’em love if not—?”
Freddie launches a throw pillow at his face. “STOP SAYING THAT SHIT IN FRONT OF MY STEP-MUM.”
You grin at the chaos, shaking your head. “You boys are ridiculous.”
Boys.
Cook twitches.
But it’s the way you say it—fondly, indulgently—that twists something deep inside him.
He wants to climb into your lap. He wants to put his head on your chest. He wants to be your favorite. He wants your attention, your hands, your praise.
He wants everything he shouldn’t want.
Leo walks into the room just then.
Cook stiffens—not in fear, but in rage he doesn’t fully understand.
Leo McClair.
Mourning widower.
Mechanic.
Father of two.
And your husband.
Cook watches Leo kiss your cheek. Watches your hand rest softly on Leo’s arm. Watches Leo smile at you with an ease that punches Cook in the throat.
Cook hates him.
Suddenly. Violently.
He hates that Leo got you. He hates that Leo wakes up in the same house as you. He hates that Leo gets to hear your humming at night, gets to see you in pajamas, gets to touch you.
Cook’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
Leo glances at Cook. “That’s quite a shirt, James.”
Cook doesn’t look away from you. “Promotin’ positivity.”
Freddie throws another pillow at him.
Leo leaves the room, muttering something about going to pick up a part from the garage.
Cook watches him go, chest tight.
When you get up to take the scones to the kitchen, your hand brushes Cook’s shoulder again.
Warm. Soft. Easy. A touch without thought.
You don’t know what it does to him.
Cook swallows hard, staring after you, painfully aware of the heat in his jeans.
“Mate,” Freddie whispers, narrowing his eyes, “you better not be thinking—”
Cook cuts him off with a dismissive wave. “Shut up.”
But Freddie isn’t stupid. He sees it. The fixation. The hunger. The way Cook watches you leave the room like he’s memorizing every movement.
Freddie drops his voice even lower:
“That’s my dad’s wife, Cook.”
Cook’s response is quiet, uncharacteristically so.
“Yeah. I know.”
Freddie opens his mouth to continue, but Cook is already gone—following you into the kitchen, helpless to stop himself.
You’re humming again, opening the dishwasher to unload it. Cook stands there, hands in his pockets, trying not to stare at your chest.
Trying. Failing.
You turn and smile, not realizing you’re killing him slowly. “Need something, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart.
Cook isn't a complicated man.
He likes sex, drugs, parties, fun. He likes being loud, doing stupid shit, living on impulse. He does not like thinking too hard. He does not like wanting things he can’t have.
And yet here he is, watching you put dishes away like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
Cook stops breathing.
Then you bend. Slowly. Deliberately. Innocently.
Not for him. Not because you know. Just because you’re human and sometimes you need to put something away on a low shelf.
Cook makes a sound he’s never made in his life—a strangled, wounded-animal whimper he will deny to his grave.
His cock strains so hard against his jeans that he nearly doubles over.
And then the worst—or best—thing happens:
He steps forward without thinking.
Just one step. Instinctual. Animal. A magnet pulled toward heat.
Your ass brushes his jeans.
Cook almost blacks out.
You gasp lightly, startled, straightening—and his body jolts back like he’s touched a live wire.
“Sorry—sorry—sorry, shit, fuck—” Cook stammers, voice cracking in ways he can’t control. “Didn’t—wasn’t tryin’—just—fuck.”
You’re flustered too, cheeks warm, lips parted. It’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. You look at him like you don’t know what to say.
Neither does he.
“Cook…it’s alright,” you murmur, trying to soothe him in that gentle way that makes everything worse. “Just an accident.”
Accident.
Cook swallows. Hard.
Because nothing about what’s happening feels accidental to him.
He steps back, rubbing the back of his neck, trying to hide the very obvious situation happening in his jeans.
“Yeah, just—cabinet. Didn’t see. My bad.” He sounds deranged.
But you only give him a small smile—warm, forgiving, sweet.
Sweet.
Fuck.
His brain is soup.
Freddie’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife. “Oi! Stop harassing my step-mum and get your arse back in here, dickhead!"
It takes exactly three days for Cook to crack.
Three days of pretending stepping inside the McClair family household isn't absolute torture.
Three days of him going home, lying in bed, and seeing nothing but your hands, your smile, the soft way you move around the house like you belong in it.
Like you belong everywhere.
He tells himself he’s not going back for a bit. Give it space, yeah? Let his brain clear.
That resolve lasts until lunchtime.
By early afternoon he’s knocking on the McClair front door with a half-smirk he doesn’t feel and a heart beating too fast.
You answer again.
You’re in some easy, at-home clothes—another soft top, shorts showing bare legs, hair pulled back haphazardly. You’ve got a tea towel in one hand and that same gently surprised smile you get every time you see him.
“Cook! Hi, sweetie. I didn’t know you were coming by today.”
There it is.
Sweetie.
His whole chest flutters like an idiot.
He stuffs his hands in his pockets, rocking lightly on his heels. “Yeah, well. Freddie’s boring on his own, innit.”
You step aside to let him in without questioning it. “He’s up in his room. I’ve just put the kettle on if you want tea.”
Tea. Domesticity. Safety.
Cook would chew glass for that tone directed at him.
“Yeah, sound,” he says, trying not to sound too eager. “Cheers.”
He kicks his shoes off and heads down the hallway, muscles already buzzing with the awareness that you’re behind him somewhere in the house, that this is your space now, your home. That you’ve been moving through it all morning wearing that top and those shorts and that ring.
He lasts maybe thirty seconds upstairs with Freddie.
Freddie is buzzing about the upcoming album release for some underground alternative band he likes, gesturing at his laptop screen, and Cook realizes he hasn’t heard a single word. All he can hear is the faint clink of cups from downstairs, the soft drag of your footsteps on the kitchen tiles.
“Oi, Freddie,” Cook mutters abruptly, trying not to sound deranged. “Where’s your loo?”
Freddie doesn’t even look up. “Same place it’s always been, you numpty.”
Cook nods, his throat’s too tight for the usual banter.
He heads for the bathroom on the landing, heart picking up pace. The house is quiet enough now that he can hear the kettle finish boiling, the click of it switching off. Your low hum floats up the stairs.
That’s what does him in.
That sound.
Soft, absent-minded, cozy. A sound that doesn’t belong in his world of shouting and chaos and bad decisions. It wraps around him anyway, hooks into his ribs, and pulls.
He shuts the bathroom door behind him, but it doesn’t catch all the way in the frame. The latch is fussy; it always has been. Leo’s been saying he needs to fix it since forever.
Cook doesn’t notice. Not this time.
His reflection in the mirror looks a little wild-eyed. Flushed. Pupils too big.
“Get a fuckin' grip,” he mutters to himself in the mirror.
He doesn’t.
He steps closer to the sink, braces both hands on the porcelain, and drops his head between his shoulders.
All he can see in his mind is the way you bent over the cupboard. The way you straightened up, cheeks warm, when he bumped you. The way you said accident and smiled like he wasn’t one.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
The pressure in his body is unbearable, coiled tight. Days of it now. Days of catching glimpses of your chest, of your ring, of the curve of your mouth around a teaspoon as you taste whatever you’re making. Weeks of feeling stupidly, ruinously young in the same room as you, brain buzzing like static.
He shouldn’t be doing this here.
He drags a hand through his hair, breathing hard, and the movement brushes over the front of his jeans. He’s hard. Of course he is. He’s been half-hard since the door opened and you said hi.
But Cook has never, ever been good at resisting the wrong thing.
He definitely shouldn’t be doing it in Leo McClair’s house. He definitely shouldn’t be thinking the things he’s thinking about his best mate’s step-mum.
He unzips his jeans, breath hitching when his cock springs free. He wraps his fist around himself and bites down on his lip to stay quiet.
He strokes himself faster, jaw clenched, heart pounding.
His mind floods instantly with you. You leaning over him, your tank slipping lower. You brushing hair from his forehead. You saying “sweetheart.” You humming softly as you bake, tits moving with each gentle stir.
“Fuck—” His voice cracks.
He imagines you touching him, fingers brushing his cheek, calling him an affectionate pet name the way you do, soft and sweet without trying.
He imagines you looking at him like he’s actually something good.
But mostly, he imagines your tits in his mouth.
He squeezes harder, groaning into his shoulder to muffle the sound.
He pictures you gasping quietly when he tugs you closer. Your warm breath on his neck. Your fingers threading into his hair. Your ring catching the light as you cup his jaw—
Cook’s hips jerk forward.
“Fuck—fuck—fuck,” he hisses, hand moving fast now. “Gonna be good. Be good for you. Swear. Swear I’ll—Mommy—”
Cook spills hot into his palm with a quiet, broken sound he immediately hates himself for.
Movement flickers in his peripheral vision.
The door.
He hears the soft click as it shifts, just enough. The sliver of light through the crack. The faint shift in air.
He looks up.
You’re there.
Just a glimpse—through the barely open door—but enough. Your outline in the frame. Your eyes wide. Your hand frozen halfway to knocking.
Cook’s world lurches sideways.
He freezes, every muscle locking, hand still halfway down.
You don’t scream. You don’t say anything.
The silence is so loud he thinks his ears might burst.
You just stare for one heartbeat, two, three. Your gaze flicks from his face to his chest, to his arm, back up.
Then—quietly, almost gracefully—you step back, the door easing out of its crooked tilt as you retreat.
His lungs refuse to work. He can’t tell if he’s breathing at all.
The latch never properly catches.
You’re gone.
Cook stays exactly where he is.
It feels like hours before he remembers to move.
He pulls his shaking hand away, every vein in his body singing with horror. His heart’s trying to climb out of his throat. His face burns so hot it feels like his skin might split.
“Fuck,” he croaks, voice wrecked.
He zips up with too much force, almost catching skin, then fumbles to the sink. Flips the tap on. Holds his wrists under cold water until they’re numb, then splashes handful after handful over his face.
He stares at himself in the mirror. He barely recognizes the guy looking back—it’s Cook, sure, but stripped down to the worst, rawest parts.
He closes his eyes.
The parts that want what they shouldn’t. The parts that say mommy under their breath in someone else’s house.
You saw.
You saw.
You saw him—
His stomach twists.
He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles go white. “Fuckin’ hell, James,” he mutters. “What’ve you done?”
There’s no answer. Just the faint sound of the kettle whistling again in the kitchen and Freddie’s music leaking under his bedroom door upstairs.
Life going on.
Like he didn’t just ruin everything.
He only comes out of the bathroom when he has no choice.
His shirt still feels too tight. His jeans feel wrong. His skin feels wrong. The hallway feels too narrow.
He hears you before he sees you.
Your voice is quieter than usual. No humming, just the gentle clink of mugs being set down.
He forces himself into the kitchen.
You’re at the counter, back to him, pouring tea into cups. Your shoulders are stiff in a way he hasn’t seen before.
You know. Of course you know.
He thinks about bolting. Just leaving, blaming it on something, anything. Going home and never setting foot in this house again.
Instead, his feet carry him forward.
“Tea’s ready,” you say, without turning around. Your voice sounds almost normal. Almost.
He swallows. His throat is too dry. “Yeah. Sound.”
You turn then.
Your expression is…not what he expects. No disgust. No disgusted whisper of What is wrong with you? No shouting. No accusations.
Just something searching, uncertain. A hint of color on your cheeks that might be from standing over the kettle. Might not.
Your gaze flicks to his face and nowhere else. He knows because he’s watching, hyper-aware of every tiny shift.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly. “You were in there a while.”
The question knocks the wind out of him.
Okay.
Yeah. Sure. He’s fine. Totally grand. Absolutely not having a sexual crisis over his best mate’s step-mum.
He forces a laugh that sounds like it’s been dragged over broken glass. “Yeah, just, uh…stomach, innit. Dodgy chips.”
You don’t call him on it.
You just nod, lips pressing together like you’re deciding to accept the lie for both your sakes.
You slide a mug toward him. “Careful, it’s hot.”
He takes it with a hand that only trembles a little.
Your fingers almost brush. You pull back first.
The gap between you in the kitchen suddenly feels like a chasm.
He hates it.
After drinking the earl grey you made in the smothered, tense silence that had settled over the McClair family kitchen, you turn around to rinse the mugs at the sink. Cook is supposed to be headed up the stairs. He gets to the bottom step, hand on the rail.
Stops.
Turns back.
His own footsteps on the tiles sound too loud as he heads for the kitchen again, but he keeps going.
You don’t notice him at first. You’re focused on the tap, the glass in your hand, the water running clear over your fingers.
He stops a few feet away, shoving his hands deep into his pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid with them.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
You glance over your shoulder. “Hey.”
There’s a pause. Not long. Just long enough for the air to thicken.
“About earlier—” Cook starts.
You shake your head quickly, turning the tap off. “You don’t have to explain, Cook.”
He flinches.
He hates the idea of you making excuses for him. Of you smoothing it over, pretending you didn’t see what you saw. Pretending he’s just some kid with a weak moment.
He steps closer.
“You’re killin’ me, y’know that?”
You blink. “Cook…”
He swallows, eyes fixed on your profile, the line of your jaw, the way you’re not quite meeting his gaze.
“You are,” he insists, pushing forward because he doesn’t know how else to do anything. “You’re walkin’ round here, all…” His eyes flick over you, helpless. “Like that. Smellin’ like sugar and…I dunno. Home or somethin’.”
Your hand tightens on the ceramic in the sink.
“Cook,” you repeat, quieter this time. “You can’t—”
He takes another step. Closer now, enough that he can feel the warmth of your body. He isn’t touching you, but it wouldn’t take much.
“Can’t what?” he asks, softer than he ever talks to anyone. “Can’t notice you? ’Cause I fuckin’ do. Every time. Every time I come here, it’s like—”
He breaks off, jaw working.
Like what? Like walking off a cliff? Like jumping from a roof? Like every bad decision he’s ever made rolled into one?
“Like you’re doing it on purpose,” he finishes, voice rough.
You turn to face him then.
You’re close. Too close. The kitchen suddenly feels much, much smaller.
Your eyes search his face, looking for something—sincerity, maybe. Or an escape hatch.
“I’m not doing anything on purpose,” you say quietly. “I’m just…existing in my own house.”
He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Yeah. Well. That’s the problem, innit.”
He leans in, just slightly. Enough that he can see the way your lashes flutter, the way your lips part like you’re about to say something and then don’t.
“Cook…” Your voice trembles minutely. “This is inappropriate.”
He smiles. A crooked, dangerous thing.
“Ain’t inappropriate if you like it.”
The words hang between you.
You stare at him, eyes wide, pulse fluttering at your throat.
For a heartbeat, he thinks you might slap him. Tell him to get out. Call Leo and end the whole thing, right here, right now.
But you don’t.
You reach past him instead, turning the tap back on, letting the water run over your hands as if you need something to anchor you.
“Go upstairs,” you murmur, not quite looking at him. “Freddie’s waiting.”
It’s not a yes. It’s not a no.
Cook stands there for one beat too long, memorizing the way your shoulders look when you’re trying to steady yourself.
Then he turns and heads for the stairs, heart pounding.
He doesn’t know what’s worse:
The fact that you caught him. Or the fact that when he cornered you after, you didn’t shut him down completely.
You liked it. Even just a bit.
And for James Cook, that sliver of possibility is enough to light the fuse.
Cook starts noticing stupid things.
Not just your shirts. Your legs. The way your shorts cling when you’re halfway up a ladder changing a light.
He notices the way you hum the same little melody when you’re in a good mood. He notices which mugs you use for tea and which ones you give him.
He notices that when you’re thinking, you tap your thumb against your wedding ring without realizing.
It drives him spare.
He’s not built for this kind of attention. His brain’s meant for short bursts of chaos, not long-haul obsessing. But it’s like once you’ve taken up residence in his head, nothing else fits in there right.
Music sounds different. Jokes don’t land as hard. Other girls blur at the edges.
He’s nineteen, surrounded by girls his own age, and all he can think about is you in the kitchen with flour on your hands and nothing under your top.
It’s pathetic. He knows it. He doesn’t stop.
It’s a Saturday when it happens.
Freddie texts him some half-arsed “come over if you want” message and Cook pretends to think about it for maybe thirty seconds before he’s already pulling his trainers on.
When he gets to the house, the first thing he clocks is Leo’s car isn’t in the drive.
The second thing he clocks is the smell.
Sweet. Warm. Cozy. Like something baking.
He steps inside without knocking—he never really bothers as of late—and kicks off his shoes. The house hums softly around him, sunlight angling in through the hallway window.
“Hello?” he calls, trying to sound casual.
Your voice floats from the kitchen, where you seem to spend most of your free time, either baking or watering house plants or reading steamy literature. “In here, love!”
That word. Always that word.
He follows the sound, stuffing his hands into his pockets so he doesn’t do something stupid like grab the wall for support.
You’re at the counter when he walks in.
The world narrows.
You’re in a thin, pale tank top that’s definitely seen better days, the fabric worn soft with washing. It hangs loose at the sides, armholes cut a little too low, showing flashes of the curve beneath. No bra, of course. He can tell before he really sees it—the way the fabric moves, the slight weight, the faint outline when you turn.
You’ve got a mixing bowl in front of you, one hip propped against the counter, stirring something thick and glossy. There’s a light dusting of flour on your hands and across your top, little white smudges that make Cook want to lick them off.
He stops in the doorway like his body’s hit an invisible wall.
You glance over, smiling when you see him. “Oh, hey, sweetie. Freddie’s upstairs. I’m just getting a cake together.”
Cake. Great. Fantastic. That’s what he needed. Another reason to associate you with sugar.
He swallows. “Smells bangin’.”
“Thanks.” You turn back to the bowl, wrist rotating in rhythmic circles. The movement makes your top shift, the hem riding up a little, your chest shaking just enough that Cook’s head fills with white noise.
He drifts closer like something pulled on a string. He doesn’t remember deciding to move. He’s just suddenly there, near enough to smell lemon and something warm beneath it.
Up close, it’s worse.
The tank is thin enough that he can see the faintest shadow of your nipples through it when you turn a certain way. The knowledge lands low in his stomach, hot and heavy. He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, willing them to behave.
“You alright?” you ask lightly, not looking at him. “You’ve gone quiet. That’s rare.”
He huffs out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “Just—dunno. Watchin’ ya.”
You glance sideways, eyebrows lifting. “Watching me bake?”
He shrugs, leaning one shoulder against the counter, trying for casual. “Could watch, yeah.”
Your lips curve, trying not to fully smile, eyes dropping back to the batter like you’re pretending you didn’t hear the weight under his words.
Silence settles, but not the comfortable kind. It’s thick, warm, sticky. His heartbeat sounds too loud in his ears.
You shift to grab something behind you, turning your back to him.
“Need the vanilla,” you murmur, reaching.
The bottle’s on the top shelf. Of course it is.
You stretch without thinking, rising onto your toes. The hem of your tank creeps up, exposing the small of your back. Your shorts pull tight across your hips.
Cook dies.
Right there. On the spot.
And then—as if the universe is personally testing his willpower—you can’t quite reach.
You step closer to the cupboard, lean in.
And you bend.
It’s not a full bend like before, but it’s enough—spine arching slightly, your top sliding forward so it hangs off you, your tits shifting under the thin fabric. The neckline gapes a little, enough that if he moves half a step—
Cook makes another of those awful, strangled sounds he doesn’t recognize as his own.
You straighten quickly, hand closing around the bottle. “Got it,” you say, voice a little breathy.
He doesn’t know if it’s from the stretch or—
No. Don’t think about it. Don’t.
You turn back to the counter, measuring liquid, stirring it in.
Cook’s eyes fixate helplessly on the way your chest moves with each motion, skin ghosting against the fabric. He can’t hear anything over the rush of his blood.
It’s not just that your tits look good.
They do. They look incredible.
It’s that they’re happening in the middle of a sunny Saturday kitchen with a bowl of cake batter and a quiet house. It’s that you look so soft and unbothered, completely unaware you’re undoing him.
Something in his head snaps loose.
“You’re doin’ this on purpose,” he blurts, voice rough.
You glance at him, surprised. “What?”
He shifts, the words tumbling out faster than he can edit them.
“Goin’ round in that,” he gestures vaguely at your tank, at the soft curve beneath, “with—with no bra an’ all that. In front of me. Stirrin’ batter like it’s a porno.”
The corner of your mouth twitches. “Stirring batter like it’s…what now?”
He drags a hand down his face. “You know what you’re doin’, love.”
You stare at him for a long moment, amusement and something else—something sharper, more cautious—flickering over your features.
Then you set the spoon down and turn to face him fully, leaning back against the counter with your hands braced on the edge. The movement pulls the tank even tighter across your chest.
“If you’re that bothered by my shirt, Cook,” you say evenly, “you can look somewhere else.”
He laughs, single and humorless. “Can’t. S’problem. There’s nowhere else to look, is there?”
He pushes off the opposite counter, closing some of the distance between you. Not all. Just enough that he can see your pulse beating at the base of your throat.
He feels wrecked and reckless and stupid. He hates the tight, needy ache in his chest. He hates that he cares what you think of him, how you see him.
He hates that he wants you to see him as something other than just Freddie’s idiot mate.
He stops just in front of you, eyes locked on yours.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me?” he asks, voice quiet, almost hoarse.
Your fingers curl slightly against the countertop. “Cook…”
He doesn’t let you finish.
“You walk around here lookin’ like that,” he says, head tipping toward your chest, “callin’ me sweetie, love…makin’ me cakes and tea and shit…and I’m just supposed to sit on your sofa like a good little boy, yeah?”
Your throat works as you swallow. “You’re supposed to be respectful.”
Respectful.
He should laugh. He really should.
But all he can picture is his own reflection in the bathroom mirror, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, your eyes in the door crack as you caught him.
“’M tryin’,” he says honestly. “Swear I am. But you’re…” His hands flex uselessly at his sides. “You’re killin’ me.”
Your gaze flickers over his face, searching. There’s a heat there now, and a wariness. Like you’re standing on the edge of something and haven’t decided which way to fall.
“I’m not doing anything to you,” you say quietly. “I’m baking a cake in my own kitchen.”
He huffs out a breath through his nose. “Yeah. An’ that’s the worst part.”
You swallow again, eyes dropping for the briefest second—to his mouth, maybe. To the line of his throat. Back up.
“Cook.” Your tone shifts. Firmer. “This isn’t a game. I’m married to Leo. I’m—”
“Yeah, I know who you’re married to,” he cuts in, sharper than he means to. Jealousy flares ugly and bright. “Trust me, love. I’m aware.”
You flinch slightly at the bite in his voice. His stomach twists. That’s not what he wants—not really.
He wants you looking at him the way you look at Leo when you hand him his mug. The way you look at Freddie when he makes you laugh. He wants soft. He wants fond.
He wants things he has no right wanting.
He drags in a breath, tries to smooth some of the roughness out of his tone.
“Listen,” he says, stepping closer again. “I’m not…I’m not sayin’ you’re askin’ for it or any of that bullshit, yeah? I’m sayin’ I’m fucked. That’s all. ‘Cause I come in here and you’re—”
His eyes flick down in spite of himself, over the line of your collarbone, the way your top hangs, the ghost of your nipples visible through the thin material.
It punches the air out of him.
He swallows.
“I just wanna taste ’em,” he hears himself say, low and raw. “Just once.”
Silence slams into the room.
Your fingers go still on the counter. Your eyes widen, just a fraction.
Cook’s heart plummets.
Too far. He’s gone too far. Even for him.
He opens his mouth, fumbling for a walk-back, some joke, some deflection—
He doesn’t get the chance.
You reach out.
Your hand closes around his jaw—firm, warm, fingers pressing into his cheeks just enough that his lips part on a sharp inhale.
He freezes.
Every cell in his body stops and then roars awake all at once.
You tilt his head up slightly, forcing his eyes to stay on yours.
“Cook,” you say, voice softer than it has any right to be considering the iron in your grip. “You’ve been a very naughty boy.”
The words hit him like a punch.
His knees actually threaten to give out. His cock throbs against his jeans so hard he almost sways forward.
He can’t look away from you. From the controlled calm in your eyes, from the way your thumb presses into the hinge of his jaw, from the faint rise and fall of your chest under that thin top.
Something inside him drops to its knees long before his body does.
His tongue feels thick in his mouth. His brain is static.
You lean in just a fraction, enough that he can feel your breath ghost against his lips.
“And do you know what happens,” you continue softly, “to naughty boys who stare and say filthy things instead of using their manners?”
He swallows. It’s the only thing he’s capable of.
His voice, when it comes, is barely there. “W-What?”
You hold him there, eyes searching his, as if you’re deciding in real time whether to destroy him or save him.
“Nothing,” you murmur at last. “Not yet.”
His chest stutters.
But you don’t let go. Your gaze drops briefly to his mouth, then back up.
“Answer me something, Cook.”
He nods before you even ask, neck straining against your grip.
You tilt your head. Your voice lowers, threads of something dark and warm winding through it.
“Are you going to be good for me?”
The world falls away.
The kitchen ceases to exist. The cake, the sunshine, the quiet house, the years of grief and distance and teenage chaos—none of it matters.
It’s just your hand on his face and your eyes on his and the word good hanging between you like a dare.
His first instinct is to joke. To smirk. To say something crude and flippant and very Cook.
But his mouth doesn’t get the message.
Instead, he feels his throat close up, his eyes sting with a sudden, inexplicable spike of emotion that terrifies him, and the answer claws its way out of him small and honest and unguarded.
“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yes.”
His cheeks burn. He swallows, forces himself not to look away.
“Yes…mommy.”
The world holds its breath.
You do too.
For a second, he thinks he’s going to pass out. His heart is racing so hard his vision fuzzes at the edges.
Then something in your expression flickers—not disgust. Not horror.
Something more complicated.
You let go of his jaw very slowly, fingers trailing away like you’re reluctant to break contact but know you have to.
“Good boy,” you murmur.
The praise hits him so hard he feels the aftershock in his bones.
He sways, a tiny, involuntary movement toward you.
You step around him instead, carefully, like you’re navigating a live wire.
“I need to get this in the oven,” you say, voice not quite as steady as you probably want it to be. “Freddie’ll be down soon.”
Cook stands there, rooted to the spot, breathing like he’s just run flat-out for miles.
His cock throbs, his palms sweat, his head spins. He feels six years old and ninety all at once.
Good boy.
Are you going to be good for me?
Yes, mommy.
He doesn’t remember leaving the kitchen. Doesn’t remember going upstairs. Doesn’t remember what excuse he gives Freddie for why he’s so quiet during the film they put on.
He just knows one thing:
Whatever line there was?
You’ve both stepped over it now.
And he’s never, ever going back.
Cook doesn’t sleep that night.
He lies in his bed staring at the ceiling, the cheap plaster above him swimming in the dark, and replays it over and over like torture:
Your hand on his jaw. Your voice in his ear. You calling him a naughty boy. You asking, Are you going to be good for me? His own answer, pathetic and small and too honest.
Yes…mommy.
He groans into his pillow, rolls onto his stomach, kicks his blanket off, drags it back on, flips his pillow to the cool side. Nothing helps.
His body is wound so tight it hurts. His cock aches just from remembering the way your thumb pressed into the hinge of his jaw, the way your eyes pinned him in place like you were seeing straight through his front.
He could jerk off again. He doesn’t.
It feels…wrong, somehow, to turn that moment into more scrabbling and shame in the dark. It isn’t that the urge isn’t there—it is, sharp and heavy and insistent. But every time his hand drifts down, what he hears isn’t your moan or some porn fantasy version of your voice.
He hears you saying good boy.
And something about that makes him freeze up entirely.
He falls asleep sometime around dawn, and when he wakes a few hours later, everything is the same and everything is different.
He doesn’t go over the next day.
He forces himself not to.
Freddie texts him about some show he wants to binge. Cook leaves him on read, staring at the message until his phone screen goes dark.
He wanders around his own flat restlessly. There’s leftover takeaway on the counter, a couple of empty bottles, a jacket thrown over a chair. The usual.
It all feels wrong-sized.
Too small. Too quiet. Too far away from the smell of cake and dish soap and whatever that warm undercurrent is that clings to you.
He tries to distract himself. Roll a spliff. Half-watch something on telly. Scroll through his contacts, consider texting a girl he used to fuck.
He gets as far as pulling up one name before his stomach turns. It feels off. Wrong. Like drinking from the wrong glass.
He drops his phone on his chest and stares at the ceiling again.
“Fuck,” he mutters.
He doesn’t want just any girl.
He wants you.
He wants your mouth, your tits, your praise, your scolding, your hands warm on his face. He wants the strange, terrifying rush that came when he said Yes, mommy and you didn’t laugh.
When you said good boy like you meant it.
He’s never wanted anything this badly, which is probably why he lasts exactly one day before he’s knocking at the McClair door again like a junkie going back to his dealer.
Freddie answers this time, hair a mess, shirt inside out.
“You’re alive,” Freddie says flatly.
Cook should say something clever. He doesn’t. “You got food?”
Freddie squints. “You’ve been weird.”
Cook rolls his eyes, shouldering past him. “You’re always sayin’ that.”
“Yeah, but now it’s true.” Freddie follows him into the hallway. “You ghost me for like a whole day when we were supposed to hang. Karen thought you were dead.”
Cook stops halfway to the stairs. “Karen thought what?”
Freddie shrugs, already bored. “She rang. I told her you flaked. She said that’s ‘on brand’ for you.”
Karen, off in Brighton with her boyfriend and her new life, still taking the piss. Good. At least some things are reliable.
“Tell her I’m insulted,” Cook mutters, but his heart’s not in it.
He’s listening. For you.
The house is quiet. No music, no telly. Just the distant hum of the fridge and a faint something—not humming, exactly. More like a low tune under your breath in another room.
“Dad’s at work,” Freddie says, misreading his glance around the hall. “She’s…I dunno. Kitchen, probably.”
Of course.
Cook’s palms start sweating.
He shrugs like he doesn’t care. “Cool. I’m starvin’.”
“Obviously,” Freddie says, already clattering up the stairs. “I’ll get the Xbox on.”
Cook nods, but his feet don’t carry him up.
Not yet.
He heads toward the kitchen instead, each step heavier than it should be, nerves twisted tight. He doesn’t know what he’s planning to say. If he’s planning to say anything. Part of him still expects you to be furious. To tell him to fuck off. To slam a boundary down so hard his ears ring.
He half-hopes you will.
At least then he’d know where he stands.
You’re at the counter when he walks in, back to the doorway. You’re not baking this time, just making tea—kettle cooling, mugs lined up, teabag strings hanging over the rims.
The domesticity of it hits him just as hard as the tank top did.
You look…normal. Calm. No visible trace of the moment in the kitchen. Your shoulders are rolled loose, your posture easy. It sends a weird pang through him, like maybe he made it all up.
“Hey,” he says, voice coming out rougher than he intends.
You start slightly, turning. Your face softens when you see him. “Oh. Hi, sweetie. I didn’t hear you come in.”
Sweetie again. Gentle, like nothing’s changed.
His stomach flips.
He shoves his hands into his pockets to stop from reaching for you. “Freddie said we’re doin’…whatever. Games. Thought I’d nick a biscuit first.”
You nod toward the cupboard. “Help yourself.”
He moves past you, the space between you small and charged, the air thick. He’s ridiculously aware of the heat of your body as he reaches up for a tin, the brush of your sleeve against his. It’s barely contact but his skin lights up like a struck match.
He grabs the first pack of biscuits he sees and turns, leaning back against the counter opposite you.
You pour hot water into a mug, add milk, and stir.
He watches, entranced.
“You’ve been scarce,” you say, not looking at him.
He swallows. “Scarce?”
“You’re usually here more.” You glance up. Your eyes are too knowing. “Everything alright?”
The urge to say No hits so hard it’s almost funny.
He shrugs instead. “Just…busy.”
“With what?”
The question is light, casual, but his chest tightens like it’s a serious interrogation.
“Thinkin’,” he says finally, because for once, he doesn’t feel like lying to you.
Your spoon clinks against the side of the mug. “That sounds dangerous.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah. Told ya. You’re killin’ me.”
Something shifts in your eyes at that. A flicker of memory, maybe, of his words in this very kitchen. Of his confession that he’s fucked. Of the way you held his face and asked if he’d be good.
Heat creeps up his neck.
You look down, focusing too intently on the mug.
“Freddie would say ‘drama queen,’” you say lightly, trying to keep it easy.
Cook doesn’t take the out.
“I meant it,” he says quietly.
You go very still.
He pushes off the counter before his courage fails him, closing the distance between you with a few strides. He stops close. Close enough that he can see every detail of your face—the faint lines at the corners of your eyes from smiling, the way your lashes cast soft shadows on your cheeks.
He doesn’t touch you. Yet.
“I’ve been thinkin’ about it,” he says. “About you. About…that. In here.”
Your throat works. “Cook…”
“And I don’t know how you want me to act now,” he continues, words tumbling out faster. “D’you want me to pretend it didn’t happen? ’Cause I can’t. Can’t do it. Not with you.”
Your fingers tighten around the handle of the mug.
“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” you tell him softly. “It’s not fair on you. Or Leo. Or Freddie.”
“Don’t care ’bout Leo,” he says immediately, the jealousy flaring again. “An’ Freddie…” he blows out a breath, looking away for a second. “I’m not tryin’ to hurt him. I swear I’m not. But I can’t—” He stops, fists clenching at his sides. “Every time I come here, it just…gets worse.”
You look up at him then, really look.
There’s no judgment in your expression.
No pity.
Just this quiet, conflicted warmth that he wants to wrap himself in.
“What do you want from me, Cook?” you ask.
He doesn’t know how to answer that honestly without sounding insane. Everything, his mind offers. He wants your hands in his hair and your tits in his mouth and your voice in his ear telling him he’s a good boy and your body under his and your footprint on his neck if it meant he got to keep you.
He settles for the smallest piece of it.
“I want…” He swallows. “I want you to stop actin’ like I’m just some kid.”
Your lips part, surprised.
He pushes on, heart pounding. “You’re lookin’ at me like I’m gonna grow out of this. Like it’s a phase. Like I’m gonna wake up one day and fancy someone else. But I don’t. I haven’t. Not once since I met you.”
“Cook…”
“I’m nineteen,” he says, voice firming up. “I know that’s young to you. But I’m not a kid. I know what I want.”
Your gaze flickers down to his mouth and back up again so fast he almost misses it.
Almost.
The air goes electric.
“I shouldn’t want anything from you,” you whisper.
He steps closer, chest brushing your arm now. His breath mingles with yours.
“Yeah,” he says, eyes dark. “But you do, don’t ya?”
Your hand tightens on the mug again, knuckles straining.
He can see it play across your face—the war between sense and something else, something he’s been feeding without meaning to, something that’s been there in the way you’ve started looking at him, the way your touches linger half a second longer than they should.
He doesn’t push physically.
He pushes with his voice instead, low and steady.
“You liked it,” he murmurs. “When I said it. When I said I’d be good for you.”
Your breath hitches.
“You could’ve shut it down,” he goes on. “Could’ve told me to fuck off. Could’ve told Leo. But you didn’t. You held my face and you called me a good boy.”
Color rises in your cheeks, blooming beneath the skin.
He watches it, mesmerized.
“Cook,” you say, but it comes out thin, unsteady.
He lifts a hand.
Slow. Careful.
Gives you every chance to move away.
You don’t.
His fingers curl under your chin, tilting your face up. It’s a mirror of what you did to him—only his touch is gentler, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, calloused fingers careful against your skin.
Your eyes flutter shut for half a second before you force them open again.
“You’re married,” he says quietly. “I know. I’m not thick. But that night, when you said—” his mouth twists in a crooked, self-conscious grin, “—when you called me naughty and asked if I’d be good…that wasn’t about Leo, was it?”
Your answer is barely audible.
“No.”
It cracks something open inside him.
“Then don’t,” he says.
You blink. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t pretend.” His hand slides slightly, thumb resting at the corner of your mouth. “Not when we’re alone. Not with me.”
Your breathing is shallow now, each inhale a little tremor.
“Cook…” There’s a warning in your voice. A plea. He can’t tell which.
He leans in before he loses his nerve.
“Just this,” he murmurs. “One thing. Then if you tell me to stop, I will. Swear it.”
Your lashes lower.
He takes that as all the permission he’s going to get.
He closes the last inch and kisses you.
It’s not smooth at first.
He’s too keyed up, too full of it, mouth pressing a little too hard against yours, angle a bit off. He expects you to pull back, to push him away, to scold him.
Instead, you gasp softly and your free hand finds the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric like you need something to hold on to.
That’s all it takes to steady him.
He softens the pressure, tilts his head, lets the first contact sink in—warm, real, dizzying. Your lips are softer than anything he’s ever felt, and he’s kissed a lot of people.
No one has ever felt like this.
He makes a small, helpless sound and deepens the kiss, thumb brushing your jaw. Your hand tightens in his shirt. The mug in your other hand trembles.
He drags his lower lip over yours, slow, coaxing, and the little shudder it earns him goes straight to his cock. He tries not to push it too far, too fast. He’s walking a tightrope here and he knows it.
When your lips part under his, just barely, he can’t help himself.
He licks into your mouth, tentative at first, then with more confidence when you don’t pull away. Your tongue meets his, shy and hot, and his knees go weak.
He presses you back into the counter without meaning to, the contact sending a bolt of heat through him. You suck in a breath against his mouth.
“Cook,” you whisper when he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours.
He can taste you. Sweet and faintly like tea.
“Yeah?” he breathes.
“This is…” You swallow. “This is dangerous.”
He laughs softly, thumb stroking over your chin, his body buzzing like it’s full of static. “I’m dangerous, love. Thought you’d clocked that by now.”
You huff a laugh, tiny and involuntary. The sound makes his chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with his dick.
He kisses you again, unable not to. Slower this time. Reverent. Memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your lips move against his, the way you sigh just a little when he nips gently at your lower lip and soothes it after with his tongue.
The world narrows to the two of you in a quiet kitchen, the faint tick of the clock on the wall, the distant, muffled thump of Freddie’s music upstairs.
He forgets about everything. Leo. Freddie. Lines. Consequences.
It’s just you and him and the electric space where your mouths meet.
When he finally pulls back—because he has to, because his cock is rock-hard and he’s dangerously close to grinding into you without meaning to—your eyes are wide and a little dazed.
He feels sick with how much he likes that look.
“See?” he says softly, voice rough. “Not a kid.”
You breathe out slowly, like you’re trying to gather yourself. “No. You’re not.”
He swallows, eyes flicking down to your mouth again and back up.
You reach for something then, and he feels a flash of panic before he realizes you’re just setting the mug down on the counter because your hand is shaking too much to hold it.
He stares at that hand—your fingers, your ring—and feels the jealousy surge again, hot and pointless.
Before he can say anything stupid, you speak.
“You should go up to Freddie,” you murmur. “Before he comes looking for you.”
It’s not a dismissal. Not quite.
More like a reprieve.
He nods, stepping back reluctantly, his skin feeling too cold the second he’s not touching you.
“Yeah,” he says. “Right. Wouldn’t want him walkin’ in on us or anythin’.”
You shoot him a look that’s half glare, half fond exasperation. “Don’t joke.”
“Who’s jokin’?” he says, but it’s gentle, not sharp.
He lingers a second longer, memorizing you in this moment—lips kiss-swollen, breathing uneven, hands braced on the counter for balance.
“Later,” he says, without knowing what he means by it.
You don’t answer.
But you don’t tell him no.
He heads for the stairs on legs that feel weirdly light and unsteady, heart hammering, mouth tingling where yours pressed.
Halfway up, he hears you let out a long, shaky breath behind him.
Cook smiles to himself, wild and smug and terrified in equal measure.
Whatever this is, it’s not just in his head anymore.
You want him too.
And he knows now—with a certainty that scares him—that there’s no coming back from that.
Cook doesn’t remember what excuse he fed Freddie.
Something about being tired. About having to be up early. About grabbing food at home.
He just remembers the way his mouth still tingled when he said goodbye, the way his chest felt too full, like he’d swallowed helium and it was ballooning against his ribs.
He kissed you.
You kissed him back.
And then you told him to go upstairs like nothing had happened, like his entire world hadn’t just flipped upside down.
He spends the rest of the evening in a fog. Freddie’s voice becomes background noise. The game controller feels wrong in his hands. Every time he blinks he sees your lips, a little swollen, your fingers shaking when you put the mug down.
He leaves before Leo gets home.
He has to. If he stays in that house, with Leo walking through the door and kissing your cheek, making small talk like everything’s normal, Cook’s going to do something stupid and obvious and loud.
He saves stupid, obvious, and loud for later.
It doesn’t happen the next day.
Or the one after.
He goes back anyway.
At first he tells himself he’s checking the temperature. Seeing if you’ve gone cold, if you’ll pretend the kiss was nothing. But you don’t.
You’re warm, if anything warmer. Softer. Your smiles linger. Your eyes flick to his mouth when you think he isn’t looking.
You don’t bring it up. Neither does he.
The tension settles in the house like steam.
Freddie complains about coursework. Leo grumbles about the garage. Life goes on above and around the crack in the floorboards, ignoring it. But Cook can feel it under his feet every time he walks into the kitchen:
The shift. The fact that he’s had your mouth and it wasn’t a dream.
He’s getting reckless with not touching you.
He finds excuses. Reaches past you and lets his hand brush your hip. Stands too close when you’re at the sink, so his chest cradles the curve of your back without actually pressing. Leans against the counter opposite yours just to watch you move.
You don’t stop him. You don’t encourage it either. You’re careful. Controlled.
He can see the effort in it.
But there are moments that slip.
A hand on his shoulder when you laugh. Your fingers lingering in his hair half a second too long when you sweep his fringe aside to see his eyes. The way your lips part when he steps a little closer than he strictly needs to, the way something heats in your gaze and then gets forced back down.
He’s going to set himself on fire with it.
The day it finally breaks, the house is too quiet.
Freddie’s out.
Some film with mates, he’d said, already halfway out the door. He’d asked Cook if he was coming and Cook had mumbled something about “might swing by” without confirming either way.
Leo left early for a late shift, grabbing his keys and kissing your cheek. Cook watched from the sofa, jaw tight.
“Don’t wait up,” Leo had said.
You’d smiled, gentle and automatic. “Be safe.”
The door shut. The car left the drive.
Silence descended.
Cook sat there for a minute, staring at the muted telly screen.
He could leave. He should leave.
He doesn’t.
He pushes himself up, heartbeat sudden and loud, and wanders toward the kitchen like he’s on autopilot.
You’re there.
Of course you are.
It’s like you’re always there when his brain is ready to eat itself.
You’ve got ingredients out on the counter again, recipe book open, oven preheating. Some loose, soft top hangs off your shoulders, neckline low enough that every time you lean the wrong way, his imagination fills in what the fabric hides.
You look up when he steps into the doorway.
“Hey, sweetie.” Your smile crinkles the corners of your eyes. “You’re still here. Thought you’d gone with Freddie.”
“Nah,” he says, leaning against the doorframe. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Your eyebrows lift, just slightly. You nod toward the bowl. “I’m making brownies. Want to lick the spoon later?”
He hates how hard that hits.
His tongue feels too big in his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Yeah, ’course I do.”
You laugh, low and warm. It slides over his skin like steam.
He steps farther into the room, hands in his pockets to hide the way they’re shaking. The kitchen is smaller without Freddie and Leo filling space with their noise. It feels like a different room entirely—softer, hazier, the edges blurred.
You turn back to your bowl, adding eggs, whisking, the muscles in your arm flexing with each movement.
Cook watches, hypnotized.
He’s thought about this a lot. Too much. How it would go. How he might start. What he’d say.
He never thought it would be this quiet.
He finds himself at your side before he even registers crossing the floor.
He’s close enough now to see the smudge of chocolate on your fingers where some batter splashed. Close enough to smell cocoa and the faint warm scent that is just you.
He leans in, just a little, so his shoulder bumps yours. “Yeah, but you look like you could use…somethin’.”
You stop whisking.
The silence changes texture. Thickens.
You set the whisk down carefully, like you’re buying time, then turn to face him fully.
He’s already looking at you. Has been. Probably hasn’t stopped since he walked in.
Up close, he can see every detail—the way your lashes fan out, the faint shine on your lower lip, the subtle unsteadiness in your breathing.
“Cook,” you say quietly. “What are you doing?”
He swallows. His mouth is dry.
He could make a joke. Throw it away. Call it banter.
He doesn’t.
“I’m losing my mind,” he says instead.
Your brows pull together. “You’ve said that before.”
“Yeah, well. It’s still true.”
He reaches up, fingers trembling, and very lightly brushes a stray bit of flour from your shoulder.
It’s nothing. It’s everything.
You don’t move away.
Your chest rises, falls.
He takes that as his only invitation.
His hand slides from your shoulder up toward your neck, thumb tracing the warm skin just below your throat. He feels your pulse kick against his touch and bites back a groan.
“You knew what you were doin’ the other day,” he murmurs. “When you grabbed my face.”
Your cheeks color, just a little. “I was trying to get you to stop saying filthy things.”
“You called me naughty.” His thumb strokes, slow. “Asked if I was gonna be good for you.”
Your eyes flutter. “Cook—”
“You said I was a good boy.” His voice drops. “Don’t think you know what that did to me.”
Your gaze flicks to his mouth, then to the empty doorway, then back.
“No one’s home?” he asks, even though he already knows.
You swallow. “No.”
Leo’s shift. Freddie’s film. Karen in Brighton. No one.
Just you and him and the crack in the floor finally breaking open.
He moves without deciding to.
One second he’s looking at you; the next, his mouth is on yours.
It’s different from the first time. Hungrier. Less tentative.
You make a sound—soft, startled, not protesting—and his hand tightens on your neck, the other finding your waist, pulling you closer.
Your fingers catch at the front of his shirt like they did before, but this time you don’t just hold on. You tug, dragging him forward into the space between your body and the counter.
His hips bump yours. The contact sends electricity through him.
He groans into your mouth, kissing you deeper, lips moving with a frantic, pent-up sort of reverence. Your mouth opens under his and he takes without thinking—tongue sliding against yours, tasting chocolate and tea and something that’s just you.
His cock is hard in a heartbeat. Not the vague, constant sort of hard he’s been lately, but sharp and painful, pressing against his zipper, demanding.
He tries not to push it.
He fails within seconds.
Your back hits the counter gently as he nudges you back, the bowl to your side wobbling but not falling. His fingers splay over your hip, thumb dipping under the hem of your top, skin meeting skin.
You gasp, the sound breaking against his lips.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, panting.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, even though everything in him is praying you won’t.
Your eyes are wide, pupils blown. Your lips are kiss-swollen, a little sheen of spit on them.
You don’t tell him to stop. You curl your hand around the back of his neck instead and pull him back in.
That’s all he needs.
He lifts you. It’s clumsy and adrenaline-strong all at once—hands under your thighs, your surprised little exhale against his mouth as your feet leave the floor. He steps in, letting your weight settle against him for a second, then dumps you onto the edge of the counter, standing between your knees.
Your hands fly to the surface to steady yourself. Your thighs instinctively part.
Cook sees that, feels the heat between your legs radiate through your shorts, and almost loses control on the spot.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “Look at you.”
He should be slow. Considerate. Make a plan.
Instead, his head dips.
His mouth finally finds what he’s been losing sleep over.
He drags his lips down your throat, tasting skin and warmth and the faint salt tang of the day. You shiver under him, chin tilting up to give him more access.
“Cook…” It comes out half-warning, half-plea.
He doesn’t answer with words.
He mouths along your collarbone, teeth scraping lightly, tongue soothing, working his way down to the top edge of your tank.
With a soft curse, he hooks his fingers into the neckline and pulls it down.
Your tits spill out into the warm kitchen air.
He actually stops breathing for a second.
He’s seen glimpses—shadows under fabric, outlines, hints—but this is different. This is real. This is bare skin, nipples tightening in the cooler air, the soft heaviness of them right there in front of his face.
His throat works.
He looks up at you like he’s asking permission without asking.
You’re flushed, eyes dark, chest rising fast. You bite your lip. You don’t cover yourself.
He breaks.
He leans in and wraps his mouth around one nipple like it’s what he was made to do.
The noise you make is small and shocked and perfect.
He groans into your skin, tongue circling, lips sucking. Heat floods through him at the way your back arches, pushing you deeper into his mouth like your body’s acting on its own.
“Fuck,” he mumbles against you. “Fuck, you feel—”
He closes his eyes, sucking harder, flicking his tongue over the sensitive bud until you’re panting.
His hand comes up to cup the other breast, thumb brushing the nipple there, not wanting it to feel left out.
He doesn’t know what he’s doing, not technically, but his body tells him what feels right. What has him hearing your breath hitch and your fingers tighten in his hair.
You say his name like a warning again.
“Cook…”
He pulls off with a wet sound, lips red and slick, breath ragged.
“God, I knew they’d be perfect,” he says hoarsely. “Been drivin’ me mad, thinkin’ about ’em. Want your tits in my mouth every day, swear down.”
You let out a shaky laugh that dissolves into a gasp when he takes the other nipple between his lips, sucking greedily.
He’s half-mad with it. The taste, the weight in his hand, the way your body responds. He could honestly stay like this for hours.
He doesn’t get the chance.
Because while his mouth is busy, his hips have a mind of their own.
He’s pressed between your thighs, so close his cock is nudging right up against the heat of you through both your clothes. Each time he shifts to get more of you in his mouth, his hard-on grinds against you.
He feels it—the subtle, damp heat at the center of your shorts. The way your knees clamp then fall open wider.
He groans, the sound vibrating into your skin.
“Cook,” you whisper, voice shaking now. “We shouldn’t—”
He pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against your chest, breathing hard, one hand still cupping you, thumb brushing your nipple lazily.
“Too late, mommy,” he mutters without thinking.
You go still.
He hears your breath catch.
He lifts his head.
Your eyes meet.
The air crackles.
He swallows, throat thick. “Sorry. I—”
“Don’t apologize,” you cut in, a little too fast, like the word itself hits you somewhere you’re not ready to look at yet.
His cock throbs. His hands slide down, over your ribs, your waist, to the hem of your shorts.
“Need to feel you,” he says, voice low and wrecked. “Please. Been thinkin’ about your pussy for days. Weeks.”
You suck in a breath at the word, but you don’t stop him when his fingers pop open the button, when he drags the zipper down and tugs the denim aside.
He slides his hand in.
Heat.
Wet.
His knees almost give.
“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re soaked.”
Your fingers curl in his hair again, tugging. “Cook—”
“What?” He grins up at you, feral and adoring all at once. “Gonna lie and say it’s not for me?”
You don’t answer. You don’t have to. Your body answers for you.
His fingers slide along the damp cotton between your legs, finding that slick line, that little bundle of nerves in front. He rubs clumsily at first, then more surely when you jerk.
Your head flies back, shoulders hitting the cabinet.
“Shit—”
He watches you, mesmerized, lips parted, brow furrowing as he circles that spot again, again, again. The sounds you make are quiet but desperate, like you’re trying to keep them in and failing. He wants to hear you loud. Wants to know what you sound like when you really let go.
“Cook—” you gasp. “We can’t…not here…”
“Why not?” He breathes it into your neck, kissing along your skin between strokes. “Kitchen’s perfect. You always look hottest in here.”
Your laugh comes out strangled.
He presses two fingers harder, sliding them under the edge of your underwear, finally touching you bare.
You’re soaking.
His brain short-circuits.
“Fuck me,” he mutters. “Please. Please, let me. Need it. Need you. Been losin’ my mind, mommy, swear…”
The word slips out again and this time you don’t flinch. If anything, your hips jerk into his hand harder.
He’s going to cum in his jeans if he doesn’t get inside you soon.
He drags your underwear aside, strokes along your slick folds, feels the way you flutter around nothing. He wants to finger you properly, sink his fingers in and watch you fall apart. But his cock is screaming, his skin is buzzing, and there’s a limit to how much self-control he’s ever had.
He fumbles with his belt with his free hand, cursing under his breath as the buckle snags. He gets it open, shoves his jeans down just enough.
His cock springs free, hard and flushed and aching.
He wraps his hand around it for half a second to steady himself, to keep from blowing his load just from the cool air.
He’s big. He knows that. He’s seen enough reactions. Heard enough commentary.
Right now, it feels less like a brag and more like a problem.
He lines himself up with you, nudging the head against your entrance, slick warmth greeting him.
You tense.
“Wait,” you gasp. “Cook, we should—do you have—?”
He knows what you mean.
Condom.
For half a second, some rational part of his brain tries to surface, scrambling for where the hell he even put the last one he had.
It dies the second your hips shift, the tip of him sliding just a little further into that wet heat.
His head drops.
“Oh, fuck—”
He grips the counter beside your hip with his free hand, knuckles white.
“Please,” he breathes, sounding wrecked even to his own ears. “Don’t make me put that thing on. Want you raw. Been dreamin’ about it, swear. Feels so much better without, you’ve got no idea. Wanna feel you. All of you.”
You look at him, eyes blown, lips parted.
“This is insane,” you whisper.
“Yeah.” He nudges forward a little more, your body clenching around the intrusion. The sensation almost knocks him out. “You think I don’t know that?”
He searches your face.
“This is your last chance, love,” he says, voice ragged. “Tell me no, and I’ll stop. I’ll pull my jeans up, walk out, pretend it never—” His voice cracks. “Just…don’t say no unless you mean it.”
The second stretches.
Your hand finds his jaw again, like it did before, thumb pressing into his cheek. You look destroyed. Flushed and conflicted and so fucking beautiful he could die just from the sight.
“…Be gentle,” you say softly.
He doesn’t even realize he’s been holding his breath until it rushes out of him.
“Yeah,” he croaks. “Yeah, mommy. I’ll be good. Promise.”
He pushes in. Slow. Or he tries.
Your body resists at first, clenching tight around the thick head of him, making both of you gasp. He bites down on a curse, every muscle in his thighs straining with the effort of not just slamming in.
“Relax for me,” he pants. “C’mon…let me in…”
You exhale shakily, fingers clamping on his shoulders, nails biting through his shirt.
He inches forward again, and this time you give.
Heat. Tight, wet perfection closes around him inch by inch. He feels like he’s being swallowed alive.
“Jesus—” His forehead drops to your shoulder. “You’re so fuckin’ tight. Gonna…Gonna cum just gettin’ in.”
You let out a strangled laugh that breaks into a moan when he finally bottoms out, hips flush with yours. You feel impossibly full around him.
He stays there, buried to the hilt, both of you breathing hard, letting your bodies adjust.
He’s seen porn, had sex, talked shit about it like it’s an extreme sport. Nothing has prepared him for how this feels.
You, around him. In a quiet kitchen. Your tits bare against his chest, your legs wrapping around his hips, your breath hot against his neck.
He pulls back a little. Slides in again.
You gasp—high and helpless.
He does it again. Again.
Then he’s moving, properly, fucking you in short, rough little thrusts that scrape every nerve ending he has raw.
“Fuck, feels so good,” he groans, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. “Knew it. Knew your pussy’d be perfect. Made for me, swear…”
You make a sound he’s never heard you make before. A little broken thing that has him grabbing you tighter.
“Cook— oh my God—”
“Yeah?” His voice is a grin and a prayer and a whine all at once. “You like that? Like my cock, yeah?”
You nod helplessly, head tipping back against the cabinet.
He watches you for a second, really watches. The way your mouth falls open. The way your brows knit. The way your nipples pebble again from the cool air and the friction of his chest brushing them when he thrusts.
He drops his head and wraps his mouth around one again.
You keen.
“Fuck, yes—”
He moans around your nipple, the vibration making you twitch. His hips stutter, thrusts getting messy. He pulls back for a second, panting, forehead against your breast.
“Daddy-sized cock, yeah?” he mutters, half to himself, half to you, delirious. “Knew you could take it.”
You let out a shaky laugh that turns into a gasp when he slams in a little harder.
“Oh my—Cook, you’re—”
“I’m what?” He grins up at you, eyes dark, chest heaving. “Too much?”
You shake your head frantically. “No, just—so big—”
“Good,” he says, and something fond and filthy bleeds into his tone. “Wanna ruin you for anyone else.”
He finds your clit with his thumb where you’re joined, slick and swollen, and starts rubbing in quick, messy circles.
You actually cry out.
“Shh,” he murmurs, even as pride floods him. “Gotta be quiet, yeah? Don’t want the neighbors hearin’ how good I’m fuckin’ you. Bet Mr McClair's never filled you up, yeah? Bet he shoots one sad little load and rolls over like a geezer. I’ll fuck you full, mommy. Proper.”
Your legs tighten around him, pulling him deeper, a filthy little whine escaping your throat.
He’s not going to last.
Not with you clenching around him like that, not with your tits in his face and your nails in his shoulders and those sounds coming out of you.
He leans up, kisses you again, hot and open-mouthed and desperate, swallowing your moans.
“Open,” he pants against your mouth.
You do.
He spits.
Just a little—thick and hot onto your tongue—and you whimper, swallowing it without hesitation.
His cock twitches.
“Fuck,” he groans. “That’s it. That’s my girl. Take it. Take all of it.”
His thumb presses harder on your clit, his thrusts getting shorter, sharper. He’s right at the edge, teetering.
“Cook—” you gasp against his cheek. “I’m—I’m gonna—”
“Yeah?” He’s half-gone, voice wrecked. “Gonna cum for me, mommy? On my cock? C’mon…be good…be a good girl for me—”
You shatter.
It hits him all at once—your whole body locking up, your cunt clamping around him so tight he sees stars. You make a noise that doesn’t sound like any word he knows, fingers digging into his back.
He feels it. Every pulse. Every contraction. It drags his orgasm up from somewhere deep, no stopping it.
“Fuck— fuck— I’m—”
He buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a ragged, broken groan, forehead slamming into your shoulder, biting down on the fabric there to muffle the sound.
Hot, thick spurts flood your already soaking pussy. He can feel it. The way his cum hits the deepest part of you, the way your body milks him for every drop.
He’s never felt anything like it.
His hips jerk uselessly through the aftershocks, cock twitching, thumb still stroking lazily over your clit until you whine and bat his hand away.
He finally stills.
Silence, except for the ticking clock and your mingled breathing.
He stays there, slumped against you, cock still nestled deep inside, hands gripping your hips like if he lets go he’ll fall off the planet.
You’re the first to move. Your hand comes up, fingers threading through his hair, nails lightly scratching his scalp.
He groans softly into your neck.
“Cook,” you whisper, voice rough, “you…you didn’t—”
“Pull out?” he mumbles, half-laughing against your skin. “Yeah. Noticed.”
You smack his shoulder weakly. “That’s not funny.”
He lifts his head enough to look at you. Your hair’s mussed, lips swollen, tits shiny with sweat and spit. You’ve never looked more beautiful or more wrecked.
He softens.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly—and means it, surprisingly. “It’s just…fuck. You feel so good. You’re so warm…couldn’t stop. ’S like my body made the choice for me.”
Your eyes flicker, torn between annoyance and something darker, something that looks suspiciously like arousal at the idea of him not being able to help himself.
“Next time, we’re using something,” you say firmly, even though you’re still clenching around him with every tiny movement.
“Next time,” he echoes, savoring the words. “Yeah. Sure. We’ll…pretend, at least.”
Before you can smack him again, he kisses you—soft, lazy, full of afterglow. He doesn’t pull out. Not yet. He wants to feel you like this a little longer—full and warm and his.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought curls up and settles:
