Andulka
PUT YOUR BEARD IN MY MOUTH
occasionally subtle
DEAR READER
#extradirty
pixel skylines
tannertan36
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Product Placement
shark vs the universe
Jules of Nature
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Three Goblin Art
Misplaced Lens Cap
will byers stan first human second
Kiana Khansmith
No title available
⁂
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Keni
seen from South Africa
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@harryandpedro
uppercut - masterlist
status: on-going
paring: boxer/dbf/single-dad!pedro x fem oc
contains mature themes - mdni
warnings for the entire series: inexperienced/virgin fem!mc, loss of virginity, fluff, achingly soft pedro, panic attacks, coming of age, pet names (babygirl, sweetheart, sweet girl, pretty girl etc.), a touch of praise kink, fem!mc is a simp for pedro, protected p in v, fingering, oral (f receiving) softdom!pedro, a twelve year age gap
synopsis
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven {a}
seven {b}
eight
nine
ten (smutty)
eleven (smutty)
twelve
thirteen
*number of chapters undetermined
**temporarily on hold
so i have this idea...
hey internet,
would anyone be interested in a fic with:
strangers to lovers trope
biker and billionaire soft!dom mmc x latebloomer and timid fmc pairing
mmc is patient, encouraging, consent king, achingly soft yet Dobbermann looking and tattooed
fmc is hyperindependent, touch-straved, who hasn't been in a romantic relationship like ever, and needs a man to show her she can be vulnerable and let someone else take charge and take care of her
fmc had a negative experience with a handsy guy (not on page, vague descriptions, no SA) and fears physical intimacy because of it
comfort for sexual trauma, rediscovering pleasure
slight dd/lg and sugardaddy themes, slow burnish (instant love but the physical intimacy comes in later as they build fmc's confidence)
i curated a playlist (here) and a made moodboard for the vibes
uppercut - thirteen
summary: another matchday, Oliver reaches a developmental milestone, later Pedro shows Maisy a first.
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, Pedro is extremely soft and sweet as always, some would say boyfriend material even, Pedro being a single parent, use of petnames (babygirl, angel, sweet girl, pretty girl), guided handjob, fem!mc calls Pedro daddy, mentions of existential anxiety, talks of daddy, DD/lg and praise kink, sexual discoveries
wc: 4.5k
series masterlist here
Pedro
We’re in Nashville for a match and I’m getting warmed up in the locker room I’ve been assigned, when my physio Jason calls out, "Hot Nanny alert!"
“Watch it, that’s my girl you’re talking about,” Rick warns, though jokingly.
I follow their line of sight and through the open door I spot Maisy frantically racing towards us with my son slung on her hip.
My heart instantly sinks at the sight. I swat away Jason’s hands that are massaging my shoulder and jump to my feet.
"What's wrong?" I press. "What happened?" I run to her, meeting her in no time, though it feels like forever before I can get my hands on them both. Panic laces my veins as I check my son up and down. "Is he okay?" My attention flips to her, my palm brushing over her hair. "Are you okay?"
"Oliver is fine. I’m fine. We’re fine"
My stomach drops in relief. "What's going on?"
"I think he's about to walk." She sucks in a deep breath which tells me she ran here all the way from the top where we have a private box. "We were playing, and he was using the table to balance when all of a sudden he let go and looked like he was going to take a step in my direction, but I scooped him up before he could. I don't think I was supposed to do that. All those online mommy groups would probably berate me for it, and I'm pretty sure every one of your parenting books would call me unfit, but I couldn't let you miss it."
Maisy is frenzied, her words stumbling out without a single breath as she searches my face for my reaction, as if she truly thinks I might be upset over her stopping him.
"Jesus." I use my interlocked hands resting on her lower back to bring her in for a sandwich hug, Oliver between our bodies and half-heartedly laugh in relief. "You scared the shit out of me."
"So you're not going to call me unqualified and refuse to let me watch him for the rest of the summer because I stopped him from walking?"
"If you're unqualified then so am I." My brows furrow. "And how do you know I own parenting books?"
A laugh bubbles out of her. "You have one open in every room."
"Fair point."
She clears her throat. "Sorry for bothering this close to matchtime, but I figured you didn’t want to miss his first steps."
Fucking hell.
Now that the adrenaline is settling, my chest physically aches because of this woman.
"Kai!" Sam, my second coach calls out, breaking the spell of being around her and reminding me my entire team is watching, including Maisy’s dad. "What are you doing here, Buddy?"
I exhale, finally looking away from her and back to the guys behind me. "Apparently, he's about to walk."
“Let’s see it then.”
I let go of Maisy and get down on my haunches, while she takes a few steps back and puts Oliver down. My son has still got a death grip on Maisy’s fingers, using them to balance himself, but he's staring right at me all giddy with baby teeth.
"C'mon, Bug, let's see it." I hold my arms out wide for him. "Come get me."
Maisy pries her fingers away, but holds on for a moment, letting Oliver balance himself before he fully lets go. This is typically the time Oliver crumbles to his butt to crawl, but he keeps his eyes fixed on me, wobbly knees trying to keep him upright.
“C’mhere." I gesture with my hands. "Come on. You've got it, Bug."
Hands in the air to balance himself, he shakily steps his right foot forward. It touches the ground before he does the same with the left.
I can feel the smile widening on my face. "There you go. You're doing it! Keep going!"
The boys behind me are stirring with excitement.
Oliver is flailing about like one of those blow-up figures you see at a car dealership, but he's able to maintain his stability.
He steps forward with his right foot, wobbles, and steadies himself before bringing his left foot forward too.
"Yes, Oliver!" The first cheer resounds behind me. The encouragement comes from Rick.
"Good job, Oliver." The smile on my face is splitting, "Two more big steps and you're here."
God, my chest could burst from the amount of pride that's flowing through me. He's doing it. He's really fucking doing it.
Then his little feet take two more steps, and he walks right into the cradle of my outstretched arms.
"So good, Bug!" The laugh I exhale is full of relief as I hug him close to my chest, covering him in kisses.
When I stand with him in my arms, the boys cheer and clap for him.
The noise is too much for him and Oliver's face crumbles, his lower lip wobbling before he lets out a giant wail.
"Oh Buddy," I soothe, trying to cover up my chuckle. I touch my forehead to his, running a hand over his hair. "It's okay. They're just excited for you."
The cheers settle immediately. It takes a second but soon enough, Oliver's face pops off my shoulder to look at them all once again and his chubby-cheeked smile is back.
The boys smother my son with attention then, and I search for Maisy.
“Did you see that?” I ask, mouthing the words.
She nods, a watery smile stretching across her face.
"Thank you. For bringing him to me. I'm so glad I didn't miss that."
“Of course,” she mouths, and for a nanosecond I think I see something tender bleed through her neutral expression.
×××
I win the match by a knockout in the third round.
It gave me motivation that my son and Maisy were sitting in the crowd. Between rounds, while I sat on a stool in my corner of the ring and Rick gave me instructions, my eyes kept wandering to them.
I can't explain what was going on with my body during the fight, but I was on. Every jab felt fluid and strong as it left my grip. I was quick on my feet, blocking any incoming punch. I felt empowered, a beast let loose.
I stay at the venue longer than usual, bombarded with questions over my winning streak—it was my third fight in a row I won by knockout—, and my approach for the upcoming international championship.
A text from Maisy waits for me when I make it to the lockers. It says the two of them went back to the hotel after my win so she could get my son ready for bed.
I ride back to our hotel with my team and after a celebratory speech over a whiskey courtesy of Rick, we all disperse for the night.
Oliver’s schedule is a bit compromised because of the travelling and the time difference but I know it’s almost bedtime for him.
Stealthily, I enter our adjoining suites to find Maisy consoling my son. My heart seizes in my chest. Stops right in its fucking tracks. And I can’t look away.
She holds him in her arms, and brings his forehead to rest on hers. "Did you trip over, huh, Bug? That’s okay. You’re still a bit unsteady on your feet, but you’ll get there.”
Oliver lets out a sob. I can see the tension in Maisy’s body, the heartbreak in her eyes. "Shh, shh, don’t cry baby boy. I got you, I got you,” she soothes in a velvety voice.
I stand motionless in the entryway, trying not to disturb this moment. But I have an inkling that even if I came dashing through the door, they wouldn’t notice. They are in their own little bubble, a safe haven Maisy has created for my son.
I let myself stare as she shushes Oliver, shoulder propped against the doorframe, arms crossed against my chest—my only armor against the intense feelings the sight of Maisy snuggling my son stirs up in me.
But when she pulls him in for a hug, and he wraps his little arms around her neck, I melt.
I absently wonder how he’ll handle her leaving when she decides it’s time for her to go back to her big city life.
Poorly, probably.
I wonder how I’ll handle her leaving.
Just as poorly I bet.
As she sways with my boy in her arms, she spots me looming in the shadows, her lips splitting in a warm, private smile."You’re back,” she whispers.
"Hey,” I say, crossing the room. "Hi Buddy,” I greet my son.
"How long have you been standing there?” Maisy asks, petting Oliver’s head.
"Long enough to see how well you handled the situation.” I stroke my son’s cheek.
She nods, "We were getting ready for bed, weren’t we?” she bops Oliver’s nose which makes the boy giggle.
I scratch my patchy beard. "Would it be okay if I took over?”
"Yeah, of course. I know you two didn’t get to spend much time together today.”
"You sure you don’t mind?”
"No, not at all. He’s your son, Pedro,” she smiles sweetly, untangling his little arms.
I take him, nuzzling his cheek with my nose. "Okay. I’ll get him to bed, but we could hang out after?”
She nods, leaving us with a parting pinch to Oliver’s chubby cheek. "Sweet dreams, Bug.”
I take Oliver over to the armchair in my room and hold him against my chest. He settles into me all sleepy before he points to Maisy’s door.
"Mmm,” he hums.
"What’s that, Bug?”
He points to the door again. "Mmm.”
"Are you trying to say Maisy?”
"Mmm.”
"Yeah, that’s Maisy.” I rub a hand over his back. "Do you love Maisy?”
He probably doesn’t know what I’m asking, but he nods against me anyway, recognizing the question in my intonation.
"I know you do.” I place a kiss to the crown of his head. "She loves you too.”
Minutes later Oliver is sleeping in my arms, so I carefully place him in the portable crib, turning off the lights.
I toe off my shoes and change into sweats and a clean t-shirt before knocking on Maisy’s door.
Maisy
Pedro cracks the door between our rooms. He stands in the threshold, hands thrust into the pockets of his gray sweatpants, a navy shirt taut over his chest and biceps. I can see the golden chain he’s started to wear recently poking out from underneath the collar.
His eyes take in the room, my flung open suitcase, a towel thrown over the chair, my toiletries scattered across the desk. Then his gaze moves to me and the corners of his eyes crinkle. "Can I come in?”
He’s adamant about consent check-ins.
I nod, smiling for some stupid and irrationalizable reason.
He steps into my hotel room and closes the adjoining door behind him. I set my current read aside.
He sits on the foot of the bed, angling his body so he can look at me as I lean against the headboard.
His eyes hold mine for a moment before they flick over me. His perusal pauses at my midsection. My heart stumbles when I see what caught his attention. My nipples, peaking through the silk camisole I have on.
He promptly tears his eyes away, his nose flaring and scrubs a hand across his stubbled face.
"Hell of a fight today,” I say, clearing my throat. "I mean… you were absolutely brutal.”
He was throwing punches left, right, center, and finished his opponent with a disorienting hook. Watching it, I felt thrilled.
He just hums, picking at the calluses on his palms.
I shuffle closer to where he’s sitting and stop him by pulling his hands into my lap.
I open his palms and smooth over the hardened patches of skin there.
He has the most beautiful set of hands I’ve ever seen. Veins spiderweb the backs while the lines and creases and calluses on his palms tell stories.
He tracks my movement. His brows furrow and he looks deep in thought.
"What’s on your mind?” I probe.
He shakes his head, swallows thickly. "When I’m in the ring, are you afraid of what you see?”
My brows pull together in confusion.
"I don’t… I don’t scare you, right?” he asks quietly, like he’s afraid of my answer. "I would hate to give you any reason to be afraid of me.”
“You think I could be afraid of you?”
„Please, just answer me. Does my violence scare you?” He pins me with his question, his eyes suddenly a sea of aching tenderness. It devastates me.
"I—I… Pedro… I.”
“I-I wouldn’t blame you if you were. I…” He pauses, the struggle clear on his face before he tries again. “Every week, you see what I do, right? You know what I’m capable of. So if you were afraid of me, I…I wouldn’t blame you.”
I’m aware he’s more than capable of bashing someone’s skull in with his bare hands. I know that… but somehow his capacity for violence doesn’t unsettle me. In a strange and twisted way it soothes me.
“I…I love your hands.” I say finally. “They’re so strong when you fight, but…when we are like this…” I cup his face, "you’re gentle with me.”
“Because I don’t want to hurt you. I never want you to be afraid of me.” The anguish in his voice guts me.
“I could never be afraid of you, Pedro.” I comb my fingers through his hair. "I told you, you’re gentle with me.”
"Can I hold you for a bit?” he asks in a small voice.
We scoot back and he wraps me in his strong arms, burrowing his neck into my shoulder. I curl into his lap, a hand in his hair, the other lightly scratching the wide expanse of his back.
I can’t help but be entranced by him—so big and gruff yet so openly vulnerable.
"Can you teach me how to take care of you?” I speak after some time. "I want to ease your mind.”
He lifts his head from my shoulder. "You don’t—,”
"I want to.” I cut him short. "You promised you’d teach me.”
He searches my eyes and finds truth in them. "Okay.”
He starts kissing me. Touching me. I catch on and claw at his broad shoulders. He breaks away to grab the back of his t-shirt and pulls it off.
I tow him in for another kiss, my hands roaming appreciatively over his muscled chest and chiseled torso. He flexes under my touch, groaning into my mouth.
His thumb dusts over my left nipple through the thin layer separating us, testing the waters. I cry out from just that simple graze. "I want tonight to be about you,” I mumble, gasping.
"I’m all yours. Touch me however you want, sweetheart.” He sponges kisses down my neck.
I snake a hand down between us, and run my palm along his length straining against his sweatpants.
“Fuck,” he curses, rolling into my touch. “Are you sure?”
“Teach me.”
His cock twitch under my palm at that, my eyes falling down to look at the bulge as I grip it a little firmer.
I move my hand to his waistband and give it a tentative tug. "Can I see you?”
I feel a smile against my skin and he moves away to look at me. "So polite,” he husks, his pupils dilated.
He climbs off the bed and stands at the foot, beckoning me over with a tilt of his bearded chin.
He reaches for the strings on his sweatpants. His erection is impossible to hide behind the cotton material of his sweats. I rise up onto my shins and shuffle closer. He sends me a smirk.
He undoes the stings and tugs the sweats down his hips. He’s wearing white boxer so the outline of his cock is clear as day through the straining fabric, precum just beginning to seep out and thin the opacity of his underwear.
He teases me a bit, dragging his palm over the bulge, breathing a sigh at the contact, before his hand settles on the waistband of his underwear. I watch his fingers curl into the stitched band and tug and tug until his boxers join his pants at the midpoint of his thighs.
His cock bobs against his stomach. It’s desperately hard, the red, hot tip of it leaking with beads of precum.
He runs his thumb over the moisture on the tip, swirling it in a small circle. Then he rolls his hand down his length next, all the way to the base before he loosens his hand enough to bring it to the crown and back down again.
The largeness of his hand somehow doesn’t dwarf his devastating size. I gulp at the prospect of how he will fit inside me.
His eyes lift to me as he starts stroking himself in long, slow pumps.
"C'mere, angel," he drawls, his hand still stroking with his thumb running over the tip. "I’ll guide you.”
He delicately takes my hand in his—his hold light enough that I can pull away my hand at any moment—, and wraps my palm around him at the base, his whole, heavily hand encompassing mine.
"Hold me just like this, yeah? It’s okay to squeeze a little, doesn't hurt," he encourages, guiding my strokes.
We start slow, my eyes never leaving our hands. He pulls my hand in his to go faster, his breathing becoming strained at the motions. A bubble of precum collects at the head. "Go ahead and run your finger over the tip like this,"— our thumbs move together, "…and bring it down with your hand, keep working me."
He helps me get comfortable jerking his cum-slicked cock, his hand eventually falling away and leaving me to do it myself while he moans and gasps.
"Go on and do it like me, sweetheart. You're doing so good," he encourages. He smoothes back my hair, his fingers shaking a little.
My fingers barely connect around his girth, a sight that makes Pedro moan.
“Keep going. Yeah, just like that,” he praises, and I light up with pride and power. “Feels so good, babygirl.”
It’s the confidence I need to keep going, keep touching. My tentativeness fades, and with more confidence, I roll my hand over him again, up and down.
“Mmm,” he moans. “That’s it, sweethart. Being so good to me.”
"Tell me what you like.”
“You could grip a little tighter if you want.”
I do that. “What else?”
“I like it when you give the head a little attention.”
I circle my thumb again, spreading the moisture over the tip before coating my fist in it and running it down his length.
Pedro’s body tenses, and his breathing shallows. "Fuck, sweetheart. Do that again and I’m going to come like a pent-up teenager.”
I didn’t know I could have this effect on someone. On him.
"You’re doing great. Now, hold me tighter, just like I showed you," he rasps, and I can tell he’s restraining himself.
I quickly comply, my fingers tightening around him while also increasing my speed.
"So fucking good, angel.” He bucks up into my palm. "Twist at the hat and squeeze harder at the base,” he instructs, his jaw locked.
I start working him faster and he continues to thrust his hips into my grip.
"Yes, that’s right. Make me come.”
I keep it up, and monitor his expressions. Over and over, a little faster each time, I pump him, and after a few more strokes, his head bows.
"I’m getting close,” he moans, "Can—can I come on you?”
I find myself nodding.
"Where do you want me, babygirl?”
I lean back, still working him, and with my free hand roll up my camisole.
"Oh, fuck angel. You want me to come on you tummy?” he asks in a strained voice, still thrusting into my hand.
"Yes.”
He crowds over me then, his curls framing his forehead. "You don’t know what you’re doing to me.” He bites his lip, his forehead creasing. His body pulls taut like a bowstring. "Can you do something for me, sweet girl?”
My head rattles in a nod, eager to please him. "Call me daddy, sweetheart. I just need you to say it once and that’s it. Please, I need to hear it from you, just this once.”
He practically pleads me to say it. But he needn't to, because I’m willing to do anything he asks me right now. I want to please him and make him come.
I peer up at him, and he looks almost in pain as he waits for me to speak the word.
"Come on me, daddy.”
Those four words are enough to pull him under, and he’s spilling his load. His body shudders as thick ropes of cum coat my torso, pooling up in my belly button, warm and sticky. And god his face is so pretty when he comes, his mouth open in a moan, a little v etched between his eyebrows.
When he’s spent, he gently removes my hand. "It’s sensitive after,” he tells me and straightens.
I watch him in wonder as he regains his bearing and tucks himself back into his boxers. His golden chest is glistening with a light sheen of sweat, his hair is unruly, and his abdomen heaves with each breath.
Still panting, he picks up his discarded shirt and pats me dry, soaking up his cum.
He leans in, kissing me softly on the lips. "Lesson complete.”
“How’d I do?”
“I think you already know the answer.” He smirks, chuckling lightly and joining me atop the sheets. He squints, a cocky smile pulling on his raspberry pink lips. “But you want to hear it, don’t you?” he teases.
I flush, my smile fading as he invades my space.
“You want me to tell you how good you made me feel, don’t you, sweetheart?” he challenges, tilting my chin up so he can claim my mouth in a hot, possessive kiss.
“Yes,” I breathe, gasping when he starts trailing bruising kisses down my neck.
"There’s my good girl,” he drawls in a low, mellifluous voice, and my thighs rub together. I feel his smug smile on the skin of my neck. "Spread your legs for me, pretty girl. Now it’s my turn to please you.”
That same night, after Pedro thoroughly finger-fucked me and has gone to bed in his hotel room, I consult the Internet about kinks.
I’ve heard about daddy kink in conversations, read books with similar themes, and I’ve known it’s a thing, I just didn’t expect to like it.
The more I dig into the topic, the more intrigued I am. A couple of articles later, a page links me to another forum that discusses DD/lg relationships.
The more experiences and thinkpieces I read, the more I understand about my likes and dislikes. I realize I don’t like the title daddy. I get the appeal, but calling Pedro – or any future sexual partner for that matter – daddy makes me squirm in discomfort. It also becomes increasingly apparent to me that I like to hand over power in the bedroom; and not exactly in a total submission way – not that there’s any problem with submission – but in an act of unburdening myself.
In the romance books I’ve read, I’ve subconsciously been looking for dominant, authoritative men. All the fictional men I obsess over share this one common quality – soft dominance. Ever since I picked up my first young-adult contemporary romance book, I was drawn to male characters that exude power through guidance and attentiveness rather than those who believe in strict control and discipline. I think I’ve always preferred this balance between exerting control and fostering intimacy as opposed to intense authority.
I like the idea of a relationship dynamic that wants to remove the necessity for control from me moreso than the control itself. I also like how a DD/lg style relationship can be non-sexual in nature, maybe I sympathize with this aspect more than its sexual implementations. Sure, it's rooted in the concept of surrendering some degree of power to the other, but being taken care of in not just a sexual manner but in a non-sexual one too sounds nice.
There's a scene in the television show Fleabag that wormed its way into my brain. In a moment of vulnurability, Fleabag says how she whishes she had someone to tell her what to wear every morning, someone to tell her what to eat, what to like, what to dislike, what to rage about, what to listen to, what band to like, what to get tickets for, what to joke about, what not the joke about, what to believe in. And I get that.
Her sentence, I just want someone to tell me how to live my life, because so far I think I've been getting it wrong, felt like a personal attack when I heard it.
In retrospect, I think I've always felt lost, directionless. I didn't know what to do with my life. I've always been unsure that what I was doing with my life was what I was supposed to. It dawns on me that all along I've wanted someone to take the edge off life, because adulthood is not what I imagined it to be.
In my public life, I can opinionated, assertive, independent, a persona that is the product of conditioning, a result of self-protection. But in my private life, in the bedroom, I want to let myself go and just be. I want the other to step in and take care of me. I want to be guided, advised by a guardian angel. Not necessarily by a daddy or a father figure, but by someone who can take charge and take responsibility.
In my interpretation, DD/lg is about security. It's about establishing a bond that allows you to let your guard down, to be raw and vulnerable. And when I'm around Pedro, that's exactly how he makes me feel; protected, safe, cocooned. And now I know this is what I'll want from any other man.
Oh fuck.
Pedro might have ruined all other men for me.
There's a hyperlink that takes me to a page dedicated to praise kink. While reading through the article, I think about the times Pedro has called me babygirl, pretty girl, sweet girl, flower, sweetheart, angel, and feel the whole zoo come alive in my stomach. I recall him saying I'm a good girl, how good I'm doing, how good I'm making him feel, and decide that I might be heavily into praise as well.
I've spent all my teenage years and my postadolescence acting hyperindependent. I went without kissing another for almost twenty-two years. I didn't feel any overt sexual desires, didn't know what being horny actually meant. There are still many things about my sexuality that are unclear to me, yet now, with an eye-opening revelation, I understand more about myself and my sexual preferences. I now know that I have a need to transfer control in the bedroom, and I have a label for it.
And all this self-discovery is thanks to Pedro and our little tutoring arrangement.
I go to sleep a little more rooted than I did the night before.
uppercut - twelve
summary: Maisy is anxious because of a doctor's appointment, Pedro offers solace.
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, Pedro is extremely soft and sweet as always, some would say boyfriend material even, fem!mc is given a special term of endearment, emotional hurt/comfort
wc: 2.7k
series masterlist here
Maisy
In my mind, the end of July marks a turning point in my post-graduate life.
I turn down the internship I have lined up for September and feel ten times lighter.
I check for job postings occasionally, but only for jobs I really think I might like now. Other data scientist or researcher positions at companies I'm at least interested in.
A few days later, I come across a social researcher job at an NGO.
I almost text Pedro, but something holds me back. It seems too good to be true. There will probably be dozens of applications, and there's no point in getting my hopes up before I've even secured an interview.
Still, I email them my cover letter and résumé, and check my email obsessively for the rest of the day.
As for the other areas of my adult life, I finally work up the courage to make an appointment for a routine check-up at gynaecologist. I have never gone to the gynaecologist, so as for a lot of things life experience related, I feel ashamed for putting it off for this long.
I mark down the day and time for the appointment in my phone calendar and pretend to forget about it.
×××
When the actual day of my gynaecologist appointment comes, I’m a ball of nerves.
I hide the better part of the time I have before I have to leave in my room.
I’m being overdramatic, I know.
“It’s just an appointment,” I remind myself, “A routine check-up. They do it every day. I’m just one of the hundreds of women at their clinic.”
I shake out my limbs to rid myself of the nervous jitters.
My hands are shaking. This is not normal; having a doctor’s appointment affect my day and mood so severely.
I can’t rationalize why the mere thought of going to my gynaecologist appointment is making it hard to breathe. Though it certainly has something to do with the fact that this is going to be my first time getting an examination like that. Where I have to strip naked, or at least from the waist down.
A shudder wracks my body and I bolt downstairs, into the living space, where I find Pedro on his hands and knees with Oliver on his back, riding him like a pony.
Pedro makes a neiging sound and Oliver lets out the sweetest peal of laughter.
It is the kind of moment that sticks in your mind like glue, a core memory of an innocent child without an ounce of stress or worry on his shoulders. He’s free. He’s living. He’s happy. And Pedro is the reason.
My heart pinches.
The image before me, Pedro’s portrayed tenderness fills me with something so warm and safe that I find the courage to go seek him out.
He must see something in my expression, because he helps Oliver off his back and sits criss-crossed.
He doesn’t say anything as I walk towards them, simply leans back on his palms, taking me in.
I plop down onto the floorboards and pull my knees to my chest.
He frowns almost immediately. He squints into my face before he asks, “What’s bothering you?”
His tone is serene, not accusatory in the least, but it still surprises me that he notices so effortlessly.
I look down at my hands, slightly embarrassed by what I’m about to expose. I’m pretty certain that it isn’t an usual preoccupation. I can’t imagine any of the women in Pedro’s life has come to him with anything like this before me.
Really, it’s just an appointment at the clinic. I understand the necessity of it. And I’m aware that I should be grateful for having access to health care. Still, it doesn’t make the concept of it any more appealing.
I clear my throat, raising my eyes to his. Worry is laced into his expression.
“I’m honestly really not looking forward to today’s appointment.” It comes out rushed, and I avert my gaze after the last word has been said.
I checked in with him about the date and Pedro has cleared his afternoon to look after his son so I could go.
He studies me for a moment before responding. “What about it is getting you so wound up?”
I shrug. I suppose he knows what it entails, though I’m not sure myself. I’m still not sexually active per se, so do they examine me the way they would someone who is?
“I, uh—I don’t like the idea of letting people see me down there,” I say past the lump clogging my throat. “And touching me.”
The words are honest and vulnerable in a way that hurts to say them.
His entire face shifts into a softness that feels undeserved, and his expression morphs with understanding.
“I know it isn’t the most desirable,” he starts.
“No, it really isn’t. I’m sort of afraid.”
He reaches over and covers my trembling hands with his own. “What about it scares you? Being naked?”
Calmness spreads through my body starting from where his hand rests on mine.
“I don’t know. Partly, I guess.”
“Are you seeing a woman or a man doctor?”
“It’s a woman, so there’s that,” I mumble dryly. It’s not exactly a consolation.
The floorboards creak as he slides closer to me, his son playing contently a few feet away.
“Why is womanhood so awkward and uncomfortable sometimes?” I ask to no one in particular, on the verge of tears.
“I’m not saying pelvic exams are a pleasant feeling, but they aren’t awkward. They’re normal, and I don’t think it’ll take a long time.” When I don’t react, Pedro gives me a sympathetic smile and offers, “Nothing bad will happen. I’m sure the doctor will be gentle, and will stop if anything gets overwhelming for you.”
I nod my head, dropping my gaze to our intertwined hands in my lap.
“I’ll go with you, if you want me to,” he tells me then and he sounds so definitive that I feel a small fraction of my fear slip away.
The idea of having him wait with me before the appointment, and to have him waiting for me once it’s over, it soothes me. “Yeah, I think I’d like that,” I say in a small voice.
He nods. “Okay, I’ll go with you then,” he replies in a heartbeat.
A part of me thinks it’s pathetic; needing his comfort in this way. And yet, he looks so glad to be able to give it, that it stings less.
“But we have to take Oliver with us,” he adds, elbowing my side jokingly. “His nanny asked for the day off, she has a doctor’s appointment apparently.”
A laugh slips me for the first time today and even for a tiny bit, I feel better about the examination.
×××
The emotional respite is short-lived because as soon as we’re pulling out from his underground garage, all of Pedro’s consolations lose their effect. He puts on music on the drive over, but I’m too checked out. Sensing my increasing unease, he rests a warm, oversized palm on my knee and starts rubbing his thumb in circles.
“You’ll be in and out in a blink of an eye,” he assures me in a quiet, honeyed voice.
I swallow, my gaze dropping to where he’s touching me. If I were in another headspace, I’d find the imaginary extremely hot. Right now my mind is far too clouded to care. I just focus on the predictable circles his thumb is drawing on my kneecap.
In the tastefully decorated waiting room, we sit side-by-side wordlessly, and his hand finds my knee once again. Oliver is busy flipping through a picture book Pedro brought along.
Around us, several women with baby bumps in different sizes wait as well. A few men, presumably their boyfriends or husbands, keep them company. I faintly wonder if they see Pedro and I as a couple.
The dreadful moment comes, my name is called.
I look at Pedro, for what exactly I do not know. Reassurance? Consolation? Probably both.
I wish I wouldn’t need his assistance but I’m grateful that he seems happy to give it.
With just a simple look—eyes warm and bottomless—it’s as if he’s promising everything will be okay. I nod at him, once, twice, steel myself and follow after the nurse.
Once in the examination room, everything happens in a blur. The nurse takes my blood pressure and my weight, and asks me some intake questions. Then I’m left to change into a paper gown.
I fold my underwear inside the sundress I came in, and hop onto the leathered bench, my feet dangling off the edge. I pretend I don’t see the stir-ups.
My doctor is entering the room in minutes time. She introduces herself but my brain glosses over her name. She goes over the intake questions with me once again, asks about my cycle in general, whether I’m sexually active or not. Avoiding her eyes, I tell her that I’m yet to have sex. She notes it down, but doesn’t make any comment.
Contrary to my expectation, the doctor doesn’t rush things. She explains what the examination will detail using a diagram to illustrate each step, even going as far as showing me what instruments she’ll use. She tells me she’ll do a pelvic exam using just her fingers and then the smear test.
The demonstration clears up some of my worries, and I feel myself loosen just a bit.
The next moment though, I’m asked to recline.
My ears start to ring.
She instructs me to bend my knees and put my feet together so my legs are in a butterfly position. I’m forever indebted to her for not using the stir-ups.
She puts on surgical gloves and I notice myself tensing up, which I know is not ideal.
She rolls over on her chair, lifting my gown. Setting my jaw, I bore into the ceiling, my hands fidgeting on my stomach as I brace myself.
The whole examination happens so fast. It’s relatively painless, more uncomfortable than anything, though it has to be said, it’s—even if remotely—awkward.
Afterwards, she gives me a wipe to clean myself and says she’ll call with the results of the smear test but otherwise I’m healthy, before exiting the room.
I re-dress in a daze, the aftershocks of my nerves jitters running through my body. To calm myself, I repeat positive affirmations in my head. Anything to gaslight myself that it was a totally normal and not at all awkward situation.
Having Pedro waiting for me outside makes the whole ordeal a hundred times more bearable. As I step into the waiting room, fragile and vulnerable, he springs to his feet at my sight, picks up Oliver and leads me outside by my hand.
He straps Oliver in then turns to me with eyes so tender it makes me crack. My reaction is uncalled for, but something about his willingness to take care of me throws me. I need him, and he's here, I realize. Fully, not with caveats or stipulations.
My eyes well up and my shoulders cave in on me.
He pulls me in for a bear-hug then and murmurs into my hair, “You were so brave, my pretty girl.”
Hearing those few words strung together in a sentence does something irreversible to my brain chemistry.
A single teardrop escapes my waterline. He attentively wipes it away and kisses the top of my head.
Today, he’s broken our rules on many accounts, and I think I don’t want him to enforce them tomorrow.
He insists we get gelato from an authentic Italian restaurant, but when we get there I’m treated to a three course dinner and gelato.
Apparently while I was in for my examination, he called the owner of the restaurant to get us a table. And he didn’t just get us a table, he managed to get us a spot at the back, where it’s more private.
We enjoy a languid early dinner. The service is incredible, and the owner comes by to greet Pedro. They exchange pleasantries and I’m once again floored by how kind and charismatic he is.
Pedro sits opposite me and spoon-feeds his son while simultaneously listening to my musings on how and why I think obstetrics and gynaecology became a male-dominated field.
I get carried away and ramble on a little too passionately and a little too long about how I think the over-mediclaization of pregnancy and birth is a byproduct of modernization and technocracy and that because of it women, or at least a big portion of the female population is rubbed off expereincing what it truly means to be in sync with their bodies.
He mostly agrees with my argument, tries to understand those points I make that he’s initially not so sure about. We agree that how our healthcare system treats women in labour is more for the comfort of the attending doctor rather than the woman in labour.
After my detour, he opens up about single-dad life. He tells me about the less glamorous parts of newborn life, and he doesn’t spare the gory details. He recalls several occasions when Oliver puked on him. Then, he rehashes how Oliver peed all over the walls that one time while he was changing his diaper.
When our laughing settles, something switches. “So yeah, lots of debacles,” he mumbles, staring at the glass in his hands before taking a small sip. “No but honestly, it was rough, our first months together.” He falls silent, his jaw working like he is chewing on the words he isn’t sure how to say.
“I’m sorry,” he shakes his head, “It’s just—.“ When his eyes slide back up to meet mine, they are laced with sorrow, with a vulnerability that nearly makes me choke on the bite I half-swallowed. “You have no idea how hard this has all been for me.”
He doesn’t have to elaborate on what he means. It is written in every line of his face.
This man has been battling being a single father, on top of a high-performance athlete, all while flipping through a catalogue of sorry excuses for nannies who only added to his stress.
My bet is he is wondering how long I’d last, wondering how long he could count on me before he’d be back to square one.
“I’m sorry it’s been hard,” I offer quietly. “But… I hope I could make it a bit easier these past weeks.”
He gives a small smile. “Trust me, you have.”
We finish the rest of the meal in companionable silence, and it isn’t after we put our gelato orders in that I speak.
“Do you ever think about the moments you missed when he was a newborn?” I ask, setting my fork down. “Like his first smile, the newborn scrunch?”
He consults the tablecloth before answering.
“I think for me it’s the part I missed before he was here with us on earth,” he says, my knitted brows urging him on. “I didn’t get to experience the whole pregnancy thing. I think if I got a go at it, I’d be one of those awfully overprotective dad-to-bes.”
Imagining him doting on his heavily pregnant girlfriend/wife, buying all those unnecessary pregnancy products just so she has the option to use them, talking to his unborn child and sponging kisses against the spot where they kick their mother—it twists something in me that I can’t identify. Maybe disappointment, that I wouldn’t be the one to experience those things with him, possibly envy for the woman who might. Most likely a bit of both.
“I can kind of picture you that way. You seem that type of a man,” I mumble, my voice small and hesitant.
“Yeah, I really think I’d be one of those guys,” he concludes with a slow smile and then our gelato arrives.
uppercut - eleven
summary: Pedro goes down on Maisy
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, the soft!dom is soft!doming, Pedro is extremely soft and sweet as always, fem!mc is inexperienced and a bit clueless, use of pet names (sweetheart, flower, sweet girl, babygirl(!!)), aftercare
wc: 4.8k
series masterlist here
a/n: happy valentine's day angels, this is my gift to you, happy reading </3
Maisy
I wake to the shape of him dressing in the grey of the room. I didn't hear his alarm. I'm about to greet him but I stop myself. I want to see how he wakes me, because I'm irrational and self-absorbed like that. I'm curious about whether he kisses me, says my name, or shakes my arm.
"Maisy," he coos softly.
I lamely feign waking up, and open my eyes to see him perched on the edge of the bed, gazing down at me.
"Hey," his voice is all morning rasp, deep and scratchy. I rub my feet together under the sheets.
He flashes a brilliant smile and I know today's going to be a great day. "I gotta head out soon. I'm gonna wake Oliver. Can you be downstairs in like tenish?"
I tug the duvet under my chin, "Mhm."
He nods and his eyes take me in languidly. "Are you...feeling okay?"
My cheeks flush at his solicitous inquiry. "Yes, a little sore... but yes."
"Good."
He opens his mouth to say something else but never does.
He stands and jabs a thumb in the general direction of his son's nursery. "I'll wake him now."
The day ensues casually. I spend the forenoon tidying. There are so many things Pedro needs help with around the house and I know he didn't hire me as a cleaning lady, but I don't want to ignore them. Even though he's for sure going to be annoyed I pick up the slack. I vacuum the entire house, mop the kitchen and do a load of laundry during which process I may or may not give one of his used T-shirts a deep inhale.
Following lunch, I decide to take Oliver out for a stimulating walk and get ourselves ice cream. Post-walk, he's too cute and clingy and I'm too overcome with parental greediness so we crash on the couch.
×××
Pedro
I get home loaded down with bags of groceries for our Mexican-themed dinner and right as I step through the door, I notice how clean and tidy the space is. Across the hall, I hear the tumble dryer going, so she must’ve done the laundry, and all of Oliver’s toys that were scattered across every corner of the house just this morning have been put away.
She’s helping out wherever she can even though it’s not her responsibility.
I remember staunchly why I need to stop having fantasies about my son’s nanny.
She is the first good one I’ve ever had, and I’d be damned if I messed it up because my cock seems to react every time she does something nice for me or Oliver.
Okay, so maybe I am kidding myself with that. It isn’t just when she treats Oliver like her own, or when she does something around the house that she really doesn’t have to, or when she makes my life easier by doing what — in her words — is the bare minimum of a babysitter.
It is that she is otherworldy gorgeous.
Every small, ridiculous thing about her turns me on.
I need a cold, hard reality slap.
I need to stop fantasizing about my nanny.
No matter the strenuous jump-roping session I did after post-training that left me gasping for air and wincing against my ribs, the pain didn’t last.
As soon as I was on my way home, all my thoughts drifted to Maisy.
And at my core, a voice is telling me no amount of masturbation could help.
Which is a real fucking problem.
I shake the thoughts from my head, doing my damndest not to think too hard about her as I kick off my shoes and move further into the house, scooping out the rooms in hopes of finding my son or his unfairly beautiful nanny with a voice I can't get out of my head as it mewls my name.
I drop off the groceries in the kitchen and turn into the living room. At first, it appears empty but as I look over the backboard of the couch, Masiy cuddling my boy comes into view.
My heart thuds out of sync for many beats. I knead at the spot.
Rick made me do accessory work on my pectorals, that must be the reason for the soreness, I reason.
Roused by my ogling, Maisy stirs then blinks a few times as her vision clears and she reaclimates. When she sees me, a slow smile spreads across her plush, naturally cherry lips.
They are kissable lips, a voice says in my head.
I shoo it away. Inappropriate.
Instead, I focus on my boy. "Did you have a great nap, Buddy?" I ask, leaning over the couch and tickling Oliver’s belly.
Maisy sits up, propping my son on his knees.
My boy is all bed-head and dried drool from his nap. "Daddy," he mumbles, reaching for me.
I pick him up, and his little arms instantly go around my neck. My heart thuds with affection, and I cover his cheeks with kisses and he wiggles in my grasp, giggling.
"Sorry. I know I shouldn't have let him nap on the couch with me. But he was extra cuddly today and fell asleep on me while we watched a video of vegetables dancing and—," Maisy rambles.
The corners of my mouth quirks up in a small but fond smile. "It's okay. You don't have to explain yourself," I tell her reassuringly. "I trust your judgment with him."
She nods, her eyes flitting around me, her fingers fidgeting with her droplet necklace.
"I gotta take a quick shower, but we can get started on dinner after?"
"Sound great," she agrees, standing.
I let Oliver down. "I'll be right there with you."
She saunters into the kitchen, my son crawling after her.
He's still not quite walking but he can make a couple of steps on his own before losing balance. I try not to sweat over his slow but steady progress. He'll get there.
After a cold shower in the downstairs bathroom – and against my better judgement –, I wrap a towel around my waist and spy on the two of them for an idle moment.
Oliver sits on her hip as Maisy puts away the groceries. She announces each item she stores away, teaching him the names of vegetables and fruits. I should go back to my room and put some clothes on, but I just want to be around them.
Eventually though, a few more self-indulgent moments later I begrudgingly tear my eyes away from them and get dressed.
I put on some worn jeans and tug a crumpled white t-shirt on while descending the stairs. My bare feet make soft padding sounds as I walk into the kitchen. "Ready, chef?" I ask jokingly.
Maisy puts me right to work. I'm on prep duty, peeling, chopping, dicing anything she puts right in front of me. It's all awfully domestic. Oliver perches in his high chair, supervising us as he devours his less gourmet dinner of mashed potatoes and hard-boiled egg. There's music playing and Maisy sways her hips as she blows on the ladle and holds it out to me to taste.
"Careful, it's hot," she warns, gauging my reaction as I let the sauce dissolve on my tongue. "More salt? Five more minutes?"
"Five more minutes. Seasoning is spot on."
I’m wiping Oliver’s face clean with a damp cloth when I hear a hiss and a quiet Fuck coming from Maisy.
My eyes cut to her as she tosses the knife into the sink, and lifts a finger to her mouth.
"You okay there?" I ask, and I can hear the alarm in my voice. I'm not slick at all.
"I’m fine, just cut myself." She sounds fine but there’s a pleading ring to her voice—which I might make up in my head, but I don’t care. I want to take care of her.
Sitting Oliver on my forearm, I reach for her wrist, rotating her hand to inspect the damage, which is limited.
"Really, I’m fine," she says, avoiding my gaze as she pulls her wrist out of my hold and brings her finger back up to her mouth to stem the light trickle of blood.
I grab the makeshift first-aid kit I store under the sink and rifle through the contents, looking for the correct Band-Aid size.
“Let me,” I coax.
She lets out a heavy sigh, "Okay."
"Good girl," the title slips before I could stop myself. If she catches the insinuation, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
My hand wraps around her wrist again, guiding her finger from her mouth.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” I say, assessing the inconsequential cut.
“That’s what I told you,” she replies. I feel her intense, searching gaze on my face as I pull the Band-Aid from its wrapper, and place it with meticulous care.
"Maisy hurt?" Oliver pouts.
She laughs lightly, petting his head with her uninjured hand. "It’s just a little cut. I’m okay, it doesn’t even hurt," she assures my son.
I work against the giddy smile that’s tugging on my lips.
I wrap the sticky ends together and delicately kiss the area where her cut is. “There.”
She shudders at the contact. “Thank you,” she whispers and turns away to resume work.
Before we sit down to eat, I tuck Oliver in for the night. When I return, a rosy-cheeked Maisy and a margarita is waiting on me. Even without the alcohol in my system, I feel warm and uninhibited.
Dinner is languid. We discuss how we prefer our hard-boiled eggs. We express our fears of growing old. We recall our first day as high schoolers, the number of our locker and the code combination.
Slightly tipsy, we get up to dance. Maisy is bashful at first but reassured by my awkward dance moves, lets herself loose. We do some consensual rubbing and grinding, the air between us charged. I'm nosing at her neck as we rock side to side, her back to my front, when George Michel's Father Figure comes on shuffle. It's a song I haven't heard in a while, and the lyrics sober me.
I break into a nervous sweat. We separate, I grab my phone and skip the song.
"You good?" she asks, her skin glistening.
"Yeah, yeah. It's just—, it's getting late and I have a session early tomorrow."
"Yeah, of course, you're right," she mumbles, but her face falls in disappointment, making me feel like the worst possible human.
I stack and carry our plates to the sink. I grip onto the edge of the kitchen counter and close my eyes. I feel her lingering presence. I blow out the air in my lungs, open my eyes and face her.
She's leaning against the counter, mirroring me, one of her hands toying with the hem of her sundress. "Thank you for tonight. I had fun."
A smile breaks across my face. "I enjoyed myself too," I say quietly.
Her eyes sparkle at my words and she perks up. She licks her plump lips, her throat bobbing with a swallow. I trace the movement.
"I—, I really want to kiss you right now," she divulges.
Heat rushes down, and my dick hardens with desire in my jeans.
"Can I kiss you?"
When she is this polite, who am I to resist the temptation?
It's like I'm a hormonal teenage boy. Lust overrides my consciousness. But I can't even pretend I'm not in way over my head. So, I chose to ignore it all and just live in whatever moment is right in front of me. Apparently, that is the opportunity to be kissed by Maisy.
Surging forward, I bend to meet her waiting mouth in an urgent kiss.
She melts into the kiss after a lag of surprise, her hands floating up to settle on either side of my jaw. Her touch is still tentative, even after the multiple orgasms I've given her, she's still too self-conscious to fully let her desires control her.
There's a different energy to her when it comes to intimacy. In normal day-to-day situations, she's opinionated, sure of herself and her values, but in bedroom-type situations, she's timid, coy.
I find it extremely sweet.
I know it's partly because of her inexperience but I think she likes to hand over the control. And I'm okay bearing the responsibilities.
I don't care to be particularly composed as I dole out my affection, the twisting of our tongues messy and clumsy with how badly I want to put my mouth all over her. I comb my fingers through her silky hair as her tongue meets mine. My hands roam down her sides, then loop around her waist to press her back into the counter.
Trailing my mouth down, I smear my kisses over the curve of her chin, the line of her jaw, then all the way down the column of her throat. She shivers, her hands pushing up into my hair.
I bend at the knees slightly, my palms cupping the backs of her thighs. "Hop," I murmur and I hoist her onto the kitchen island. Our lips disconnect for just a split second before she's chasing after me, grasping me by the nape of my neck.
I pry myself between her legs, her dress riding up but still concealing her as my hips slot between her plush thighs.
The way she kisses is needy, careless, unfettered. It turns me even more feral.
One of my hands moves up to cup the side of her neck, the other holds her by the ribcage. She wraps her legs around my middle, and her ankles cross, making the bulge in my jeans press against the heat of her. We both gasp at the contact.
I pull kiss after kiss from her until we're breathless and clamouring.
When she breaks for air, I reach behind to untangle her ankles. She mewls in protest but I don't backtrack. I'm on a mission to finally lick into her.
Giving her a placating kiss, I drop to my knees in front of her, feeling my pulse thrumming as I gaze up at her from this new position. Her hair is frizzy from my fingers running through it, and her chest heaves as she catches her breath through kiss-swollen lips.
She tugs at my hair, looking at me questioningly, but I don't make any move to get up, I stay right where I am. "Don't worry, flower, I'll take care of you."
My hands smooth over the length of her thighs, the fabric of her dress catching on my wrists as it pools around her hips. I grip her by the hips and pull her towards me so that she sits on the edge of the countertop, and hike her legs over my shoulders.
She yelps, choking on air.
In this position, I'm face to face with her heat, covered by a pair of blush pink thongs. There's a big wet patch on the gusset. She's completely soaked through. My erection twitches painfully in my pants, but I show some restraint.
Planting my mouth in a suctioning kiss on the flesh of her inner thigh, I start a new expedition.
As I pluck my teeth against the soft skin goosebumps raise on her skin, and she cries out my name."Pedro, w-we can take this to my bedroom, an—" she rushes, breathless.
I shake my head before she can finish. "Quit it," I bark lowly, her scent drugging me. "We're going to stay right here, sweetheart."
I drag my lips over her thighs, never fully parting from the flesh before I press another languid kiss to her skin.
"Oh God, oh God," she whimpers between gasps.
The closer I get to the apex of her thighs, the more unreal her scent is. I want to bury myself in her.
So I do.
I nose at where her clit is nestled away out of my sight, and she lets out the most angelic cry.
My fingertips tease the waistband of her underwear. "How was that? Did you like it when I nudged your aching little clit, baby girl?" I probe, peering up at her. Her cheeks are red, and her brows glisten with sweat.
"Mhump," she purrs. "Do it again, please?"
I lower my head and inhale deeply, her intoxicating smell filling my lungs. In response, she crumbles; she falls back onto her forearm.
I hook my thumbs under the string on her hips. "I gotta taste you. Been thinking about it all week, pretty girl." I tell her, trying to tame the keen edge in my voice. "Will you let me?"
A look of hesitation flashes behind her eyes, and her legs tremble (and not in the uncontrollable, post-coital way I would prefer, but in a nervous tick). Noting her uneasy, I reign in my desperation.
"You're nervous," I state.
She chews on her bottom lip. "I am," she says meekly.
I drop back onto my heels, and run my hands up and down the length of her thighs comfortingly before pressing a tender kiss onto each of her kneecaps. "If you want to stop or this is something you're not ready for, tell me. But you don't have to be nervous with me."
"Yes, I know," she speaks in a hushed tone, pouting. "I think what's making me nervous is that I'd never let a man touch me down there before you, let alone put his mouth on me so intimately."
"I'm aware of that," I say, my thumbs kneading at her.
"When you kissed me there—, I–I was overpowered with a rush of butterflies. I didn't know how to behave myself, it scared me."
"But they were a good kind of butterflies, yes?" She nods. "Well, you can always just tug on my hair. If anything that lets me know you're enjoying what I'm doing. How about you do that when you feel those butterflies?" I offer, sponging kisses to her kneecap.
She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay," she breathes softly.
"Now will you let me put my mouth on you?"
The slow but certain nod she gives is the permission I need before I'm finally shucking her underwear down her legs and unceremoniously stuffing them in my back pocket. A blissful sigh leaves me as I take in the glistening folds of the most beautiful cunt I've ever seen.
"Jesus, Maisy," I choke out in admiration. "How are you real? You're fucking stunning." There's a patch of downy hair above the cleft. Dark pinkish-purple folds gleam with her arousal. "God, you're fucking perfect."
"Thank you," she says softly.
Settling as comfortably as I can on my knees, I close that small, teasing distance, and plant my lips directly onto her clit. Her hips buck.
Another testing kiss and she stops breathing, her legs quaking around my head. I tsk. "Nah-ah. You need to spread your legs wider, sweetheart." I rasp and after a shuddering sigh, she obliges, parting those thick thighs even wider to give me access to the dark, wet heart of her.
I reward her with a long, slow swipe of my tongue across her leaking slit.
"Ohmygod," she slurs, thrusting her hips forward to chase after the sensation.
My lips lift in an impish smirk. She makes a keening noise, and the sound unlocks a deep well of joy inside me I'd never known existed.
Peering up at her, I push another budding kiss to her clit, this time watching the look on her face. Her eyes attempt to close, lashes kissing her cheekbones, with her mouth dropping into a small gape, and a pinch appearing between her brows.
After planting a slew of kisses on her clit, feeling her pulse jump against him, I slide my arms around to the backs of her thighs. My palms cuff the soft skin, fingertips denting into the gentle curve as I push her towards my face, angling her hips just so.
The scent of her lures me in and I scarcely hear her say my name as I move forward. I bend my head and feast from her. My tongue dips into the heart of her, tasting the wet as it oozes from within her, and my lips seal around her clit to suck, suck, suck until her legs tremble and she has to grip the edge of the countertop to cope.
I give her no mercy, and she doesn't ask me for any. She surrenders to my savage intentions so sweetly, it lights me on fire.
Clutching the dense swell of her ass in my hands, I haul her closer to my mouth.
The flat of my tongue slides through her slit over and over, collecting her wetness and revelling in the heady taste that was her before swallowing. I can feel her toes curl behind my back, her heels pressing into my spine to urge me into giving more. I smile around my ministrations as I zigzag my tongue over her pussy before turning my focus back on her clit.
Kissing at the bud, I speak as best I can without lifting my mouth from her.
"Y'taste so good, flower."
Her hands find my head, the tips of her fingers winding through my hair. "You—you're incredible. This—oh, God—is incredible."
Spurred on by her stuttered praise, I surge forward, replacing my lips with my tongue now laving over her clit. It's swollen between my lips as I give placating sucks to the bud, drawing the softest mewls from Maisy.
Diving down from her clit, I follow the split of her spread folds until I'm tonguing at her opening. Her wetness has spread to the inside of her thighs, my cheeks, and now the tip of my nose as I wag the flat of my tongue over her arousal-coated folds.
I jut my chin against her and thrust my tongue straight inside her pussy. She moans up to the ceiling. Her fluttering walls clench around me, welcoming me in.
I wriggle my tongue inside her, tracing along the ridges and curves. Her hands in my hair come alive then, tugging at the roots. Drilling my tongue inside her, I draw her higher and higher until her whimpers and gasps are obscenely lewd.
My cheeks are squished by her warm thighs, chin soaked in her slick and nose mushed against her clit.
I could do this all night, but I have a feeling Maisy's expiration is coming soon.
The telltale sign comes in the scrunch of her nose and her fluttering eyes.
"Gonna cum for me, baby girl?" I mouth against her clit, feeling her muscles bunch at the feeling of my voice vibrating around her.
A small whine crawls its way out of her throat as she nods, her mouth in nothing more than a gape.
"Want you to cum on my face," I croon, "Let me have it, sweetheart."
All it takes is a lingering suck of her clit before she's crumbling above me. My name leaves her mouth as if in prayer. Her back arches from the counter, pushing her hips that much closer to my face. Twitching with each pulsation that grips her, she holds me trapped against her, tossing her head in the throes of ecstasy.
I don't stop, feeling her clit pulsing between my lips. A cry dies in her throat when I move one hand from her ass to between her thighs to join my tongue inside her.
I drive a finger inside her snug cunt while sucking her clit between my lips. Her hands in my hair are shocked into a tight, unwavering grip, and heels dig into my back.
"Again," I demand against the inside of her thigh before curling another finger into that tight heat and flicking her swollen, throbbing clit with my tongue. "Give me one more."
She cries out then, louder and louder.
This time, when she orgasms, I fuck her even harder through it, fingers pressing into the front wall of her pussy, punishing a soft spot that makes her wail and ride my face without one iota of shame.
And if I don't I almost cream myself.
I carry her away for several long minutes, lapping her slower and slower until she grows too sensitive.
When she climbs down from her high, I'm still kissing her sloppy, swollen folds.
"Too much, too much," she whimpers, pushing my face away from her.
Drawing away, I look up at her. A slow, private smile spreads across her face. My heart gives a warm thump. Seeing her unwound for me...
Hell. I could easily get used to this. But it was only sex... right? Two consenting adults enjoying each other's bodies.
Easing her thighs from my shoulder, I move up her body to kiss those sweet lips. "You did good, so good, baby girl."
I fix her dress despite there being no reason to hide after what we just did, smoothing the fabric over her hips in a grounding touch. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I start her towards her bedroom.
"Let's get you cleaned up."
With her eyes hooded and movements lethargic, I guide her upstairs. Flicking on the light in her room, I deposite her on the edge of her bed. I watch with an affectionate smile as she flops back into the mattress, arms falling above her head as she stretches out.
I leave her to her quiet soothing and step into her bathroom.
Just as I thought, my cock is still impossibly hard in my pants, hiding a drenched spot on the front of my briefs where I've been leaking blurts of precum while tasting the very same girl who nannies my son and is the daughter of my coach.
I adjust myself and rid of the thought.
I find a small cloth under the sink cabinet, wet it and walk back to her. Her eyes open lazily, and her cherry lips slit into a small, intimate smile. Her feet dangle from the edge of the bed, and I kneel.
"Is it alright if I push up your dress again, sweetheart?" I ask, voice a low croon in the quiet of her bedroom. "Just gonna clean you."
"Okay," she mumbles, lifting her hips some as I push up the hem.
She wordlessly spreads her thighs and I make quick work of wiping up her arousal that dripped to the inside of her thighs. When I touch her clit, hoping it would be so fast she wouldn't notice, I earn a small hiss, her legs recoiling to close around my hand.
"Too much," she reminds me, a pout evident in her voice.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," I murmur, compounding my words with a kiss to the cuff of her knee.
A strong urge to take proper care of her grips me. I do the whole boyfriend experience; I get her a clean pair of underwear—a quick rummage around her underwear drawer reveals a lacy black thong that I make her wear—, and her sleep shirt from under her pillow, even going as far as draping the duvet over her and pressing a kiss into her hairline, which is beyond overkill.
I close the door behind me and the realization clangs through me; I'm catching feelings.
Maisy
I wake in the middle of the night, totally placated.
I get up to use the bathroom, and as I sit on the toilet, flashes of Pedro between my thighs sizzle across my mind.
My cheeks and neck flame up at the memory of what he'd done.
There was no hesitancy, no politeness in the way he kissed, licked, sucked. I felt totally out of control, and what's more, I wanted to be out of control.
And when he added his fingers... my mind felt like it went straight through a shredder and into a kaleidoscope.
When I came two consecutive times, I was left floating, drifting in a current of Pedro. He was still licking me, except more slowly, as if with no purpose but to savour me.
And then he rose over me, and kissed me, unconcerned with where his mouth had been just seconds earlier. I dimly wondered in that moment if I should be put off by that, but I was still violently twitching with pleasure, contracting with aftershocks that I couldn't make myself care.
He then proceeded to support me up the stairs, took care of my mess and dressed me for bed. I was half-asleep when he kissed my hairline, and I remember sinking into a sense of security that my brain linked to Pedro.
Pedro is big into aftercare.; without fail, he always makes sure I'm comfortable after we've been intimate, but last night felt significant, especially since he went down on me for the first time and I was in such a woundable state. He might consider aftercare as part of our arrangement, but thinking about it, I get a high emotional charge.
I know that he isn't playing any mind games on me because he's equally considerate and kind to me when we aren't making out, but still, I can't help but wonder how he would treat me if I were his—his girl, for real.
At the thought of there being an us, an emergency alarm goes off in my brain. I'm getting way ahead of myself. I'm starting to think our deal could turn into something more which is stupid and foolish and just all around messy what with our age gap and his close relationship to my dad.
I flush, and wash my hands.
Staring into my reflection, my inner voice asks, I won't be able to be remotely normal about Pedro and our arrangement going forward, will I?
"No, I definitely won’t, " I speak aloud.
I climb back into my bed and make myself as small as possible under the covers.
Added a scene to this. (Pedro tending to Maisy's cut)
uppercut - eleven
summary: Pedro goes down on Maisy
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, oral sex (female receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, the soft!dom is soft!doming, Pedro is extremely soft and sweet as always, fem!mc is inexperienced and a bit clueless, use of pet names (sweetheart, flower, sweet girl, babygirl(!!)), aftercare
wc: 4.8k
series masterlist here
a/n: happy valentine's day angels, this is my gift to you, happy reading </3
Maisy
I wake to the shape of him dressing in the grey of the room. I didn't hear his alarm. I'm about to greet him but I stop myself. I want to see how he wakes me, because I'm irrational and self-absorbed like that. I'm curious about whether he kisses me, says my name, or shakes my arm.
"Maisy," he coos softly.
I lamely feign waking up, and open my eyes to see him perched on the edge of the bed, gazing down at me.
"Hey," his voice is all morning rasp, deep and scratchy. I rub my feet together under the sheets.
He flashes a brilliant smile and I know today's going to be a great day. "I gotta head out soon. I'm gonna wake Oliver. Can you be downstairs in like tenish?"
I tug the duvet under my chin, "Mhm."
He nods and his eyes take me in languidly. "Are you...feeling okay?"
My cheeks flush at his solicitous inquiry. "Yes, a little sore... but yes."
"Good."
He opens his mouth to say something else but never does.
He stands and jabs a thumb in the general direction of his son's nursery. "I'll wake him now."
The day ensues casually. I spend the forenoon tidying. There are so many things Pedro needs help with around the house and I know he didn't hire me as a cleaning lady, but I don't want to ignore them. Even though he's for sure going to be annoyed I pick up the slack. I vacuum the entire house, mop the kitchen and do a load of laundry during which process I may or may not give one of his used T-shirts a deep inhale.
Following lunch, I decide to take Oliver out for a stimulating walk and get ourselves ice cream. Post-walk, he's too cute and clingy and I'm too overcome with parental greediness so we crash on the couch.
×××
Pedro
I get home loaded down with bags of groceries for our Mexican-themed dinner and right as I step through the door, I notice how clean and tidy the space is. Across the hall, I hear the tumble dryer going, so she must’ve done the laundry, and all of Oliver’s toys that were scattered across every corner of the house just this morning have been put away.
She’s helping out wherever she can even though it’s not her responsibility.
I remember staunchly why I need to stop having fantasies about my son’s nanny.
She is the first good one I’ve ever had, and I’d be damned if I messed it up because my cock seems to react every time she does something nice for me or Oliver.
Okay, so maybe I am kidding myself with that. It isn’t just when she treats Oliver like her own, or when she does something around the house that she really doesn’t have to, or when she makes my life easier by doing what — in her words — is the bare minimum of a babysitter.
It is that she is otherworldy gorgeous.
Every small, ridiculous thing about her turns me on.
I need a cold, hard reality slap.
I need to stop fantasizing about my nanny.
No matter the strenuous jump-roping session I did after post-training that left me gasping for air and wincing against my ribs, the pain didn’t last.
As soon as I was on my way home, all my thoughts drifted to Maisy.
And at my core, a voice is telling me no amount of masturbation could help.
Which is a real fucking problem.
I shake the thoughts from my head, doing my damndest not to think too hard about her as I kick off my shoes and move further into the house, scooping out the rooms in hopes of finding my son or his unfairly beautiful nanny with a voice I can't get out of my head as it mewls my name.
I drop off the groceries in the kitchen and turn into the living room. At first, it appears empty but as I look over the backboard of the couch, Masiy cuddling my boy comes into view.
My heart thuds out of sync for many beats. I knead at the spot.
Rick made me do accessory work on my pectorals, that must be the reason for the soreness, I reason.
Roused by my ogling, Maisy stirs then blinks a few times as her vision clears and she reaclimates. When she sees me, a slow smile spreads across her plush, naturally cherry lips.
They are kissable lips, a voice says in my head.
I shoo it away. Inappropriate.
Instead, I focus on my boy. "Did you have a great nap, Buddy?" I ask, leaning over the couch and tickling Oliver’s belly.
Maisy sits up, propping my son on his knees.
My boy is all bed-head and dried drool from his nap. "Daddy," he mumbles, reaching for me.
I pick him up, and his little arms instantly go around my neck. My heart thuds with affection, and I cover his cheeks with kisses and he wiggles in my grasp, giggling.
"Sorry. I know I shouldn't have let him nap on the couch with me. But he was extra cuddly today and fell asleep on me while we watched a video of vegetables dancing and—," Maisy rambles.
The corners of my mouth quirks up in a small but fond smile. "It's okay. You don't have to explain yourself," I tell her reassuringly. "I trust your judgment with him."
She nods, her eyes flitting around me, her fingers fidgeting with her droplet necklace.
"I gotta take a quick shower, but we can get started on dinner after?"
"Sound great," she agrees, standing.
I let Oliver down. "I'll be right there with you."
She saunters into the kitchen, my son crawling after her.
He's still not quite walking but he can make a couple of steps on his own before losing balance. I try not to sweat over his slow but steady progress. He'll get there.
After a cold shower in the downstairs bathroom – and against my better judgement –, I wrap a towel around my waist and spy on the two of them for an idle moment.
Oliver sits on her hip as Maisy puts away the groceries. She announces each item she stores away, teaching him the names of vegetables and fruits. I should go back to my room and put some clothes on, but I just want to be around them.
Eventually though, a few more self-indulgent moments later I begrudgingly tear my eyes away from them and get dressed.
I put on some worn jeans and tug a crumpled white t-shirt on while descending the stairs. My bare feet make soft padding sounds as I walk into the kitchen. "Ready, chef?" I ask jokingly.
Maisy puts me right to work. I'm on prep duty, peeling, chopping, dicing anything she puts right in front of me. It's all awfully domestic. Oliver perches in his high chair, supervising us as he devours his less gourmet dinner of mashed potatoes and hard-boiled egg. There's music playing and Maisy sways her hips as she blows on the ladle and holds it out to me to taste.
"Careful, it's hot," she warns, gauging my reaction as I let the sauce dissolve on my tongue. "More salt? Five more minutes?"
"Five more minutes. Seasoning is spot on."
I’m wiping Oliver’s face clean with a damp cloth when I hear a hiss and a quiet Fuck coming from Maisy.
My eyes cut to her as she tosses the knife into the sink, and lifts a finger to her mouth.
"You okay there?" I ask, and I can hear the alarm in my voice. I'm not slick at all.
"I’m fine, just cut myself." She sounds fine but there’s a pleading ring to her voice—which I might make up in my head, but I don’t care. I want to take care of her.
Sitting Oliver on my forearm, I reach for her wrist, rotating her hand to inspect the damage, which is limited.
"Really, I’m fine," she says, avoiding my gaze as she pulls her wrist out of my hold and brings her finger back up to her mouth to stem the light trickle of blood.
I grab the makeshift first-aid kit I store under the sink and rifle through the contents, looking for the correct Band-Aid size.
“Let me,” I coax.
She lets out a heavy sigh, "Okay."
"Good girl," the title slips before I could stop myself. If she catches the insinuation, she doesn’t acknowledge it.
My hand wraps around her wrist again, guiding her finger from her mouth.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” I say, assessing the inconsequential cut.
“That’s what I told you,” she replies. I feel her intense, searching gaze on my face as I pull the Band-Aid from its wrapper, and place it with meticulous care.
"Maisy hurt?" Oliver pouts.
She laughs lightly, petting his head with her uninjured hand. "It’s just a little cut. I’m okay, it doesn’t even hurt," she assures my son.
I work against the giddy smile that’s tugging on my lips.
I wrap the sticky ends together and delicately kiss the area where her cut is. “There.”
She shudders at the contact. “Thank you,” she whispers and turns away to resume work.
Before we sit down to eat, I tuck Oliver in for the night. When I return, a rosy-cheeked Maisy and a margarita is waiting on me. Even without the alcohol in my system, I feel warm and uninhibited.
Dinner is languid. We discuss how we prefer our hard-boiled eggs. We express our fears of growing old. We recall our first day as high schoolers, the number of our locker and the code combination.
Slightly tipsy, we get up to dance. Maisy is bashful at first but reassured by my awkward dance moves, lets herself loose. We do some consensual rubbing and grinding, the air between us charged. I'm nosing at her neck as we rock side to side, her back to my front, when George Michel's Father Figure comes on shuffle. It's a song I haven't heard in a while, and the lyrics sober me.
I break into a nervous sweat. We separate, I grab my phone and skip the song.
"You good?" she asks, her skin glistening.
"Yeah, yeah. It's just—, it's getting late and I have a session early tomorrow."
"Yeah, of course, you're right," she mumbles, but her face falls in disappointment, making me feel like the worst possible human.
I stack and carry our plates to the sink. I grip onto the edge of the kitchen counter and close my eyes. I feel her lingering presence. I blow out the air in my lungs, open my eyes and face her.
She's leaning against the counter, mirroring me, one of her hands toying with the hem of her sundress. "Thank you for tonight. I had fun."
A smile breaks across my face. "I enjoyed myself too," I say quietly.
Her eyes sparkle at my words and she perks up. She licks her plump lips, her throat bobbing with a swallow. I trace the movement.
"I—, I really want to kiss you right now," she divulges.
Heat rushes down, and my dick hardens with desire in my jeans.
"Can I kiss you?"
When she is this polite, who am I to resist the temptation?
It's like I'm a hormonal teenage boy. Lust overrides my consciousness. But I can't even pretend I'm not in way over my head. So, I chose to ignore it all and just live in whatever moment is right in front of me. Apparently, that is the opportunity to be kissed by Maisy.
Surging forward, I bend to meet her waiting mouth in an urgent kiss.
She melts into the kiss after a lag of surprise, her hands floating up to settle on either side of my jaw. Her touch is still tentative, even after the multiple orgasms I've given her, she's still too self-conscious to fully let her desires control her.
There's a different energy to her when it comes to intimacy. In normal day-to-day situations, she's opinionated, sure of herself and her values, but in bedroom-type situations, she's timid, coy.
I find it extremely sweet.
I know it's partly because of her inexperience but I think she likes to hand over the control. And I'm okay bearing the responsibilities.
I don't care to be particularly composed as I dole out my affection, the twisting of our tongues messy and clumsy with how badly I want to put my mouth all over her. I comb my fingers through her silky hair as her tongue meets mine. My hands roam down her sides, then loop around her waist to press her back into the counter.
Trailing my mouth down, I smear my kisses over the curve of her chin, the line of her jaw, then all the way down the column of her throat. She shivers, her hands pushing up into my hair.
I bend at the knees slightly, my palms cupping the backs of her thighs. "Hop," I murmur and I hoist her onto the kitchen island. Our lips disconnect for just a split second before she's chasing after me, grasping me by the nape of my neck.
I pry myself between her legs, her dress riding up but still concealing her as my hips slot between her plush thighs.
The way she kisses is needy, careless, unfettered. It turns me even more feral.
One of my hands moves up to cup the side of her neck, the other holds her by the ribcage. She wraps her legs around my middle, and her ankles cross, making the bulge in my jeans press against the heat of her. We both gasp at the contact.
I pull kiss after kiss from her until we're breathless and clamouring.
When she breaks for air, I reach behind to untangle her ankles. She mewls in protest but I don't backtrack. I'm on a mission to finally lick into her.
Giving her a placating kiss, I drop to my knees in front of her, feeling my pulse thrumming as I gaze up at her from this new position. Her hair is frizzy from my fingers running through it, and her chest heaves as she catches her breath through kiss-swollen lips.
She tugs at my hair, looking at me questioningly, but I don't make any move to get up, I stay right where I am. "Don't worry, flower, I'll take care of you."
My hands smooth over the length of her thighs, the fabric of her dress catching on my wrists as it pools around her hips. I grip her by the hips and pull her towards me so that she sits on the edge of the countertop, and hike her legs over my shoulders.
She yelps, choking on air.
In this position, I'm face to face with her heat, covered by a pair of blush pink thongs. There's a big wet patch on the gusset. She's completely soaked through. My erection twitches painfully in my pants, but I show some restraint.
Planting my mouth in a suctioning kiss on the flesh of her inner thigh, I start a new expedition.
As I pluck my teeth against the soft skin goosebumps raise on her skin, and she cries out my name."Pedro, w-we can take this to my bedroom, an—" she rushes, breathless.
I shake my head before she can finish. "Quit it," I bark lowly, her scent drugging me. "We're going to stay right here, sweetheart."
I drag my lips over her thighs, never fully parting from the flesh before I press another languid kiss to her skin.
"Oh God, oh God," she whimpers between gasps.
The closer I get to the apex of her thighs, the more unreal her scent is. I want to bury myself in her.
So I do.
I nose at where her clit is nestled away out of my sight, and she lets out the most angelic cry.
My fingertips tease the waistband of her underwear. "How was that? Did you like it when I nudged your aching little clit, baby girl?" I probe, peering up at her. Her cheeks are red, and her brows glisten with sweat.
"Mhump," she purrs. "Do it again, please?"
I lower my head and inhale deeply, her intoxicating smell filling my lungs. In response, she crumbles; she falls back onto her forearm.
I hook my thumbs under the string on her hips. "I gotta taste you. Been thinking about it all week, pretty girl." I tell her, trying to tame the keen edge in my voice. "Will you let me?"
A look of hesitation flashes behind her eyes, and her legs tremble (and not in the uncontrollable, post-coital way I would prefer, but in a nervous tick). Noting her uneasy, I reign in my desperation.
"You're nervous," I state.
She chews on her bottom lip. "I am," she says meekly.
I drop back onto my heels, and run my hands up and down the length of her thighs comfortingly before pressing a tender kiss onto each of her kneecaps. "If you want to stop or this is something you're not ready for, tell me. But you don't have to be nervous with me."
"Yes, I know," she speaks in a hushed tone, pouting. "I think what's making me nervous is that I'd never let a man touch me down there before you, let alone put his mouth on me so intimately."
"I'm aware of that," I say, my thumbs kneading at her.
"When you kissed me there—, I–I was overpowered with a rush of butterflies. I didn't know how to behave myself, it scared me."
"But they were a good kind of butterflies, yes?" She nods. "Well, you can always just tug on my hair. If anything that lets me know you're enjoying what I'm doing. How about you do that when you feel those butterflies?" I offer, sponging kisses to her kneecap.
She rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. "Okay," she breathes softly.
"Now will you let me put my mouth on you?"
The slow but certain nod she gives is the permission I need before I'm finally shucking her underwear down her legs and unceremoniously stuffing them in my back pocket. A blissful sigh leaves me as I take in the glistening folds of the most beautiful cunt I've ever seen.
"Jesus, Maisy," I choke out in admiration. "How are you real? You're fucking stunning." There's a patch of downy hair above the cleft. Dark pinkish-purple folds gleam with her arousal. "God, you're fucking perfect."
"Thank you," she says softly.
Settling as comfortably as I can on my knees, I close that small, teasing distance, and plant my lips directly onto her clit. Her hips buck.
Another testing kiss and she stops breathing, her legs quaking around my head. I tsk. "Nah-ah. You need to spread your legs wider, sweetheart." I rasp and after a shuddering sigh, she obliges, parting those thick thighs even wider to give me access to the dark, wet heart of her.
I reward her with a long, slow swipe of my tongue across her leaking slit.
"Ohmygod," she slurs, thrusting her hips forward to chase after the sensation.
My lips lift in an impish smirk. She makes a keening noise, and the sound unlocks a deep well of joy inside me I'd never known existed.
Peering up at her, I push another budding kiss to her clit, this time watching the look on her face. Her eyes attempt to close, lashes kissing her cheekbones, with her mouth dropping into a small gape, and a pinch appearing between her brows.
After planting a slew of kisses on her clit, feeling her pulse jump against him, I slide my arms around to the backs of her thighs. My palms cuff the soft skin, fingertips denting into the gentle curve as I push her towards my face, angling her hips just so.
The scent of her lures me in and I scarcely hear her say my name as I move forward. I bend my head and feast from her. My tongue dips into the heart of her, tasting the wet as it oozes from within her, and my lips seal around her clit to suck, suck, suck until her legs tremble and she has to grip the edge of the countertop to cope.
I give her no mercy, and she doesn't ask me for any. She surrenders to my savage intentions so sweetly, it lights me on fire.
Clutching the dense swell of her ass in my hands, I haul her closer to my mouth.
The flat of my tongue slides through her slit over and over, collecting her wetness and revelling in the heady taste that was her before swallowing. I can feel her toes curl behind my back, her heels pressing into my spine to urge me into giving more. I smile around my ministrations as I zigzag my tongue over her pussy before turning my focus back on her clit.
Kissing at the bud, I speak as best I can without lifting my mouth from her.
"Y'taste so good, flower."
Her hands find my head, the tips of her fingers winding through my hair. "You—you're incredible. This—oh, God—is incredible."
Spurred on by her stuttered praise, I surge forward, replacing my lips with my tongue now laving over her clit. It's swollen between my lips as I give placating sucks to the bud, drawing the softest mewls from Maisy.
Diving down from her clit, I follow the split of her spread folds until I'm tonguing at her opening. Her wetness has spread to the inside of her thighs, my cheeks, and now the tip of my nose as I wag the flat of my tongue over her arousal-coated folds.
I jut my chin against her and thrust my tongue straight inside her pussy. She moans up to the ceiling. Her fluttering walls clench around me, welcoming me in.
I wriggle my tongue inside her, tracing along the ridges and curves. Her hands in my hair come alive then, tugging at the roots. Drilling my tongue inside her, I draw her higher and higher until her whimpers and gasps are obscenely lewd.
My cheeks are squished by her warm thighs, chin soaked in her slick and nose mushed against her clit.
I could do this all night, but I have a feeling Maisy's expiration is coming soon.
The telltale sign comes in the scrunch of her nose and her fluttering eyes.
"Gonna cum for me, baby girl?" I mouth against her clit, feeling her muscles bunch at the feeling of my voice vibrating around her.
A small whine crawls its way out of her throat as she nods, her mouth in nothing more than a gape.
"Want you to cum on my face," I croon, "Let me have it, sweetheart."
All it takes is a lingering suck of her clit before she's crumbling above me. My name leaves her mouth as if in prayer. Her back arches from the counter, pushing her hips that much closer to my face. Twitching with each pulsation that grips her, she holds me trapped against her, tossing her head in the throes of ecstasy.
I don't stop, feeling her clit pulsing between my lips. A cry dies in her throat when I move one hand from her ass to between her thighs to join my tongue inside her.
I drive a finger inside her snug cunt while sucking her clit between my lips. Her hands in my hair are shocked into a tight, unwavering grip, and heels dig into my back.
"Again," I demand against the inside of her thigh before curling another finger into that tight heat and flicking her swollen, throbbing clit with my tongue. "Give me one more."
She cries out then, louder and louder.
This time, when she orgasms, I fuck her even harder through it, fingers pressing into the front wall of her pussy, punishing a soft spot that makes her wail and ride my face without one iota of shame.
And if I don't I almost cream myself.
I carry her away for several long minutes, lapping her slower and slower until she grows too sensitive.
When she climbs down from her high, I'm still kissing her sloppy, swollen folds.
"Too much, too much," she whimpers, pushing my face away from her.
Drawing away, I look up at her. A slow, private smile spreads across her face. My heart gives a warm thump. Seeing her unwound for me...
Hell. I could easily get used to this. But it was only sex... right? Two consenting adults enjoying each other's bodies.
Easing her thighs from my shoulder, I move up her body to kiss those sweet lips. "You did good, so good, baby girl."
I fix her dress despite there being no reason to hide after what we just did, smoothing the fabric over her hips in a grounding touch. Wrapping an arm around her waist, I start her towards her bedroom.
"Let's get you cleaned up."
With her eyes hooded and movements lethargic, I guide her upstairs. Flicking on the light in her room, I deposite her on the edge of her bed. I watch with an affectionate smile as she flops back into the mattress, arms falling above her head as she stretches out.
I leave her to her quiet soothing and step into her bathroom.
Just as I thought, my cock is still impossibly hard in my pants, hiding a drenched spot on the front of my briefs where I've been leaking blurts of precum while tasting the very same girl who nannies my son and is the daughter of my coach.
I adjust myself and rid of the thought.
I find a small cloth under the sink cabinet, wet it and walk back to her. Her eyes open lazily, and her cherry lips slit into a small, intimate smile. Her feet dangle from the edge of the bed, and I kneel.
"Is it alright if I push up your dress again, sweetheart?" I ask, voice a low croon in the quiet of her bedroom. "Just gonna clean you."
"Okay," she mumbles, lifting her hips some as I push up the hem.
She wordlessly spreads her thighs and I make quick work of wiping up her arousal that dripped to the inside of her thighs. When I touch her clit, hoping it would be so fast she wouldn't notice, I earn a small hiss, her legs recoiling to close around my hand.
"Too much," she reminds me, a pout evident in her voice.
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," I murmur, compounding my words with a kiss to the cuff of her knee.
A strong urge to take proper care of her grips me. I do the whole boyfriend experience; I get her a clean pair of underwear—a quick rummage around her underwear drawer reveals a lacy black thong that I make her wear—, and her sleep shirt from under her pillow, even going as far as draping the duvet over her and pressing a kiss into her hairline, which is beyond overkill.
I close the door behind me and the realization clangs through me; I'm catching feelings.
Maisy
I wake in the middle of the night, totally placated.
I get up to use the bathroom, and as I sit on the toilet, flashes of Pedro between my thighs sizzle across my mind.
My cheeks and neck flame up at the memory of what he'd done.
There was no hesitancy, no politeness in the way he kissed, licked, sucked. I felt totally out of control, and what's more, I wanted to be out of control.
And when he added his fingers... my mind felt like it went straight through a shredder and into a kaleidoscope.
When I came two consecutive times, I was left floating, drifting in a current of Pedro. He was still licking me, except more slowly, as if with no purpose but to savour me.
And then he rose over me, and kissed me, unconcerned with where his mouth had been just seconds earlier. I dimly wondered in that moment if I should be put off by that, but I was still violently twitching with pleasure, contracting with aftershocks that I couldn't make myself care.
He then proceeded to support me up the stairs, took care of my mess and dressed me for bed. I was half-asleep when he kissed my hairline, and I remember sinking into a sense of security that my brain linked to Pedro.
Pedro is big into aftercare.; without fail, he always makes sure I'm comfortable after we've been intimate, but last night felt significant, especially since he went down on me for the first time and I was in such a woundable state. He might consider aftercare as part of our arrangement, but thinking about it, I get a high emotional charge.
I know that he isn't playing any mind games on me because he's equally considerate and kind to me when we aren't making out, but still, I can't help but wonder how he would treat me if I were his—his girl, for real.
At the thought of there being an us, an emergency alarm goes off in my brain. I'm getting way ahead of myself. I'm starting to think our deal could turn into something more which is stupid and foolish and just all around messy what with our age gap and his close relationship to my dad.
I flush, and wash my hands.
Staring into my reflection, my inner voice asks, I won't be able to be remotely normal about Pedro and our arrangement going forward, will I?
"No, I definitely won’t, " I speak aloud.
I climb back into my bed and make myself as small as possible under the covers.
uppercut - ten
summary: Pedro makes Maisy come for the first time
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, kissing and making out, fingering, the soft!dom is soft!doming, Pedro is extremely sweet and considerate, use of pet names (sweetheart, flower, sweet girl, babygirl(!!)), fem!mc is inexperienced, bashful and insecure, mention of body hairs, mention of blood
wc: 7.5k
series masterlist here
a/n: i tried my best with this one, be gentle with me. happy reading angels!
Maisy
It's been four days since we gave in to the temptation, and our friendship hasn't changed too much from how it was before. Only now, we make out on the couch every night.
He's the one to initiate each time, after noting my gaze dropping to his lips every ten seconds while we eat dinner and discuss our days. He seems completely unbothered by my wandering eyes, and he doesn't make me feel bad about my curiosity. He welcomes it.
We're eating dinner after a sweaty session in his home gym, where he gave me a lesson on fighting sequences.
I'm trying my hardest not to jump him, or gape at the tendons flex and contract in his forearms every time he makes the slightest movement.
Oh God, I hope I'm not drooling.
I'm really hoping I'm not reading into it, but while he demonstrated and corrected my form, I felt like I was being burned alive, in a good way. Every time he touched me to adjust my elbow or fist, a charge of electricity leaped from him to me. And the way he closed his eyes and inhaled me when he had his arms wrapped around me as he gave instructions, I think he felt it too.
Post-workout, I can't sit still at the table, his intense eyes on me igniting a heat swirling low in my belly.
I tell my mind to disassociate these physiological reactions from Pedro. He has absolutely nothing to do with me being...well, turned on. It's plain old biology. Pheromones and hormones, and not Pedro's aura or handsomeness.
No, definitely not the latter. I refuse to credit Pedro for making me feel fuzzy.
This arrangement we have going on needs to be strictly for educational purposes, no emotions involved.
Following dinner, he loads the dishwasher and does a routine wipe-down of the countertops. I stand from my spot at the table to grab a glass. The shelf at eye level is empty, and all the available cups are up high, almost out of my reach.
Lifting on my tiptoes, I stretch as tall as I can. My fingers only graze the bottom of the shelf so I use my other hand to push myself off the counter when a vein-corded arm reaches over me.
"I've got it," Pedro says, taking the glass and setting it on the countertop.
Dropping back on my toes, my back moulds to his chiselled front. My breath catches, hyperaware of our proximity. "Thanks," I say somehow.
"Mm-hmm," he hums, his chest rumbling against me.
He steps back, taking his warmth. I turn, and without consciously deciding to do so, I grasp the hem of his crisp white t-shirt. I blurt the words before I lose the nerve. "Did you—do you want to make out?"
I go red at my bluntness.
A slow, lopsided smirk lifts on his lips. "As in, you want another session?" he teases.
His tactic—his half-hearted, his unseriousness—melts a portion of my anxiety away.
Our arrangement has no impact on our friendship. It's all pretend and fun. No stakes, just making out.
I nod.
He beckons me over with a jerk of his head, "Then come here and let me kiss you, sweetheart."
I step forward, closing the space between us. He bends, cradles my jaw and connects our lips in a savouring kiss. I wrap my hands around his wrists which are angling my face, lost to the sensation.
His tongue sweeps across my bottom lip, asking for passage. I part for him, and he licks into my mouth experimentally at first, then demanding. He assaults my lips like a starved man, licking, sucking, nibbling.
Standing in his kitchen, in his big, strong arms, I feel like floating.
I whimper when he kisses me with a sweet pull. He smirks against me. "Taste so fucking good," he husks.
Without breaking our kiss, he steers us over to the living room, where he promptly pulls me over him so that my thighs are on either side of his hips.
Kissing him feels like walking out of the shade and into the sunlight, that warm full-body bliss.
He cups either side of my hips, while I grab onto his wide-set shoulders.
He testingly strokes his thumb across my hipbone. My body's inclination is to rock into him. He groans. It's quiet, but the noise vibrates through me like a spell.
He slides one hand under my shirt then, his hand warm on my back. Heat pools inside me, rapid and overwhelming.
"Pedro," I pant into our kiss.
"Is this okay for me to do?" he seeks, his palm settling for a moment as he waits for my approval.
My stomach swoops at the consideration.
My head bobs in a nod eagerly.
His hand under my shirt slides up. He sucks on my bottom lip then turns his attention to my jaw and neck.
I squeeze him with my thighs, my nails digging into his back when he traces the underwire of my bra with his thumb. My back arches and I gasp.
"I love how responsive you are," he drawls between two kisses.
He strokes me once again, his thumb caressing the supple skin of my ribcage and I go goosebumply there. He chuckles, his lips hovering over my pulse for a split second before he stamps the spot with a hard kiss.
"Your smell is driving me crazy," he says, his voice rough, strained and impossibly raspy.
Desire rushes through me.
He continues his ministrations and it all feels really, really good. I bite my lip and clench his bulging biceps in my fists—or as much of him as I can fit into my hands.
He steadily works his way back to my mouth, leaving a trail of hot and frenzied kisses in his wake. "How was that?" he asks teasingly.
"Really fucking great," I slur, my brain foggy and drugged on want.
Taking my bottom lip between his teeth, he kisses me until I'm senseless.
It's easy to get lost in his kisses. Tongues exploring, nibbles on top lips, the sucking in of lower. His hands roam—in my hair, skimming along my spine, winding me tighter and tighter and tighter.
When he turns his focus to the hinge of my jaw and that soft spot just behind my ear to let me catch my breath, I lift towards him like a charmed snake, and he grips the backs of my thighs, squeezing me. I sigh into his mouth then and he moans. And if that isn't the most feral I've heard him.
He bites my earlobe just hard enough to send a shock straight to my core.
I'm slowly losing my ability to control myself and that's when he decides to move away from my mouth once again and give the exposed skin of my collarbones some attention.
His stubble tickles me as he sponges kiss after kiss onto my décolletage. A legion of butterflies takes flight in my stomach and I tug on a clump of his hair.
"Easy, babygirl," he warns when my fingernails dip into the nape of his neck at his ministrations.
The rich, husky timbre of his voice sends a thrill down my spine and I feel a strange tremor in my belly.
"Sorry," I meek, reeling. "You just make me feel really good."
He pulls back slightly, an amused smirk arched across his perfect lips. "That's good," he drawls, "You make me feel really good too, sweetheart."
I feel myself preen. "I do?"
Finding my hand, he guides my palm down to where his thick, solid erection strains against the zipper of his jeans.
"Think that answers your question," he says lowly.
I can't help but wrap around it and Pedro groans and flexes into my touch. His eyelids drift closed. "This okay?"
"Yeah," he hisses, "You're good."
He is turned on.
Because of me.
The power of that truth fills me with a wave of newfound confidence.
He leans back against the backboard, his hands mounting my denim-clad legs before settling on either side of my hips, holding me in place.
I put my hands on his torso and catalogue his facial features: his plush, pinkish lips, his prominent nose, the crinkles around his bottomless eyes, his patchy beard and his well-manicured moustache.
The longer my eyes stay on him, the more severely my my core throbs.
"I was never really into facial hair," I mumble, thumbing the corner of his mouth, "but I guess I dig your pornstache."
"My what?" He barks a laugh, his hands on my hips squeezing me.
"Alright. What would you call it then?" I quiz, wrapping my arms around his neck.
He doesn't answer, instead simply connects our lips in a sloppy kiss. "You're sweet," he murmurs into my mouth, "So unfairly sweet."
He swallows my giggle.
Our kissing grows heated again.
When I go in for the kiss, I initiate a new rhythm—something deeper and more exploring.
Emboldened, I slide my arms all the way up around his neck so my chest presses to his. I want, need to get closer. My consciousness is slowly swirling away from me as I lose myself to this kiss, and I hold onto him for dear life.
His hands roam down over my thighs and around to my backside, where he cups my butt and pulls me up to him. I gasp and he catches it in his mouth. A thread snaps and we're lost.
Pedro holds me tight and flips us so he's hovering over me and I'm lying flat on the couch. My pulse is in my ears, heat is flooding every corner of my body as his kisses extend to any part of exposed skin he can find: my neck, my collarbones, the small section of skin on my abdomen where my top has ridden up.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to regulate my excitement but I'm too terrified and thrilled. Screw that, I'm embarrassingly needy.
After some time, he climbs my body so that we're face-to-face. He stares down at me, an unruly lock of hair falling over his brow, the black centres of his eyes growing. "Beautiful," he coos and then his head lowers and swiftly takes my mouth for a kiss so demanding, so fevered that my toes curl.
His tongue parts my lips and glides over mine until I'm consumed by him, and everything I knew about myself vanishes and begins redrawing new lines. I want more. Everything.
"Can we try something new tonight?" I ask, breathless.
He pulls away, and our lips peel slowly like they don't want to let go. "What did you have in mind?"
"I—I want your touch," I blurt.
He chuckles. "I am touching you, sweet girl. Is that not enough?" He presses up onto his hands, studying me curiously.
I shake my head. "No, I want more of you," I confess. "I want to do more than just kissing."
A hazy smile tugs at the corner of his lips at my words and he looks at me directly, his eyes so intense that I avert my gaze.
He tuts, "No, no. Don't go shy now, sweetheart." Gently, he angles my face, encouraging eye contact. "What did you have in mind?"
"I just want your hands," I bubble, "On me."
His expression melts. "You need to be a bit more specific than that, babygirl. Don't want to assume anything." He puts his weight on his right arm, supporting himself over me and offers his left hand. "Show me."
Heat floods my face. I blink up at him and then at his hand. "I—I don't know what I'm supposed to do," I whisper, my chest stuttering with a shallow breath.
"It's okay, sweetheart, it's just me. This is safe. All you've got to do is show me where you want me," he encourages, proffering his hand to place over my body in the game he initiated.
My heart thrashes in my chest as I take his hand and place it over my jean-clad modesty. "Here. I want your touch here."
I watch his throat bob with a thick swallow as he peers down between our bodies. He applies some pressure to where his hand is cupping me and my stomach bunches. "Here?" he asks in a strained, almost pained voice.
I hum, too self-conscious to speak.
"We should take this upstairs," he rasps, his eyes finding mine. There's something ravenous in the way he's looking at me.
I nod, my limbs tingling.
He crawls off me and helps me to my feet.
Interlocking our fingers, he pulls me towards the stairs.
He leads the way, his broad back to me as he holds my trembling hand in his warm, calloused palm. Observing the world-weary slope of his shoulders, I feel heat pooling in my lower belly.
His grasp on me is gentle yet firm, reassuring. He always handles me with the uttermost care yet he could crush someone's skull with his bare hands.
This duality both mystifies and differentiates him from any men I've ever known—which is not many men, but still. Even with my limited experience, I can tell he's a special kind of man, what with his buff-teddy bear quality. He has perfected the balance between I-will-knock-you-flat-if-you-try-to-cross-me, but my-hands-can-be-oh-so-tender-on-your-body.
He's simultaneously stern and tender. And oh my, does that make me throb with want.
When we get to the top of the stairs, he does the unexpected and tugs me in the direction of his bedroom.
He doesn't preamble. As soon as the door clicks shut behind us, he kisses me square on the mouth just once and orders in a low, seductive voice, "Lay up on the bed for me."
On wobbly legs, I make my way to his bed. It's a minimalistic frame with a cushioned headboard upholstered in deep brown leather. His sheets are half-heartedly made, a cover thrown over them and some additional pillows in simple white cases.
As I sit, I note that his mattress is buttery soft.
Prompted by his X-ray eyes, I find him gazing at me with a private smile. He stands against a dresser, a few feet away. I realise he's doing so not to overcrowd me. He somehow knows just how new and overwhelming all this is for me.
I try to temper my blushiness by taking in his outfit. He's wearing a ratty seventies band t-shirt tucked into the waistband of a pair of extremely flattering rinse-washed jeans.
"Move further up, sweetheart," he says softly then, interrupting my ogling. I hear the clink of his gold signet ring—a new addition to his accessories—as he removes it.
I scoot backwards until my back rests against the headboard of the bed, surrounded by his throw pillows.
As I breathe in, his quintessentially woody and musky smell fills my lungs. His pheromones are like pressurized in here.
The image of him shirtless spritzing on cologne pops into my head and I clear my throat, sending it away.
Pedro pushes off the dresser and stalks towards me and I think I might combust.
He stops at the foot of the bed. I get on my knees and shuffle closer.
On a streak of bravery, I clutch his hands in mine. He shoots me a quizzical look but I dismiss him and instead open his hands up, palm facing me. Three small callus decorate the space beneath his middle, ring, and pinky fingers. I trace my fingertips over the hard patches of skin. Like the rest of him, his hands are beautiful works of art with long fingers and strong veins on their backs.
I get a completely unsound urge to sink my teeth into the flesh where he has a doodle tattoo between his thumb and forefinger.
"What?" he takes one of his hands from me and hooks his forefinger under my chin.
"I just embarrassed myself with my own thoughts," I say, stifling a laugh. "And for the love of God, don't make me say it."
He squints at me then says, "Okay. You can keep all your inside thoughts to yourself, I guess." He uses his hand on my chin to angle my face so that he can slat his lips over mine.
I drop his other hand and allow mines to explore his arms and chest. My hands drift down his shoulders, smooth over his pectorals and finally end on his abs. His shirt is between us but as I run my fingers through the hard ridges there, he responds to my touch.
He breaks our kiss then and without ceremony, he reaches for the collar of his t-shirt and tugs it off. As he draws it over his head, the muscles pull taunt along his chest and stomach in the process.
My mouth goes dry at the sight of his naked torso. He looks like a Greek god came down from Mount Olympus.
"What's that look?" he teases, the start of a smile tugging at his lips.
He's towering over me, his smooth, freckled chest moving with laboured breaths.
"You're just—," I shake my head, searching for any word that could possibly encompass what I'm feeling. "So big and broad. And devastatingly handsome."
His chest lifts with a light chuckle, almost like he doesn't believe me. "You're boosting my ego, pretty girl."
"I mean it," I say earnestly and I think he blushes.
"Thank you," he mumbles softly, kissing me on the mouth.
I've obviously seen his bare upper body but it was always while he was in the ring and I in the bleachers, and not up close and personal like now. He has a muscular lithe body that I can reach out and touch.
"You know, you can touch me all you want," he prompts, and I wonder if he knew that I was having the same thoughts just now.
Desire pulls the strings on my fingers and raises them to the sides of his abdomen with the lightest pressure, but I still feel his ribs expand under my hand. He holds absolutely still. I'm trembling and nervous as I slide my palms up farther, following the trail my eyes and fingers paved a moment ago. I've never felt anything quite like his warm skin before.
"There you are, babygirl. It's okay. I'm all yours." His voice, raw with longing and restraint, excites parts of me I didn't know existed.
Before I lose the nerve, I crane my neck and press my lips to his. It's intimate and loaded. The moment we connect, I am lost to the darkness behind my eyelids and the desire pooling in my body. His lips are warm and soft. He doesn't assert himself, only responds to my soft kisses, letting me set the pace.
I have never felt more alive as Pedro holds me and kisses me, breathing deeply from time to time like he loves the way I smell.
After some time, his hands start to rove over my body. He gently lays me down, and he drops down onto his forearms, his weight suspended over me. His prominent nose urges my chin up and he sucks the skin of my neck between his teeth.
I keep my hands where it's familiar. I claw at his shoulders and fist the tufts of hair at the nape of his neck.
He moves one of his hands to grip a fistful of my thigh before he hooks his finger under my knee and hitches my leg over his thigh so that the cradle of our hips align. We both gasp.
We kiss some more before he draws back to look at me. "Is it okay if we take your top off?" he rasps, seeking eye contact.
In this space he's created for me, for us, an oasis of safety, I find myself nodding.
He gives me the most tender forehead kiss. "Thank you," he whispers against my skin.
With my blood pulsating in my ears, I prop myself up onto my elbows and he starts to peel my top off. As the air licks my newly exposed skin, my stomach hollows. We awkwardly manage to slip the clothing off and he tosses it behind us.
He sits back on his heels, his eyes falling to my chest. I'm covered in a mundane nude-colored bra that I was convinced he wouldn't see tonight. Aware of his intense eyes on me, I splay a hand across my chest, trying to hide.
"No, don't cover up, sweetheart," he coos, running his enormous hand comfortingly over the length of my outer thighs, his calluoses catching on the rough fabric of my denim jeans.
His eyes flicker over me and his pupils darken, overgrowing his rich brown irises to near obsidian. "You're eternally beautiful and should never ever feel the urge to hide," he whispers.
I force myself to meet his gaze and find sincerity there.
He gently pries my hand away, entwining our fingers. He then brings our cojoined hands to his lips and kisses each of my fingertips so tenderly my heart skips a beat. His eyes hold mines captive as he adds, "I'm serious. You're otherworldly."
I turn to putty.
"Can I touch you?"
"Y-yes," I stammer.
He places my hand beside me on the bed, his move to frame my ribcage. His thumb runs along the underwire of the bra and I shiver pleasantly, a small sigh leaving me.
He smiles, both sweet and wicked, cups me, and drags his thumb experimentally over the fabric covering my nipple.
The sensation makes me slack-jawed.
He does the same to my other nipple, then traces teasingly the seams of the bra cups, gauging my every reaction. When his touch gets to the straps, I flinch because I've read enough books to know that the next move is going to be my bra coming off and I don't think I want him to, not yet anyway.
I'm not ready to let him see all of me. No one has ever seen all of me.
My breath catches in my throat and panic courses through my veins.
"Hey, hey, easy," he croons when I stiffen. "Do you want me to get your top so you can be comfortable again?" he asks, his brows knitting with concern.
"N-no, it's okay," I say after I find my voice. "Just—I'm not ready for you to see me naked. Not now."
He nods, his expression softening with understanding. "I—I wasn't going to do anything you wasn't consenting to."
"I know," I tell him, "I just panicked. I'm sorry for confusing you."
He winces. "Please don't apologize for setting boundaries," he says all serious, thumbing my chin. "Will you promise me you will tell me to stop when it gets too much or you simply change your mind?"
I nod my head.
"Tell me," he urges, his pleading eyes boring into me.
"I promise."
"Do you want to continue?"
With the alacrity of a bird seeing its cage door swing open, I hesitate for a whole half-second before I bubble, "Yes."
I cup the back of his neck, and guide his mouth to mine.
He eases me back into it, kissing me unhurriedly. Only when I lose myself in his kisses, does he start to rove his hands again.
I explore him too. I reach up and feel along the muscles of his rock-hard arms, his broad shoulders, his taut back.
Before long, he makes a detour for my ear, neck, shoulder, marking his territory with open-mouthed kisses that leave me gasping. He moves further down my body, trailing kisses down my abdomen, his stubble sensually scratching my skin. I squirm and he smirks.
I choke on a breath when he unbuttons my jeans. He intently watches my face for any signal of protest as he reaches for the zipper, and slowly starts undoing it. I can only hear the hammering of my heartbeat in my ears.
He then stands from the bed, grabs my ankles and says in a deep, rumbly voice, "Lift your hips, babygirl."
I lift off the mattress and he works my jeans off.
As he takes a second to take me in, covered in only my underwear, I pray that my pubic hair doesn't puff out the thong I have on.
Pedro's nose flares at the sight of me scantily-clad before him.
"I didn't... I wasn't sure if I was supposed to like... shave or something," I blurt, blood colouring my cheeks bright red the longer he stares between my legs. "I can jump in the shower and—"
"Stop," he tells me, catching my knees before they can meet in the middle. He pulls his gaze up to meet mine. "You're perfect the way you are," he cements.
I'm not allowed the opportunity to refute that claim, because his attention is back between my legs, and his hand starts moving.
He rubs circles with his thumb, coaxing my legs apart. Timidly, I spread them inch by inch.
His hand slowly trails toward the apex of my thighs. The rough pads of his fingertips glide tenderly along my inner thigh, the skin so beyond sensitive I can't do anything but let out a soundless whimper. It is unmarked skin, never touched by anyone and his to claim.
His tongue peeks out, wetting his bottom lip, and his eyes hold mine as he dares to go even higher.
His light caress turns me into a puddle and before I know, he's cupping me through the soaked material of my thong.
Gentle at first, and then firmer, the whole heat of his palm covering me and my breath hitches in my throat.
"Fuck, you are wet," he husks, gliding his fingers between my clothed folds as my hips buck involuntarily. "Dripping for me."
My fingers twist in the sheets and my core throbs.
"I need to know, have you ever touched yourself?" he asks, the heel of his palm rubbing against me lightly as he slips his middle finger a little deeper between my folds.
Hot shame burns my face as I admit, "No, not really. I mean I tried but could never figure it out." I watch his face mould with confusion and astonishment. "I know," I say, "It's embarrassing."
He removes his hand, climbs over me on all fours. "Hey," he coos, tilting my chin with his knuckle. "Look at me for a second," he pleads and waits patiently until I grant him my attention. "Why would you say that?" he asks, brows bending together as he searches my gaze.
"Because I'm twenty-one and I haven't gotten myself off, not to mention had sex," I answer bluntly.
He shakes his head, "It's not something to be embarrassed about."
"Well, it feels like it."
"It's not," he reiterates, one of his hands cradling my jaw. "And I need you to understand that there's nothing wrong with the fact you hadn't touched yourself, okay?"
I swallow against the vitality of his concern. I think I nod.
His head dips, and his forehead comes to rest on mine, our noses tip to tip. A moment passes. "We don't have to—,"
"I want to. I said I did."
"It doesn't matter, what you said. You can always change your mind."
I look up at him, determined. "I want to keep going. I want you to touch me."
"Okay," he breathes, crawling off me.
He scoots until his back meets the headboard of his bed. I sit up, sending him a questioning look. He opens his legs and holds his hands out, motioning me forward. I slide between his legs, my back resting against his warm chest.
"I thought this way you wouldn't be that self-conscious," he explains.
His jean-clad legs cage me in as I relax into the warm and solid cradle of his body.
His hands frame my ribcage, and he strokes the sensitive skin there. "What will you do if it becomes too much or you change your mind?" he asks, his teeth grazing my ear.
"I'll tell you," I breathe shallowly.
"Good girl," he praises and bites my earlobe teasingly.
A whimper slips me, and I feel his devilish smile against the column of my throat, his scruff tickling me. "You like that, don't you?" he drawls.
My head rattles in a nod, my body growing hot as his hands move lower and lower, kneading me lovingly before they reach my underwear.
My breath dies in my throat, and he sponges my pulse point with an open-mouthed kiss. Craning his neck, he leans over me. He strokes the junction of my hip and pubic bone in a featherlight sweep, and we both track the movement.
He taps the mound of my pubic bone. "Can I touch you here now?" he asks in a hoarse voice.
"Y-yes," I stammer as my heart kicks into high gear once again.
I hold my breath as he slides his hand underneath the fabric of my underwear. His thumb flicks over my aching clit just one time and he glides his pointer and middle fingers between my folds, parting them and gliding back and forth.
I heave a breathless sigh, my body melting into his back.
"Fuck, sweetheart... you're soaking wet, is this all for me?"
I nod my head with clumsy jerks.
He thumbs me again, a silent praise, and my eyes go half-mast.
My legs splay for him and he keeps caressing my slick lips, purposefully avoiding the aching little bundle of nerves at the top and everything goes taut and scolding hot in my tummy. "Pedro," I whimper, gnawing on my bottom lip. "Please, please—,"
I'm not sure what I want him to do, I just know I need more of him and his hand.
"I know, I know," he hushes me. "I'm right here. I'll take care of you, sweet girl. Make that ache go away," he croons, peppering kisses along the side of my throat.
Fulfilling his promise, he begins to circle his thumb over the pearl of my clit in the confined space of my underwear.
He is firm. My hips buck and my hand shoots out and grabs a hold of his rigid-veined forearm.
A keening moan falls from my lips as he dances his fingers closer to my centre, his calloused thumb flicking expertly past my clit. "That's right, let me hear you make all those little noises," he encourages.
I feel like I no longer have control over my body.
"So wet for me," he murmurs lowly, sliding his fingers until they're on either side of my clit. My whole body jerks as he squeezes it lightly. I moan, so he does it again, harder.
I let loose a warped whimper as he dips his fingers down to my slick entrance and as the first jolt of an unfamiliar pleasure zips up my spine, I frantically fist the sheets into my hands. "Pedro—, I—,"
"It's okay, babygirl," he coos, and strokes his fingers over my opening once more, revelling in every flutter of my walls, before grazing his two fingers over the edges of my folds.
Just like with everything bedroom-related, he takes his time easing me into it. His fingers just barely delve into my wetness before he withdraws. He's letting me familiarize myself with the feel of him touching me there.
After a few rounds of him teasing entry before moving away again, he checks in with me. We're both breathing hard, our chests expanding and falling together. "Still with me?"
I hum, my body lax, my brain fogged. "This—, you—, please."
His middle finger prods at my opening and I buck. Experimentally, he applies a light pressure right against the rim, and I mewl.
His hand that's not palming me settles on my hip, grounding me. "Settle, sweetheart," he husks, his fingers retracting.
Is he edging me? I faintly wonder, despite having zero clue what edging is supposed to feel like.
"Tell me, angel, am I making you feel good?" he rasps, nosing my neck.
Heat, the one curling tight at the bottom of my stomach, threatens to spill over.
My head lolls back onto his shoulder as he plays with the pearl of my clit in dizzying circles, the cotton of my underwear hugging his hand to my body.
I can only manage to mewl an affirmative.
He edges his fingers down my folds again, his palm pressing to my clit as he uses the pad of his middle finger to tap at my fluttery opening, fitting just the very tip inside for a breath before pulling away and instead tracing over the hole.
A choked call of his name makes its way out of my mouth.
"Take a breath for me," he says, and in the next moment, he pushes in.
I hiss at the intrusion. The first knuckle is just shy of too much, a pinching ache and the sensation of damp, uncomfortable fullness. It reminds me of that time I wanted to remove a tampon that didn't soak up enough moisture. I cringe.
"Shit," Pedro curses, "Sorry, I know it must be uncomfortable. Try to relax your body."
I tell myself to unclench my pelvic floor muscles, even though I have no mind-to-muscle connection.
I shift on my bottom, trying to adjust and make room, and then shift some more, until Pedro pins me down with free his hand on my hip to keep me still. "Breathe," he soothes, scissoring and rubbing my clit, if I have to guess, to keep my mind off the burning stretch. "Nice, slow breaths."
I take a couple of deep breaths but it still feels uncomfortable. Wincing, I throw my head back, knocking against his shoulder.
"This is safe, you're safe. You can relax. It's just you and me," he murmurs, nuzzling my face with his stubbled cheek. He pinches my clit and says, "Let me in, babygirl."
His words... they do something to me.
Like a flower blossoming in the sunlight, my walls open.
He prods at my entrance, and this time his finger sinks like a rock into water, smooth and without obstacle, and my walls clamp on it as if to hold him inside.
My mouth gapes in a soundless moan.
"There we are. Being such a good girl for me," he drawls.
For a moment, he lets me adjust to the size of his finger, and with each of my breaths, the stretch gets less and less painful.
He testingly curves his finger, making me lift off the bed.
He then hooks his finger inside me, pressing against the roof of my channel, and a new, overwhelming kind of pleasure wells in me.
I clutch his forearm, my nails digging into his flesh.
"There? Is that a good spot?" he speaks against my ear, his voice deep, raspy and hoarse.
The heel of his hand press against my clit and he rubs it in time with his finger working inside me. His playing draws a stuttered gasp of his name from my lips.
He coos sweet nothings while increasing speed. He wiggles, crooks and curves his finger, almost like he's searching for something.
My dizziness spills into my stomach and turns into butterflies. Something is happening right now. My thoughts run to play catch-up now that all sense of self-consciousness is melting away.
"Something," I sigh, breathless, "Something feels funny."
"That's good, sweetheart. Don't be alarmed. That coil building in your tummy means you're getting close."
He keeps pumping in and out of me and rubbing his thumb over my beyond-sensitive clit.
"I've got you. It's okay, you can fall apart, I'll be there to take care of you. Come on, pretty girl, cum for me."
A surge of overwhelming pleasure roars through my veins. Reaching back, I hook my palm around the base of his neck and cry out his name.
"You can do it, I can feel you, you're so close," he encourages, and his words carry me over to the edge, threatening to send me toppling. "Come on my hand."
He drives his words home with a squeeze to the pearl of my clit and does something absolutely devastating to that soft-giving spot that I could never quite reach with my own finger and with that I'm freefalling. My orgasm crashes over me like a tsunami; wave after wave of all-consuming pleasure as I gush around his fingers.
My walls continue to pulse around his finger, and he doesn't remove his touch, giving me something to bear down on.
I faintly hear myself say his name like a prayer, over and over.
"There you go. That's a good girl," he rasps as my walls flutter around his fingers. "Ride it out."
His fingers keep stroking through my folds, working me through the high, waiting for the spasming to stop. "Did so well, sweetheart," he hums, ministrating little nibs to the supple skin of my exposed neck. "Were such a good girl for me."
If he keeps calling me his good girl—especially in that bourbon-baked voice—, I'm afraid I'll develop a praise kink.
Still reeling from my first-ever orgasm, I slump into the cradle of his body. My brain is slowly catching up with my body and I crimson, slightly embarrassed by how many times I've said his name and how loud.
The violent waves slowly ebb and I close my eyes, my head falling back into the crook of his neck with a dreamy exhale.
He smells like an afternoon spent with old books stacked on wooden shelves as icy rain cracks against the window, with hints of spicy pine and a fireplace that roars with hot flames and flickering coals. It's heady and decadent, steady and dark. I wish I could drown myself in a bottle of his cologne.
I turn my head, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. "I feel so... floaty," I slur.
Pedro's chest lifts with a light chuckle, "I bet you do with how hard you came."
He pulls his hand out from the confines of my underwear, and I feel hollow at the loss.
When it registers that my slick coating his fingers has a tinge of red, my eyes widen.
"Oh, God," I panic, "I bled on you." I look around frantically for something to clean up the mess I've made. "Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God."
"Maisy," he says, sounding totally unbothered.
Confused, I turn in his arms to find him completely unfazed.
"It's okay. It happens. It's natural," he tells me slowly, calmly. "It's nothing to worry about."
"But you must be so grossed out," I argue, my eyes flitting around him.
When my eyes fleetingly meet his, he pins me with a look. His clean hand cups the side of my neck, his thumb brushing the hinge of my jaw soothingly. "I'm not grossed out. It's just a little blood. It's not gross. It's natural. It doesn't freak me out. I feel fucking honored that you let me be the one to touch you like that for the first time. Okay?"
His words are so clear, so truthful. They sound like they're laced with meaning that goes beyond tonight.
"Okay?" he asks again.
I close my eyes for a second, breathing through my nose, and nod.
"Good," he says, placing a tender kiss on my temple.
He climbs out of bed, and quickly scrubs his hands in the en suite while I stare ahead of me like an idiot.
"Bathroom's all yours. Go wash up," he encourages as he emerges.
I pee and wince when the toilet paper comes away with a red hue. I stare at myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. My hair is messy and my boobs are almost spilling out from the cups of my bra, but the giddy smile I wear makes up for it.
I just had my first orgasm.
Pedro
I'm changing into a pair of grey sweatpants when Maisy reenters my bedroom. I greet her with a casual smile. "Feeling less panicky?"
"Mm-hmm," she says, grabbing her top off the floor. "Thank you for... the lesson," she mumbles coyly, heading for the door.
"Where are you going?" I ask.
What am I saying?
She gives me a puzzled look. "Back to my room. We said no sleepovers, remember?"
Her words bring the oddest clench of dread to my gut.
"Yeah, I remember," I say dryly. She starts for the door again and the words leave my mouth without my permission. "But hey, I think this was a pretty big deal for you and—and if you wanted to lie here with me for a bit...I—I wouldn't be opposed to that."
Oh, I'm absolutely fucked.
I was worried about my son getting too attached to Maisy and getting hurt when she eventually turns her focus back on her life, but I'm over here asking her to stay the night.
I watch her throat bob with a thick swallow. "I, uhm, are you sure?" she asks, her eyes flitting around me as she shifts on her feet.
"I mean we can make an exception. To celebrate your first orgasm," I say, trying my hardest to sound nonchalant, but fuck, I can't fool myself. I'm feeling alarmingly light.
"I think orgasms might be my new favourite thing," she admits quietly with a sunny smile.
"Yeah?" I chuckle. "Better than in those books you read?"
"So much better," she confirms. "I'm thinking of masturbating every night before bed," she says then quickly adds, "Shit, sorry, that was supposed to be an inside thought."
Even though our lesson is over, I bring her in for a tender kiss. "Well, I'm glad I could show and teach you something about your body."
"Thank you, Pedro," she mumbles, her tone raw and sincere. "I'm glad it was you."
My heart erupts and warmness spreads through my insides, a reaction that is completely unwarranted and inappropriate.
I don't acknowledge her statement because I'm too afraid to scare her and too afraid to face my feelings.
I quickly dig through my drawers, finding her a t-shirt to sleep in, because apparently I'm charitable.
"Here, you can wear this to bed," I say.
She hesitates. "I—I need to change my underwear anyways, so I can go and get my pjs."
I scratch the nape of my neck. "Oh, well—,"
"But if you insist, I'll put it on," she mumbles, taking the shirt.
"Yeah, okay," I shrug and she runs off.
While she changes, I settle down into the sheets and scroll aimlessly on my phone.
My eyes drag upwards when she approaches, now dressed in my shirt. It's a simple red shirt with the Coca-Cola logo printed on it. It falls just under her bottom, the arms way too big for her form.
I can tell she's working not to fidget with the hem.
She's so pure and innocent. It makes me want to protect her.
Um...what?
Clearing my throat, I get myself in check.
"Come here," I beckon her over.
Barefoot, she pads across the room. "Are you sure this is a good idea?" she asks, not meeting my eyes as she pulls back the covers and climbs in.
I drape an arm around her and tuck her into my chest. "I don't know honestly," I tell her.
Shifting around so my other arm is under her head, she burrows into the crook of my neck, inhaling a deep breath. "You always smell so comforting."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"I know," she says against the skin of my chest. "But you just do."
She curls her body around me, our legs tangling, and I place a single kiss to the curve of her jaw.
We fall into silence. I play with her silky hair while she snuggles me. The quietness isn't uncomfortable or awkward, but heavy with unpacked and unexplored feelings I'm not sure I even want to acknowledge.
She falls asleep in my embrace, one of her hands resting on my abdomen as she cuddles into my side. Sleep however eludes me, and instead, a phrase keeps repeating in my head.
I am in so much trouble.
I wait until her breathing has evened out, then as carefully as I can, I slide out from under her and simultaneously pull a pillow into the place where my shoulder was holding her head up. She doesn't move or stir.
With a heavy feeling weighing down on me, I turn and sleep facing away from her with my arms strapped to my sides.
also i’m constantly thinking of writing a longer oneshot about mafia!joel’s pregnant girl being held ransom and joel goes absolutely feral on her perpetrators
would anyone be interested in a soft, dad-to-be uppercut!pedro x pregnant Maisy oneshot?
uppercut - nine
summary: Oliver gets sick, making Maisy doubt her caretaker abilities. Pedro's trust in Maisy strengthens. Maisy and Pedro make an arrangement
parings: boxer/dbf/single-dad!pedro x fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, talks of being groomed/corrupted, implied power-inbalance, inexperienced fem oc (don't judge her), kissing and making out (finally!), a hard-on, male masturbation
wc: 4.3k
series masterlist here.
Maisy
The elevator's door slides open with a ding and I'm greeted by the organized chaos that is the pediatrics ward. The waiting area is bright with blues and greens on the walls and paintings of sea animals moving between the colors. It's whimsical, and yet, it is still a hospital.
I wipe my clammy hand on my jeans and walk up to the nurses station, Oliver slung over my hip.
He's been fighting a sickness over the past few days, and his temperature hasn't gone down.
He was fussy and uncomfortable all morning. His throat is swollen and his nose has been running non-stop. I tried everything to alleviate some of his discomfort; shushing him, giving him a lukewarm bath, offering plenty of fluids, using the air humidifier, all to no avail. By midday, I was so worried I called Pedro.
He was panting when he picked up. "Yes?" he spoke into the receiver, his tone curt.
We've both gone three nights without getting a full night of sleep, taking turns taking care of Oliver.
And now I was disrupting his workouts because I couldn't do my job of caring for his son.
"I think I should take Oliver to the doctor's," I said.
We agreed to meet at the hospital and hang up.
Now in the hospital's pediatrics ward, I sign Oliver in, handing the nurse a hardcopy of the authorization form that allows me to be present during Oliver's treatment, which Pedro signed in advance should a case like this arise.
Oliver and I take a seat on one of the teal chairs that faces a television that plays cartoons. I bounce him a little in hopes of soothing him.
I'm trying to comfort him, but from what I've learned over the last few days, the only person he wants when he doesn't feel well is his dad.
"You're okay, Oliver. Shh." I run a hand over his back before lightly pressing his head into my shoulder, hoping it'll force him to rest.
It doesn't. He wails his little lungs, his cry deafening next to my ear.
"Dadda," he sobs, his innocent eyes rimmed in red as he frantically looks around the busy waiting room. "I want Dadda!"
"I know. I know. He'll be here soon."
He doesn't stop, somehow finding the lung capacity to scream even louder.
I can almost feel all the other moms and dads' eyes on me, judging me.
I know how to entertain Oliver, how to figure out what he needs, whether that's food, sleep, or a diaper change. But I have no idea how to help him when he's this sick or upset.
I stand and start pacing with Oliver in my arms. The bouncing doesn't seem to settle him as he wails louder. "I know, Bug. I'm sorry. A doctor will see us soon and you'll be better."
What feels like hours but is probably just minutes, a nurse approaches us. "A doctor will see Oliver now."
I grab Oliver's diaper bag and follow the nurse.
We're rounding a corner when a deep voice calls my name. "Maisy! Wait!"
I turn to see Pedro rushing toward us, wearing his gym clothes. "Hey, hi," he says when he reaches us. "Sorry I took so long. I got here as fast as I could."
Pedro strokes his son's cheek with the back of his fingers. The boy's wail softens to a sniffling cry and he melts into my arms now that his dad is here.
Pedro doesn't take Oliver from me as we're escorted to an exam room, but hovers over the two of us protectively, a warm hand resting on my lower back as I carry his son.
I try not to pay much attention to the fact that I am too much more at ease now that Perdo is near.
Pedro
Thankfully Oliver didn't need to be kept in for overnight observation. After a doctor examined him, he got a round of fluids via an IV drip and was prescribed some medication to help lower his fever.
The whole time, Maisy was fidgeting with her necklace as she looked on. She didn't stray from my son's bedside while he got his treatment, letting him clutch onto her pointer finger.
By the time we get to the front door of my brownstone, the baby Tylenol has finally kicked in and Oliver is contently laying on my shoulder.
We order in, neither Maisy or I in the mood to cook dinner, and we cuddle up on my couch, a sitcom playing in the background.
It's still a bit early for Oliver's bedtime so he hangs out with us, walking lapses of the coffee table but not daring to let go of the edge as he balances himself.
He allows us to scarf down our Indian takeaway in peace before the bedtime fussiness gets the best of him.
I pick him up, cradling his head as I bop around the living room. Maisy offers a sympathetic smile as she stands to gather our empty plates.
Oliver works himself into a burbling mess, and as much as it pains me, I'm not who he wants right now.
My son is making grabby hands at the pretty girl teetering on her feet under the archway leading into the living room.
"What's that, Buddy?"
He points at Maisy again. "Mmm."
"Are you trying to say Maisy?" My chest wells with emotion.
"Mmm."
"Yeah, that's Maisy over there."
My gaze meets with Maisy's and a pout stretches her naturally raspberry-pink lips.
"Want me to try?" she offers softly.
I nod, wordlessly handing over my son.
"Come here." She takes Oliver from me, situating his head on her shoulder. "You're okay," she croons. "You're all right, Bug. I've got you."
I sink with relief watching Maisy comfort my son. She supports Oliver's head and starts to sway around the house as she tries to settle him.
The softest singing voice echoes throughout the space as she sings into Oliver's ear. She soothes him tirelessly, placing soft kisses on his head between lyrics and within a minute or two my boy is fully content, snuggled into the crook of Maisy's neck.
She continues singing lullabies as she carries Oliver up to his nursery. I trail after them, my chest swelling with a foreign tenderness.
I make myself useful and close the blinds and turn on the air humidifier while she rocks my son to sleep.
In a matter of minutes, he dozes off. She tucks him in, gently placing his current favourite plushie by his head.
We stand there for a moment, peering down into my son's crib as his chest rises and falls with even breaths.
She then turns to me with a sweet little smile and leans her head on my shoulder.
I don't find it in me to reject her, to tell her that this—her head on my shoulder—is crossing a line.
I don't want to reject her.
But fuck does she have my whole belief system at war.
I close my eyes, blow the air in my lungs through my nose.
How have I gotten myself into this situation? Falling for an off-limits woman. Because that's exactly what I've done in the last two weeks, I've fallen, hard. I should've been more careful, spent less time with her, pushed away my fantasies. But I couldn't, even as I felt myself tumbling down this rabbit hole, I couldn't stop myself.
And what scares me the most is that I didn't even want to.
I open my eyes and gaze down at my son.
I think today was the day he realized that he has a support system outside of me. I know he did because I did so too.
Oliver loves her. It's evident in the way he looks at her, in the way he reaches for her when she's near. She brings him a sense of comfort he was missing, and she equally brings me the same knowing how well they get along.
Overwhelmed with gratitude for Maisy, I slide my hand into hers and jerk my head in the general direction of downstairs.
Maisy
Pedro leads me downstairs, into the kitchen.
When we get to the kitchen island, he lets go of me, rakes a hand through his lush curls, and leans against the counter.
I eye him curiously. He's slouching, clearly tired both physically and emotionally. The past few days have drained us.
He scratches his stubbled jaw. His movement draws my attention to the heart-shaped patch in his rakish beard. I wonder how ticklish his stubble would feel against my palm, on my stomach or on my inner thigh.
No, not going to go there, I scold myself.
I bite the inside of my cheek to bring myself back to reality.
We're remarkedly quiet, not a single word has been spoken between us since I lulled Oliver to sleep.
Hesitant and sheepish, characteristics that are so unlike him, Pedro moves closer just an inch. I wouldn't notice his subtle approach if I weren't acutely aware of his body heat.
His nearness fills me with warmth and comfort. I want to reach out and touch him to make myself believe he's actually here.
His hand is on the counter right next to me as he leans back on his palms, and tentatively, I cover it with my own.
He doesn't stop me. He uses his thumb to trap my fingers, softly stroking the supple skin between my thumb and pointer finger.
I don't dare to brave eye contact and instead drag my gaze across the dimly lit kitchen.
There are endless dishes in the sink that I remind myself to tackle tomorrow. Piles of laundry he needs to fold. Knowing him, he's going to try to get it all done on his one day off this week, but I'll pick up the slack when he's back in the ring tomorrow, and I'm sure he'll be annoyed that I helped. He's prideful like that, wanting to do it all on his own.
"I just wanted to say thank you." He breaks our silence. "For taking care of Oliver." He pauses, his voice softer. "We're lucky to have you."
A beaming smile slowly lifts the corners of my mouth. "Well, the feeling is mutual."
"I'm beyond grateful that you treat him with uttermost gentleness. I don't think you know just how much happiness you bring to him." He sighs, says above a whisper, "He appreciates you, and I do too. Tremendously. And I'm not sure I can repay you for the love you give to my boy."
My heart cracks at that, opening in a way I don't want it to. He's too good, too sweet, emotionally mature. Too goddamn hot for his own good.
He keeps stroking my hand.
We both follow his languid movement with our eyes, an electric frisson leaping from him to me each time he smoothes the pad of his thumb over my flesh.
My heart thumps, quick and sharp, at the way his dark eyes take me in, the way the corner of his mouth tips up in a private smile.
Our gazes lash together and I get the same drugging rush of excitement when I'm at a concert and the bassist starts to play the buildup to the bridge of the song.
Pedro's intense eyes pinion me to the spot. My blood pulsates in the tops of my ears.
As we stare into each other's eyes, the moment feels like a soap bubble, something that's bound to burst one way or another.
And then it does.
"I'm gonna kiss you," he tells me huskily, perhaps to acknowledge what we're doing or perhaps he's sensed I might need to be forewarned.
His mouth crashes down on mine then and I'm compliant, letting him take what he wants.
He cups my jaw with one warm hand, his other hand pulling me into his body by the gentle hold he has on my waist.
I still don't know what to do with myself when it comes to kissing so I simply grasp onto his impossibly broad shoulders, bracing myself.
He licks into me and I gasp, fisting his shirt.
"Taste so sweet," he groans, turning to kiss me the other way.
I'm disintegrating on the spot. This is all too much yet nowhere near enough.
For a moment we break apart. To catch our breath, or maybe to end whatever this has turned into. But as soon as I find his bottomless eyes I'm hit with a revelation so earth-shattering, it spins me off my axis.
I don't want to end it. Whatever this is, I want more of it.
He must feel it too because our gaze lasts no longer than a second before our lips connect again and he's devouring me.
"Why am I unable to stop myself with you?" He murmurs the words against my lips, his voice strained. My heart is beating so hard that I get a little dizzy. "You are going to wreck my world, and I'm going to let you."
He closes back in for a hungry kiss, nibbling on my bottom lip before flinching. "What the fuck are we doing?" he asks raggedly, still holding me, his chocolate brown eyes filled with torment.
"I don't know," I say.
A low, frustrated sound dies in the back of his throat, and he stills, his mouth ghosting mine. "This is a bad idea, Maisy," he says hoarsely, but he doesn't step back. "We can't be together."
"I know that," I say, choking on my words.
And I do. So why does hearing it feel like rubbing salt into an open wound?
"Maisy." His voice cracks, and I will not let him say it. I refuse. I will not let him say how we can't do this. How this is wrong. How he's wrong for me.
"Please. I'm okay with this," I whimper, unabashedly desperate, "I want you," I hiccup. "Please, Pedro, I want you so bad."
"We—I—, this is messy," he reasons, his forehead resting against mine. "I don't want Oliver to get hurt because I can't keep my dick in my pants." His eyes are pinched and his brows are knitted, he looks as if in agony.
"It doesn't have to be messy," I say.
He gives a low, scraping laugh, but he stays serious. "It already is," he says, "When you override all rational thought."
I swallow a thorny knot and blurt. "I—I have a proposition. I think I know how we can work."
He opens his mouth to interject but I go on. "We think of it as an arrangement. You teach me about bedroom stuff and I can be you're good time."
He's a man, and as a man, he can teach me a lot about men's pleasure, and we can get my awkward firsts out of the way. He'll be my springboard into dating, I rationalize.
He regards me expressionlessly as he grinds his molars. "So it's purely transactional?"
"Yes, if that's what you want too," I say, not letting my schoolgirl infatuation bleed through.
Now is not the time to tell him I want him to eat my soul. To take down my walls and build me up again.
I can fake it. I can pretend. I can deny my budding feelings for him. This can work.
"I want some rules put in place to make sure we are both clear about what this little arrangement is."
I nod eagerly, ready to agree to any of his terms. I know I'm being naively willing and accommodating but at the same time I want this, he is not forcing himself on me.
"No PDA unless we are hooking up," he begins. "And no sleepovers."
I nod again.
"And most importantly," he says, all serious. "There needs to be constant communication. It's either consensual or I'm not touching you."
"I understand," I say in a heartbeat.
A wry smile graces his plush and moustached lips before he turns solemn once again.
"I need to hear you say something for me. And I need you to be honest now," he says, his eyes boring into me. "Before we agree on any of this, I need you to tell me this is consensual. That you want this too. The last thing I want is for you to get hurt. I don't want you to ever feel like I'm grooming you. Or that I'm corrupting you or anything like that."
"You don't make me feel like that. This arrangement doesn't make me feel like that. I want this. I feel safe with you. I trust you," I divulge truthfully.
"And you're absolutely sure you're not weirded out by our age gap?"
Yes, we have a twelve-year age gap but I'm an adult too. It's not like I'm underaged. I can consent to our arrangement in my right conscience.
"I'm absolutely sure." I cement then say, "One more thing... my dad can never find out about this. It'd be way too awkward."
"Yes, that, no telling your dad."
All the things I told myself, all the reasons this is a bad idea, seem inconsequential. All that seems to matter is him and the bone-deep desire I have for this man. We can work. Sure, he's the dad whose kid I nanny, but only until I leave to go back to work. Yes, he works with my dad, but if we keep this between us, then my father will never have to know.
Pedro's nose moves against mine, causing a shiver to run through me. His hands mount my neck and then cradle my face.
I rest one of my hands on his abdomen, his muscles contracting under my touch, and nudge my nose against his. "Aren't you gonna kiss me now?" I tease but my shaky voice gives away my nerves.
Just because I want him, it doesn't mean I'm not nervous.
"You're endearing," he tells me with a low chuckle, then kisses me square on the mouth, hard, like a stamp, and walks me over to the couch. "First lesson: French kissing."
×××
Heavenly. Pedro's lap is one of the most heavenly places on earth, as it turns out.
He's warm and solid, like a giant teddy bear you can win at funfairs, and he doesn't seem to mind having me draped over him.
I'm straddling his hips on his couch and he's kissing me deliberately.
Our kisses are little more than pecks—his lips pressing against mine and his hand on my waist steady me. It's all sweetheart innocence yet something warm and liquid collects at the bottom of my belly.
The sensation is not unpleasant, but confusing and a bit scary.
"Still with me?" Pedro probes between kisses.
"Hmm," I squeak. If being okay means I've forgotten my name twice in the last few minutes, yeah, I'm perfect.
"Good," he rasps. One of his oversized hands travels the length of my side and settles on my ribcage, his thumb stroking me just under my bra.
The way he is kissing me now is different from the way he was kissing me in my bedroom that first time. He was reluctant, almost unwilling to kiss me, and now he is...insisting.
Maybe I'm being fanciful. What do I know about different types of kisses, anyway?
When his tongue slips between my lips, I go stock-still. His tongue is in my mouth. I can't stop myself from cringing.
It's far too personal and unhygienic.
"This okay?" I must have lingered too long inside my head, because he is looking at me with a concerned frown, his thumb sweeping back and forth on my hip bone. "You're tense." His voice is hoarse.
"It's just—, it's weird?" I mumble.
His eyes soften and he regards me with tenderness as he thinks up some sorcery to make me feel better. "Think of it like a caress," he proposes. "Do you want me to try it again?"
I swallow dryly. My stomach is in knots.
"Don't look so nervous, sweetheart," he chuckles lightly. "We don't have to if you don't want to. Not trying to pressure you into anything."
"I know," I tell him. His reassurance that I'm the one in charge settles me. "Okay. Let's give it a try."
"Alright," he murmurs softly and bends toward my mouth again.
I fist his shirt and brace myself.
Instead of pushing his tongue between my lips, he kisses me like he had before, sponging closed-mouthed kisses onto my mouth.
These I can do.
He's easing me into it, I realize, because he keeps kissing me in an unhurried procession. His tactic is working, some of my stress drains away, and I unclench.
The very tip of his tongue sneaks out and traces my lower lip then. I part my lips for him and he slides in for long enough to touch my own before retracting and kissing me.
Over and over again, he gives me a brief taste of salt and heat, and then retreats. He brushes at my lips with maddening strokes, dips inside for the merest second, before he withdraws.
I'm growing frustrated. The closed-mouth kisses I liked so much in the beginning are no longer enough.
He sucks on my bottom lip and laves the sensitized skin before taking my mouth again. I feel the still foreign wet heat of his tongue slips in, tasting me. I don't know quite what to do so I follow his lead, allowing him to continue his little ministrations while I try to get a small taste of him as well.
His arm moves under my shirt, circling my waist. His other hand keeps cupping my jaw, angling my head.
My hands tour his wide chest. I can make out every tendon of muscle flexing and contracting as he moves against me. I throw my arms around his neck then, and I have the strangest urge to plunge my fingers into his hair.
"You can touch me however you want," he rasps against my kiss-slicked lips, as if reading my mind.
God, I hope he can't.
He closes back in, deepening our kiss, and I glide my hands up into his chestnut brown curls, feeling the smooth strands fall through my fingers.
He twins his tongue with mine and we find a rhythm. His incredibly high stamina surpasses mine, and he has to stop kissing me every now and then to let me catch my breath.
"You need to learn how to breathe through your nose," he says, touching his mouth before returning his hands to my midsection.
"Okay," I croak, awkwardly smoothing out the wrinkles in his shirt I've caused.
"God, you're adorable," he croons, his smile widening.
I blush, and feel as if a dose of endorphins has just been injected into my bloodstream.
He tips my chin up then and crushes his lips down on mine.
He guides me through the growing familiarity of the contact. He couples my bottom lip between his two and uses his thumb on the hinge of my jaw to coax it open. My mouth yields to his and as he deepens our kiss, I involuntarily rock into him.
He moans at that and I swallow the sound.
He grants me small breaks to catch my breath before diving back in, and asks for reassurance that I'm doing alright every now and then.
My hands roam with appreciation while his stay stationary.
His palm pressing into my lower back feels like it could singe a handprint onto my skin. He brushes against the base of my spine, setting my heart aflutter.
I feel hot, heavy and there's a bubbly pit in my belly.
Is this what being turned on feels like?
Coming up for air, I say, "Oh my God, you're a great kisser."
For a millisecond, he stares at my mouth like I took something that he wants back. He blinks then, focusing on me.
He sweeps his thumb across my lower lip. "You're a quick learner," he drawls. "Doing so good, sweetheart."
I preen at his compliment. Nestling closer to him, something stiff prods the apex of my thighs, and I draw my head back to look down between our bodies. He has a prominent hard-on.
"Ignore that," he coos, hooking his pointer finger under my chin, the gentle pressure coaxing me to face him. "We'll cover that another time," he says with a boyish grin.
Then we kiss until all our jaw muscles are numb.
Pedro
It's one am. when we declare our first session a success and head upstairs to sleep in our separate beds.
"See you around, coach," Maisy teases after a moment of consideration, fidgeting on her doorstep, before she retreats to her bedroom.
In my room, I slump against the door, burying my face into my hands with a heavy sigh and replay the past few hours.
I shut my eyes and the image of her, on top of me, and those wide brown eyes that are fixed on me, excited and eager to learn, but tinged with a hint of something uncertain, appears in my mind.
My lips are still tingling from the feel of hers. My hair is unruly from her persistent tugging.
And I still have a boner.
She wants to learn and I'm just enjoying myself, that's all that was on the couch and it's all that ever be. A transactional relationship.
But, fuck, I'd be a lying son of a bitch if I said that the thought of being her first, of being the one to teach her didn't turn me on.
I smack myself on the back of the head, locking away my Maisy-infused fantasies.
I push off the door and stride into the en-suite, shedding my clothes and turning on the faucet.
I need to release some tension.
And I one-hundred percent will not do so while thinking about Miasy.
Or so I tell myself. But the moment I step into the shower my throbbing cock is in my fist, and I pump myself long and slow until the tension coiled inside me rips through me like an electric current.
And I picture a brunette beauty with the curves of Aphrodite on her knees for me, those warm brown eyes watching as I milk every last drop on her chest.
uppercut - eight
summary: Maisy and Pedro deal with the aftermath of their kiss
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, yearning, internal conflicts
wc: 1.6k
series masterlist here
Pedro
“Is there a particular reason your’re here this early?” Rick asks.
I hadn’t even noticed he’d come in. All I keep thinking about is how bad I fucked up by kissing Maisy last night.
We managed to avoid each other this morning, which probably had a lot to do with my leaving at six in the morning. Not a chance in hell I was going to try for small talk. I worked out for three hours at the gym, sweating and pushing myself to the limit.
“Couldn’t sleep,” I shrug and turn my focus back to the sandbag.
At home the same day, Maisy tries for small talk.
“How was training?” She asks in a small voice, trying to gauge the mood between us.
She isn’t the only one who can’t tell where we stand now. I don’t want to ruin our developing friendship because I can’t control myself.
She’s drying her hands on a dish towel, averting her eyes as she stands in my kitchen, all pretty in a tank top and denim shorts that display her thick thighs.
She doesn’t grant me eye contact and that alone cracks my heart into two.
She is hurt.
And so am I.
My session went disastrously. And it's all because I couldn't stop thinking of what might have happened if I knocked on her bedroom door last night instead of wallowing in self-pity.
I’m sure in hindsight I’ll think I did the right thing by not barging in on her and crushing my lips down hers. I did the responsible thing and went back to my own bedroom, back to my own shower and I took care of myself.
“It was fine,” I lie.
Maisy
Pedro and I pass the next week without so much as any meaningful interaction. We avoid one another like the other has a contagious disease. We’re back in the territory of polite nods, separate dinners, and conversation only concerning Oliver.
Neither of us broaches the kiss, and it’s like he hasn’t even had a single thought about it since.
I, on the contrary, replay it religiously in my mind before falling asleep. Even the mere sight of his perfectly plush and pink lips plunges me back wholesale into the memory of our kiss.
I am completely smitten by him and we’ve only shared a kiss. It’s actually pathetic.
“Maisy, can you hurry up a bit? I’m running late,” he calls upstairs.
“Be there in a second,” I shout, rubbing sleep from my eyes.
I overslept. Groggily rising from bed, I slip on a sweater and stagger sleepily down the stairs. I straighten the sweater and pull my hair from the neckline, letting it drape my shoulders.
Pedro is on his way out the door when I get downstairs, aggressively chewing a piece of gum, and his keys, phone, and water bottle are all clutched in one—very pornographic—hand.
“Sorry, I slept through my alarm,” I say.
Oliver is sitting on his diapered bum by his dad's feet, gnawing on his knuckle.
“It’s fine. But I really gotta go.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure. I have it from here.” I hoist the little boy up as he reaches for me, and place him on my hip. “Hey, Buddy,” I coo, tickling his side. He shrieks in delight. A smile warms my face.
Pedro stands there in the foyer, unmoving, watching our interactions.
“You said you were running late,” I point out, flustered under his diligent eyes.
He nods slowly, blinking. “I am. I’ll go now.” And he does, leaving me with a toddler to entertain and my head overflowing with the idea of having him.
Pedro
I lie in my bed, checking my calendar, filling in as I go with match dates, fundraising events I plan on supporting and Oliver’s pediatric check-ups that monitor his development.
As I tinker with my phone’s calendar app, I realize today marks one week since Maisy’s and I’s kiss.
The reminder catapults me head-straight into the memory of her sweet lips coupled between mine.
Her kissing technique betrayed her inexperience. She was putty in my arms, leaving all the work to me—which I wasn’t opposed to, I found it endearing actually.
Despite our kiss being hardly more than a sloppy upper lip peck with a testing lick on my part, it was a divine sensation.
A soft knock on my door pulls me from my jumbled mind. I answer it to find Maisy standing at my door.
“Can you, uhm, come to my room?” she asks, her eyes flitting around me.
“You’re not going to seduce me if that’s your goal here,” I huff, trying to lighten the tension-heavy mood.
“Stop it. There’s a spider. I need you to kill it.” She bounces nervously. “Please? Before it disappears and I have to turn the room upside down.”
I shake my head at her before pulling a few tissues from the box on my nightstand. “Show me to it,” I mumble.
When we get to her room, she stops like there’s an invisible force field, and I almost bump into her back. “Well, where is it?”
She points to the wall on the other side of her bed. It’s a decent-sized spider, I can see why she was distressed.
I haven’t gotten the chance to take in the room she’s moved into almost five weeks ago when I was here last time. I was too busy doting on her to notice how lived-in she’s made the once bland guest bedroom.
She bought some throw pillows and draped a soft-looking blanket over the footboard of the bed. String lights decorate her windowsill. A stack of books with cheesy titles towers on her nightstand. And as I delve deeper into her space, my senses are overwhelmed with the smell of hers in the best possible way. Gardenia and almond.
The brown spider scurries a few inches, making Maisy shriek and bury her face in my chest. I’ve never liked spiders more in my life.
“I’ve got it, sweetheart,” I assure her as I put my hands on her shoulders and delicately move her out of my way. I press the tissues to the wall firmly, ending the siege. “There,” I say and walk the dead spider to the guest bathroom and flush the tissues.
She looks around me to the toilet to make sure it actually went down. A shiver racks her body and squeaks a “Thank you.”
I nod and we both just stand there. Neither one of us makes a move to go, even though it’s late.
“Were you getting ready for bed?”
Even if I shouldn’t I like the glint in her eyes as she peers up at me through her lashes. I have no intention of ending this night if she doesn’t want to, no matter how tired I am. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with being friends. “No.”
“Do you wanna watch a movie with me?”
I try to suppress the giddy smile that’s tugging on the corners of my lips with little success.
Five minutes later and we’ve parked ourselves in front of the TV. She picks out a sappy enemies-to-lovers romcom. I hold back any preconceptions I have about the genre and just watch.
As she strictly keeps her eyes on the screen, I stare down at her hands, noting the contrast of her milky skin against my own. The size difference is comical—her hand could easily fit in the palm of my hand.
I ache to intertwine our fingers.
With great force, a peculiar feeling rises up in me. I try to squish it down but it nestles into my bowels.
I’m truly fucked if the imagery of our interlaced hands sends me spiralling.
Casting away my unholy thoughts, I return my focus to the movie.
As the week progresses, it’s easier to be normal. My pining remains intense but we settle into a casual camaraderie that I greatly appreciate. We’re friendly towards one another and can banter with each other.
I stifle any inappropriate urge and behave myself.
We restore our movie night tradition. We’re making our way through romcoms Glen Powell has starred in and my list of cultic action movies.
Most nights, when we have the time and mental energy, I cook Chilean food while she pretends to be my sus chef.
Every time she looks at me, it’s like the sun peeking out from behind a cloud, and I do my best to feel content, to be just another person at the edge of her glow.
The more time goes on living in close quarters, the clearer I see Maisy for who she is. She’s a hopeful romantic creature with a tendency towards solitude.
Apart from her college roommate, whom I occasionally catch her texting with, she doesn’t seek social interactions. If we don’t count her horrible date with Tinder Nathan, she hasn’t once gone out since she’s been taking care of Oliver.
In her off time, she chooses activities that are done on your lonesome—browsing bookstores, people-watching on sunny cafe terraces, or contemplating the meaning of life on my couch.
One stormy afternoon she tells me love can be found in commonplace—in how mugs hold tea, in how the flooring receives the landing of our feet. As she shares her musings, I get the urge to praise her, to stroke the back of her head and tell her how special and bright and wonderful her brain is. During our conversation, I feel my liking for her expanding.
uppercut - seven (Pedro's POV)
summary: Pedro comforts a fragile Maisy, a kiss is shared between them.
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: Pedro is extremely soft and sweet, but also self-sabotaging, fem!mc is in a rough mental state, use of pet names (sweetheart, flower, sweet girl, babygirl(!!))
wc: 2k
series masterlist here
Pedro
The house is deadly silent when I get in at eight pm. I kick off my shoes and discard my gym bag in the foyer. All lights are off downstairs.
My feet take me to my son's nursery first where I find him sleeping deeply. I kiss his forehead tenderly and go in search of Maisy.
I knock on her door once, then twice. No answer. I check my notification centre on my phone for any texts from her. None. I knock once more, calling on her before pushing open the door with my palm spread flat on it.
She's in the centre of her room, Airpods in her ears and she sways along to the music. She's dressed in grey sweatpants and a tight-fitting black crop top that accentuates her trim waist. Her eyes are closed, her head is back, and she's just letting it out, her cherry lips mouthing the lyrics.
My thoughts about her are smack dab in my face. She is tragically beautiful.
She slow dances and reaches up with a hand to stroke her cheek. The movement makes her shirt rise up an inch, revealing a stripe of her milky skin and her belly button.
For a split second, I think I see her without any filter. In that moment she's totally unguarded and the outside reflects the in, her inner torment. She's raw and woundable, I realize.
I stand there, my hand on the doorknob, unmoving. I should back out of her room, give her her space and not invade it like I'm doing now.
She must feel my eyes on her because her eyes flutter then snap wide open. She jumps a little, clutching at her chest. "Jesus Christ, you scared me," she gasps.
"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to pry," I rush out.
I don't miss the tremble in her hands as she takes out her Airpods, and the desolate look in her big brown eyes grips my heart.
"Hey," I rasp. "Everything okay?"
"I—I, yeah. Everything's okay," she lies and I can tell.
"Are you sure?" I probe, edging closer. "It doesn't seem to me everything's okay."
"No, please, don't," she chokes on her words, her bottom lip quivering. "Just—just don't care about me, okay?"
For a second I get worried that something is wrong, really wrong, wondering if she's gotten bad news.
"What's going on?" I urge, anxious now.
She pinches her eyes shut, shaking her head at me.
As much as I don't want to, it bothers me that she's hurting. I wish she would talk to me.
She begins snapping the rubber band encircling her wrist. It's enough to redden her skin. I've noticed it before, it's one of her nervous mannerisms, the same as when she fiddles with her necklace.
Watching the impulsive way she pulses the band against her skin, a flash of unease courses through me.
"Sweetheart?" I keep my voice low and calm.
She tries to sidestep me, but I catch her wrists. I rub my thumbs on the inseam of her wrist.
"Hey," I croon, "You can be vulnerable with me, you know?" I let go of one of her wrists and tip up her chin with my index finger, forcing eye contact.
The usual shine is gone from her beautiful doe-like eyes. They look troubled as if covered by some thin, translucent membrane.
I ache to take some of her pain away.
"I can tell something is bothering you. Now, if you want to talk about whatever it is, then we'll do that," I propose in a low murmur. "And if you don't, then we'll talk about something else. Let me help you slow it down, flower."
A deep frown marrs her forehead. I reach up to flatten it with my thumb. Her eyes drift closed for a second. "Sounds like a plan?"
"Y-yes," she stutters, going putty in my hold.
"So, what's it's gonna be?" I ask, smiling at her softly.
"It's just that...I—I'm shameful of my lacking life. It feels like I've been left behind. It's like I've missed my train, like there went my chances to feel how exhilarating and blind first love is," she reveals, rushing her words. "All my peers are in relationships, planning their weddings and thinking about when they'll start trying for babies, while I'm stuck in this cycle, not meeting people and with no prospect in life," she hiccups. "I'm getting older but not achieving any milestones I thought I would by now."
I absorb her words, my focus lasered in on her.
"And I know I've got all the time so why do I feel rushed?" She pouts, her cherry lips trembling. She shrugs deflatedly. "A part of me just wants to finally experience what I'm missing."
"I've never had a boyfriend, have never been kissed, have never held hands romantically. Nathan aside, no one has asked me out on a date." Her waterline threatens to spill over. "I can't help but wonder if it's me. If I'm an uninstresting ugly prude who’s unlovable." She chokes back a sniffle and bolts tighten in my chest.
Witnessing her at her rawest, my protective instincts rouse. I want to fight off her demons.
"Stop," I say, wincing at her words, "Don’t talk about yourself like that."
I can tell by her rapid blinking that she's withholding her tears. My chest pangs.
"It's okay. You can cry. There's no shame in crying," I assure her in a whisper. "You can fall apart and I'll hold you."
That's when she dissolves into tears. I take her in my arms and press her to me. She starts apologizing for how she's acting, making me bleed.
"You're fine, sweet girl," I murmur reassuringly.
I cup the back of her skull and gently lay her head on my chest, shushing her. She fits my body perfectly, her fragile form in my hands makes me think I'm holding fine china.
"Listen to me Maisy," I say to her, low and serious. "Where you are in life right now is exactly where you should be at. Everyone has their own trajectory. Just because you're at a different stage than what you think your peers are, doesn't mean you're falling behind. Don't compare yours to others," I murmur slowly, letting her savour my sentiments.
"And you are loved and worthy of love. If only I could show you," I add, the words whispered into her hair.
I keep her exactly where she is, resting her head on my chest, and start rocking us in a slow sway and uttering sweet nothings at her.
When she calms, she lifts her head, peering up at me through her lush lashes.
"I'm sorry, I shoudn't have dumped all of that on you. I—I—," she burbles.
"Stop. Don't apologize," I coo at her. I cup her jaw tenderly and sweep my thumb underneath her eyes, wiping away her teardrops. "You can always unburden yourself with me," I say, bringing her head to lay on my chest once again.
My words of consolation make her break down crying once more.
"Oh, now you're crying again," I remark in undertones. "You're okay, babygirl. You're okay." I assure her in a tender voice, smoothing down her hair.
Sobs wrack her body. I gather her into my arms, rocking us to and fro. Apparently, this method not only works on little kids but on adults too. Deep, mellifluous sounds and slow movements soothe her.
I allow her the time she needs to recompose herself.
She presses closer and hides her face in the warm folds of my t-shirt. My arms wrap tighter around her.
She inhales against me, her body going lax in my cradle. "I like your scent," she says, her voice partially muffled by my clothed chest. "Sorry, that's weird to say."
A chuckle rises in me, and a small smile stretches my lips. "I showered after the gym."
She peels back her head to look up at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed and oh so tired.
We hold each other's gaze for a moment. A long, lingering moment. And then, just for a second, for a split second, her eyes dip to my lips.
That's all it takes. In that moment, I know she was thinking about kissing me just then. It isn't just one-sided. She is interested in me, even if only a tiny bit.
Encouraged, my heart kicks into high gear as I start debating my options. My restraint is evaporating and I decide I'm going to make my move. The question is how. Should I just kiss her? Would she tell me to go fuck myself? Probably. What if I kiss the back of her hand? Would she yank it away? She would, I know she would.
I need something less, more subtle to test the waters.
Her hands, starting from my forearms, mount my arms languidly, memorizing every dip and curve of my upper body.
Her throat works with a gulp.
"Maisy," I breathe, low and raspy.
She drapes her arms around my neck and my body takes over, ducking down, my mouth mere inches from hers.
Before I can come up with a game plan, she beats me to it by placing a close-mouthed kiss on my lips.
My resolves break and I take the lead, showing her how it's done, drawing the kiss out.
"This is bad," I mutter against her lips. "We—I shouldn't . . .want this. I shouldn't want you."
I close back in, coupling her lips. Her body responds by arching her back, our fronts pressing together.
"Fuck," I moan, revelling in the sweet taste of hers.
Her hands bracket my face, all timid and shy. Her tentativeness makes me weak.
I'm also painfully aware of my hard-on straining against my fly.
My arms that have been slithered around her in our embrace loosen, one hand following the curve of her spine to settle on the nape of her neck, angling her just so. My other arm winds around her waist, anchoring her to me as I slip my tongue past hers testingly before retracting.
"Pedro," she sighs my name, a breathless plea.
I turn to kiss her the other way around, our noses brushing, when my son's wail brings us abruptly back down to earth.
We separate and she touches her lips as if they're burning. Her gaze turns watery as she meets mine. I think I'm going to be sick.
This was a horrible mistake.
"I'll go," I say, needing to remove myself from the situation.
I find Oliver standing in his crib, streaks of tears leaking down his chubby cheeks as he holds onto the rails. "You're okay, Bug. I'm here, I'm here," I coo as he launches himself at me, hiding his face in the crook of my neck. I hold him, feeling the tremors run through his body.
Slowly, his breathing calms down, and my rioting emotions do as well. He sniffs a few more times and then pulls back. "It's all right, kid," I mumble. I kiss his forehead and tap his little nose.
I rock him for a minute or two then tuck him in, and thankfully he's out like a log.
I close his door and head straight to my bedroom, like a coward.
Just as I reach my door, Maisy steps into the hallway and her voice washes over me like a tsunami.
"Pedro?" She asks tentatively.
I scrub my hand across my face. "What happened...it was wrong."
I keep my back to her, incapable of bearing the look of disgust that's certainly written all over her face.
I can tell she's about to say something, most likely she wants to get an explanation for my unjustifiable behaviour. I cut in before she could utter a single word.
"It was wrong and it shouldn't have happened. Your father is my coach, and you're Oliver's nanny, goddamnit!" I drop my head to the door. "If that alarm didn't..." I pause, taking a cleansing breath. "It won't happen again."
If I say it enough, maybe I'll believe it.
She doesn't say anything but I feel her eyes on my back.
I turn the handle, opening my door. "We both know it was a mistake." I step inside and close the door, crushing my hopes that this—us—could go anywhere.
uppercut - seven (Maisy's POV)
summary: Pedro comforts a fragile Maisy, a kiss is shared between them.
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: twelve-year age gap, Pedro is extremely soft and sweet, fem!mc is in a rough mental state (self-loathing/self-deprecating), use of pet names (sweetheart, flower, sweet girl, babygirl(!!))
wc: 3.1k
series masterlist here
Maisy
A week passes and every night before bed, I recall the low timbre of Pedro's voice as he put Nathan on the spot in the bar.
It appealed to me how protective he was of me and the jealous glint in his eyes when he saw Nathan touching me. It appealed to me entirely too much.
His—perhaps overbearing—behaviour at the bar last Saturday lit a fuse that's shortening by the day, and I'm not sure what happens when it burns to the end.
Each time he's within arms reach, he sends my brain into a sea of nothingness. I have to ward off every thought that features me wanting to climb him like a child would a tree.
I still get phantom sensations of his leather jacket around my shoulders and can still recall the pressure of his calloused palm holding mine.
He's messed up my brain chemistry to the point sometimes I think he is too attracted to me. Randomly, I think I catch him staring at me with those warm, deep-set brown eyes. Much of the time, he appears as if he's fighting an internal battle; it feels like he wants to touch me but decides against it at the last second.
It's stupid, really, because Pedro means nothing to me. I'm supposed to tell myself that he's the intimidating boxer who is trained by my dad or the untouchable father of the boy I look after.
But as I wake today, I'm done lying to myself.
Over the last week, I've come to terms with the fact that I am attracted to a man twelve years my senior. And there's nothing I or anybody else can do about that.
I've come to like him a lot. How he is with Oliver, all gentle and warm. How he is in the ring, all lethal and dominating. And I like how he is with me. I've searched for red flags so I could stop myself from harbouring these feelings but I've come up short.
I like him so much so that I'm starting to think it's not just a fleeting crush.
×××
I should've been smarter, thinking that sitting in on Pedro's training session wouldn't affect me.
I'm exceptionally good at self-sabotage.
Oliver and I set up camp in a lesser frequented corner of the gym from where we have a clear view of Pedro exhausting his body.
His workout is a mix of conditioning and strength training.
Right now, I'm watching him bench-press two times my bodyweight, and he reps it.
When he finishes with his set, he reracks the bar and sits up.
A cutoff t-shirt and basketball shorts grace his body. He pulls at the hem of his shirt, tugging it up and wiping his face with the fabric.
Oliver squeals, handing me one of the wooden building blocks he's playing with. I tear my eyes away from his—very hot—dad and help him stack the pieces on top of each other.
Halfway through his session, Pedro takes off his shirt.
Rick is demonstrating for him, moving back and forth in a fighting stance to avoid the swinging of the punching bag and Pedro's eyes move to me before promptly focusing back on my dad.
Heat radiates off my body. I feel like I'm on fire.
Now my dad's wearing mitts and coaches Pedro to punch his palms in a series of reaction drills.
Sweat drips down Pedro, cascading in ripples until it falls prey to the crevices of his taut ab muscles.
When he fixes his gaze on me once more, he catches my eyes drifting across his torso.
I guiltily jerk my gaze back to his face. He's smirking impishly.
He keeps my eyes captivated. I chew on the inside of my cheeks. His smile lingers, and his gaze falls over me like a blanket.
I'm reading way too into this.
He's just trying not to make it awkward for me by being nice. He probably thinks of me as a child anyway.
×××
My Pedro-infused fantasies aside, Oliver and I have grown closer. On Wednesday we took the subway and explored the market stalls on Union Square. On Friday we spent the forenoon in Central Park, playing in the shade and he fell asleep on me on the way back home. An older woman smiled at us on the subway, said to me what a sweet boy I've got. I didn't correct her.
In such a short time, I have gotten attached to this little boy. He's so smart and vibrant. I enjoy spending time with him, and the more time that passes, the more I hope Pedro doesn't find a replacement nanny. I want to be Oliver's friend, and being his nanny has given me this one thing that I seem to be good at.
On Monday of the next week, while he's in his play area, I open my laptop and go through my emails. I delete a ton of junk mail, a reminder to pay my credit card bill, and then find a response from a recruiter. Dread gurgles through my gut. The dread of being rejected intertwines with the dread of being hired.
It's a rejection letter.
A part of me wants to make dad happy by landing a good-paying big-girl job. Another part of me wants to leave the corporate world behind, and learn another profession, maybe nursing, or go fully academic. And for the life of me, I cannot decide which voice to obey.
I descend into my head over it.
The internal battle takes me out of it for the remainder of the afternoon and by nighttime, it occupies most of my headspace.
Bedtime goes smoothly. We read two chapters of Oliver's current favourite picture book and he dozes off in my arms.
I tuck him in, turn on the baby monitor and his white noise machine before tiptoeing out of the nursery.
In the safety of my room now, I plug my earphones in, put on a playlist that's intended to make me cry and surrender to the heaviness that's been nagging away at me all afternoon.
×××
I rarely let my inhibitions fall and this is one of those rare occasions.
I sway my body while Guilty as Sin? by Taylor Swiftblasts in my ears. I let the music tune out all my self-destructive thoughts and close my eyes.
As the song fades out, I blink away the beginnings of tears.
As my eyes accustom to the dimly lit conditions of my bedroom—the lone source of light is the syrupy lamp on my nightstand—I spot a looming, shadowed figure in my doorway. I recoil in horror.
I do a double take and I'm relieved to find Pedro standing there.
"Jesus Christ, you scared me," I whisper-shriek.
"Shit, sorry, didn't mean to pry," he says apologetically.
I work against the tremble in my hands and unplug my earphones.
He seems to read my mood as he slowly edges into the room. "Hey," he drawls. "Everything okay?"
"I—I, yeah. Everything's okay," I say past the lump in my throat, trying to smile.
"Are you sure?" he probes, approaching me. "It doesn't seem to me everything's okay." His eyes are as warm as the summer sun as he wanders my face.
I can't cope with his attentiveness. "No, please, don't," I beg, my bottom lip quivering. "Just—just don't care about me, okay?"
His brows furrow in concern. "What's going on?"
I squeeze my eyes shut, not bearing his intense gaze, and shake my head at him.
I feel him there, standing over me like a giant question mark.
"Sweetheart?" he calls on me in that honeyed voice, using the same endearment he used in the bar.
Instead of analyzing the effect the petname has on me, I zero in on the stinging pain I inflict on myself by snapping the hair tie on my wrist.
I go to sidestep him, but he catches my wrists in light, loose circles. His thumb moves back and forth over the inseam of my wrists. I get the sense he's trying to soothe me. It's working.
"Hey," he croons, "You can be vulnerable with me, you know?" He lets go of one of my wrists and lifts my chin with his index finger hooked under it, making me look at him.
He studies me, his gaze raw, diligent, unwavering.
"I can tell something is bothering you. Now, if you want to talk about whatever it is, then we'll do that," he coos, maintaining eye contact. "And if you don't, then we'll talk about something else. Let me help you slow it down, flower."
He smoothes my frown and the tenderness of his touch makes the world fall away. "Sounds like a plan?"
"Y-yes," I stutter, incapable of not melting into his touch.
"So, what's it gonna be?" he prompts, gifting me with a placating smile.
I shrug, not planning on saying anything, but suddenly finding myself pouring out words, the comforting warmth of his presence making me say things I wouldn't normally admit aloud to anyone.
"It's just that...I—I'm shameful of my lacking life," I blurt. "I feel like I've been left behind. It's like I've missed the train, like there went my chances to feel how exhilarating and blind first love is." The tightness in my throat threatens to turn into crying. "All my peers are in relationships, planning their weddings and thinking about when they'll start trying for babies, while I'm stuck in this cycle, not meeting people and with no prospect in life." I choke on a swallow. "I'm getting older but not achieving any milestones I thought I would by now."
His stare wanders my face as he listens intently, not a hint of judgment in his expression. Despite the tightness in my throat, I continue.
"And I know I've got all the time so why do I feel rushed?" I ask no one in particular. My shoulders lift then sag. "A part of me just wants to finally experience what I'm missing."
"I've never had a boyfriend, have never been kissed, have never held hands romantically. Nathan aside, no one has asked me out on a date." The beginnings of tears tickle the back of my throat. "I can't help but wonder if it's me. If I'm an uninstresting ugly prude who’s unlovable," I say, choked up.
Saying these thoughts that have sat on my chest for quite some time now feels overwhelming. Facing my feelings isn't liberating, it's crushing.
"Stop," he grumbles, his face grimacing, "Don’t talk about yourself like that."
I blink rapidly to try to withhold the unshed tears. I refuse to cry in front of him. I refuse to.
"It's okay. You can cry. There's no shame in crying," he tells me consolingly then. "You can fall apart and I'll hold you."
A wrenching sob surges into my throat then. As I begin to crumble, I try to apologize to him, but my words come out jumbled and incoherent. And then he speaks into my darkness and the tears spill down my cheeks.
"You're fine, sweet girl," he murmurs.
It's spoken in a way he might say those words to his son if he fell and bumped his head. It's gentle and steady, and works far too well on my chaotic brain.
I don't stop the onslaught of emotion this time. I break, and just like Pedro promised, he's there to catch my pieces, holding them together and keeping them safe until I can piece myself back together.
"Listen to me Maisy," he murmurs, low and serious. "Where you are in life right now is exactly where you should be at. Everyone has their own trajectory. Just because you're at a different stage than what you think your peers are, doesn't mean you're falling behind. Don't compare yours to others," he tells me slowly, allowing me time to take it in.
"And you are loved and worthy of love. If only I could show you," he whispers into my hair.
Hearing his words is like bear-hugging the sun.
I let my pretence fall and just cry.
It's uncanny how comfortable it feels to let myself lean against him in one of only a handful of touches to pass between us in the weeks we've lived together.
He's holding me like he's mastered the art of hugging long ago.
One of his hands cradles the back of my head, applying the right amount of pressure, and brings it to rest against his chest. His other arm slithers around my midsection, and his squish grounds me.
I breathe in the scent of his cologne, and cling to him. He keeps cooing sweet nothings at me, and the deep timbre of his voice accompanied by his stable hold lulls me into a soft stupor.
I peel back a little once I feel semi-normal, trying to apologize for oversharing. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have dumped all of that on you. I—I—."
"Stop. Don't apologize," he drawls. He sweeps the tip of his finger underneath my eyes, wiping away my dried tears. "You can always unburden yourself with me," he says, bringing my head to lay on his chest once more.
The tears start anew. I cannot place his unconditional kindness. I'm not sure why he is the way he is with me.
"Oh, now you're crying again," he observes quietly. "You're okay, babygirl. You're okay." he croons in a tender voice, petting my hair.
The endearment makes me sob harder.
I cry until I'm a rag doll in his arms.
He supports my weight and holds me upright as we stand there, him rocking us side to side. The predictable rhythm sedates me.
There are no sounds around us, only our inhalations and exhalations. He nuzzles his lips against my temple. I ball up my fists in his chest.
Periodically, headlights pass the window pane. An ambulance whooses past. We listen to its wail.
I inhale against his t-shirt. It's a weathered yellow Lakers top. "I like your scent," I tell him, the afterthought slipping me. "Sorry, that's weird to say."
His chest vibrates with a chuckle against my cheek. "I showered after the gym."
I draw back enough to look at him. And the achingly soft expression on his face makes me pout.
Without consciously deciding to do it, my eyes dip to his smooth, raspberry-pink lips and the moustache atop them.
He's Pedro, the way-too-old man whose son I nanny. I need to let go of him. I repeat these sentences in my head.
Instead of obeying my morals, my hands scrape up his arms. They feel amazing. My fingers instinctively follow the ridges of his protruding bicep veins. His muscles flex under my touch. I follow the curve of his shoulders and the breadth of him makes me swallow thickly.
"Maisy," he says warningly.
When I reach the back of his neck, he folds over me, slowly, one of his hands coming to press lightly on my waist. There's a moment of hesitation as our mouths hover close.
I should break this tension that's been building.
But at the same time, I want him to make me feel warm.
I do the bad thing, tip my chin up and press a close-mouthed kiss to his lips.
It's fleeting and feather-light. Our lips barely brush.
My first ever (almost) kiss.
I draw away then, suddenly embarrassed and panicked.
He's going to tell me to pack up my stuff and leave.
To my absolute surprise, he chases me with his mouth and gives me another peck.
My knees buckle.
I fall back on my toes and he follows me, bending to keep our mouths touching.
My body involuntarily lifts towards him.
"This is bad," he grunts against my lips. "We—I shouldn't...want this. I shouldn't want you."
That's when he takes my mouth.
My hands hold his face, loving the way the scruff pricks at my skin. He moans into our kiss, and then his tongue slides against mine. He kisses me deeper, one of his hands curving around my throat to bracket the back of my neck as the other finds purchase on my hip.
"Fuck," he cusses between pulls of my lips. The word, its delivery sends a shock through my spine. I get full-body chills.
His imposing touch makes me feel small and the deliciously domineering way in which he kisses me makes me feel entirely out of control.
"Pedro," I breathe, feeling so much. The heat of desire, the fear of regret, the need for more of this—of him. All of it wages within me, knowing we shouldn't do this and not caring enough to stop. And then, like cold water on a burning fire, a noise stops us both— Oliver's cry pierces the charged space between us.
We separate, my hand automatically touching my kiss-slicked lips. I still feel his mouth on me.
"I'll go," he coughs, his eyes filling with a pang of sadness I don't quite understand.
And then he storms off.
I just stand there, trying to link what just went down with my head.
All my life I've been anticipating the consequences. Whatever just happened, it was new and fun and exciting. I want to give casual Maisy a turn at the wheel.
In a few short minutes, I hear him trudging up the stairs. I steel myself and step out into the hallway. "Pedro?"
He freezes in his doorway, his back to me. "What happened... it was wrong," he sighs, his voice tired.
I feel my courage building, the words rising. Right as I open my mouth to tell him I don't think it was wrong, or even if it was, I might like a break from smart decisions, he exhales heavily and goes on: "It was wrong and it shouldn't have happened. Your father is my coach, and you're Oliver's nanny, goddamnit!" He groans, leaning his head against his door. "If that alarm didn't..." he trails off before adding, "It won't happen again."
I should disagree with him, tell him that I want this—him, us.
I lack the courage.
"We both know it was a mistake," he says definitively, disappearing into his bedroom and taking a shard of my heart with him.
What a perfect timing for my identity crisis; he wants to abide by properties while I want him to do unspeakable things with me.
I shut myself into my bedroom and let the full-body embarrassment consume me.
uppercut - six
summary: Pedro teaches Maisy how to throw a mean punch in his home gym, later he saves her from a handsy Tinder date.
parings: boxer/dbf/single-dad!pedro x fem oc
warnings: Pedro pining, brooding and being overprotective, fem!mc is called names by a pushy Tinder date, mild violence (not towards fem!mc)
wc: 3.7k
series masterlist here.
Pedro
"Am I going up against you?" Maisy quizzes, inching closer, wringing her hands.
We got back from Miami yesterday, and since I had a free afternoon and Oliver went down for his nap, I proposed we have our first boxing lesson. We're now in my home gym, a room with a treadmill, equipment for recovery work, a speed bag on a reflex stand and a suspended punching bag.
I chuckle, shake my head at her. "Maybe next time. First, you need to learn the basics."
"Basics," she echos, nodding once. "Right."
She comes closer, taking in the room. As she passes by the punching bag over to me, she reaches out, running her fingertips along the black leather and gives it a gentle push. The bag swings outward before returning back to her. I observe her, studying the gentle crease between her brows and the twitching half-smile on her cherry lips.
Clearing my throat, I ask, "Do you know how to punch?"
Maisy purses her lips, looking unsure of herself. "I think so."
"Show me, then."
The blow that she delivers to the bag is weak at best. I immediately notice a handful of things that she's doing wrong. When she pulls her arm back and peers up at me, I'm trying my hardest to hold back a smirk.
"What?" she frowns.
"Nothing." I suppress a smile. "It's just...that was cute."
"Cute?" she parrots, narrowing her eyes. She steps back and holds her arm out in invitation. "You do it, then."
"Gladly."
The chain hanging from the ceiling rattles when my fist makes contact with the leather. The punching bag swings forward in an arc before hurtling back in my direction. I stop it with my palms. There's a small smile playing on my lips as I turn to face her.
She crosses her arms over her chest, which enunciates her tits, pushing them up and together. And if I don't go half-hard. I get the idea that wearing a pair of basketball shorts might've been a bad decision.
"Fine," she grumbles. "Tell me what to do."
I have her stand in front of the punching bag, and I stand beside her, studying her posture. "First of all," I start, "you need to make sure that the position of your feet matches the position of your arms."
"What do you mean?" she asks, shooting me a confused pout.
I want to make a joke about her dad owning a boxing academy and how he has a daughter who doesn't know the basics but decide against it. "Like this—," I reach for her shoulders before pausing, my fingers only inches away from her skin. "Is it alright if I touch you?"
She nods wordlessly. I correct her form, slanting her torso to the side before reaching for her arms and bending them at the elbow so that her fingers—now curled into loose fists—are suspended in front of her face.
"If you're angling yourself this way," I say, mimicking her stance, "you need to make sure that your right foot is leading you. But if you stand in the opposite direction—," I change sides, adopting a mirror image of my previous position, "—then it has to be your left foot. Got it?"
"Got it," she says confidently. In her deep concentration that same crease is digging into the space between her eyebrows, and I itch to reach out and flatten it with the pad of my thumb.
"Also," I continue, wrapping my fingers around her delicate wrists, "when you punch, you can't drop your other hand. Keep it up at all times—you need to guard your face."
"Guard my face," she mumbles, mostly to herself. "Okay, cool."
She throws an experimental punch at the bag, and I don't miss the shadow of pain that flashes across her features. My eyes trail down the length of her arm, lingering on her fist. Before she can deliver another jab, I stop her, catching her knuckles in the calloused valley of my palm and halting her movements.
"Keep your thumb on the outside," I instruct, peeling her fingers open and freeing her thumb from beneath them. "You'll break it otherwise. And always strike with your first two knuckles," I tell her, demonstrating. I then step back, jerking my chin toward the bag and encouraging her to take another swing. "Try it, now."
The third blow is better than the first two. She beams at me when a promising smack echoes through the air. I gift her with an approving smile. "Good. That's a start."
"Put me in, Coach," she teases, bringing her fists up to her face and bouncing playfully on the balls of her feet. Her eyes shimmer as she peeks at me from behind her knuckles.
I press my lips together to keep myself composed, but fail and a chuckle escapes. She laughs cheerfully, dropping her arms back to your sides.
"Okay, so I know how to punch," she says. "What's next?"
"Eager much, huh? There are four main punches in boxing," I reply. I take up position in front of the punching bag. "The jab—" I jab with my left fist, pointed and forceful. "—the cross—" I strike with my right hand, driving the weight of my body into the blow. "—the hook—" I curve my left arm, angling it accordingly so that I can deliver a hit to the side of the bag. "—and finally, the uppercut." I bend my elbow, scooping upward so that my fist makes contact with the bottom of the bag.
When I turn to look at her, she's watching me with wide eyes. If I didn't know any better, I'd think that she seemed a bit turned on.
"You alright?"
"Yes," she says immediately. She uses both of her hands to tighten her ponytail. "You're just very—," she pauses, searching for a word. "...dedicated. That's all."
"I've got to be," I shrug. "This is how I make a living." I feel the corners of my mouth quirk up involuntarily with the hint of a smile. "We can't all go to college and become intellectuals."
"I have a bachelor's degree, not a doctorate," she reminds me.
I tusk. "You don't have to downplay your brilliance. You don't give yourself enough credit."
She blushes and I melt. "I—thank you, Pedro. That's really nice of you to say."
"I'm just telling you what I think." I snatch up a pair of padded boxing gloves lying on the floor. "Let's put these on," I say, approaching her. She peeks up at me coyly as I guide her left hand into the glove. I keep my gaze trained downward, avoiding her curious eyes.
One of my hands cups her elbow while the other tugs the Velcro strap tight around her wrist. I do the same with her other hand then back away a little.
"Show me your stance," I order and she takes up position. "Keep your core tight, your elbows tucked in." I correct her form. "We're gonna start off with a simple drill." I show her the moves as I explain. "You have a jab followed by a cross, then into your shuffle before repeating."
We do a few synchronized before I step out of the way and study her execution.
Without my demonstration, she messes it up. "I'm totally helpless." The frustration in her voice makes me smile.
"You're not helpless. This is your first time trying a new sport," I tell her comfortingly. "If I can offer some feedback," I trail off and she urges me on with a nod. "Your punches need to be a little more aggressive. And pick someone your own size, don't let your hands drop. Here." I move behind her, wrap my arms around her, and cover her hands with my own. "Adjust your grip. Fist right up to your chin, palms facing you, elbows tucked in. Perfect."
I tell myself to let her go, to find another way to instruct her, but I don't move, can't.
"Now, we want our punches to sting. Visualize you have a rubber band attached to your wrist, so it's snapping back each time you throw a punch." I move our arms over her shoulder as we throw a practice punch. "Remember to lead with your first two knuckles."
We do another punch together. She looks up at me from the corner of her eye. "Like this?"
"Yes, just like this."
Neither of us makes a move and we stand there, our bodies touching. My breathing fans the supple skin of her neck. She shivers in my arms and then turns her head slightly, looking up at me through her lashes. "What's next?"
I stare down at her and blink when I see desire swimming in her warm eyes. Desire that shouldn't be there. Desire that is absolutely mirrored in mine.
Horrified, I step back and clear my throat.
I can't do this, I reason with myself. I can't lust after her. She's much too young. She's my son's nanny and my boss's daughter.
I hate that the loss of her feels as though ice has been dumped over my head. "Let's work on your stance. You need to be light on your feet."
×××
Maisy
No matter the circumstances, it's inadvisable to start lusting after your dad's friend/client, and still here I am.
I try to push any Pedro's mouth-shaped curiosity to the back of my brain, but it's not easy. Especially when I have to see him every single day for a summer.
I need to gain some emotional composure before I make a complete fool out of myself. I need someone who can make me feel the way he does but without the complications. That was my thought process when I downloaded Tinder last night on a whim.
I matched with twenty-four-year-old Nathan an hour later. It wasn't long into our conversation when he asked if I wanted to go for a drink. He seemed likeable over text so I agreed.
I'm coiling my hair into a slicked-back low chignon when Pedro knocks on my open door.
"Hey." He beams, his eyes flickering down my body and back up. I curse my heart for pattering in response.
"What's up?" I ask as I secure my bun into place with bobby pins. I hate that my innate reaction to him checking me out is baby deer knees.
"I—I was going to put on a movie. Wanted to see if you would join me, but it—it looks like you're going somewhere?"
"I um, I have a date," I mumble, keeping my eyes trained on the collar of his shirt.
"Oh." He stands up straighter, "Wh—where? With whom?"
"A bar on the Lower East Side, and some guy I met on Tinder."
"Tinder?" His brows furrow.
"It's a dating app."
"I know what Tinder is. I just didn't take you as a girl who uses dating apps," he shrugs. He forces a smile, then scratches his stubbled chin. "Well, um have fun."
I nod, "I'm about to be late, so I've got to go." I grab my purse off my chair, scamper past him and begin down the stairs.
"Be safe," he calls from the top of the stairs.
The implication in his words makes me go red. I ignore the knot in my stomach and set off, determined to make myself forget about Pedro with Nathan.
Pedro
I'm brooding on the couch.
There's nothing wrong with her going out and enjoying herself. She's entitled to that. So why do I feel bumped that she went out when I was the one who encouraged her since I didn't have an afternoon session and could watch my son for the night?
I open the fridge, aimlessly rummaging through the contents. I have three boxes of blueberries because she mentioned in passing how those are her favourite berries. Her preferred selection of Italian cuts. I even ordered Ethiopian coffee beans purely because she likes the acidic taste better.
Goddamnit. I'm an absolute simp, adjusting my taste and preferences to hers. I fucking hope she didn't take it the wrong way, didn't think I was trying to accommodate her.
Because I wasn't. Isn't.
Really.
At least, that's what I'm supposed to tell myself.
I just want the fridge to be stocked with things she likes. I want her to feel at home here because it's her home too—even if just for the summer.
The realization rams into my chest.
I want her to want to be here.
×××
I nod off on the couch and wake in a panic to my phone's ringtone.
I check the ID caller before answering. "Maisy?"
"Pedro," she breathes my name, her voice shaky and anxiety-ridden.
That causes me to sit up. "What's wrong?"
"I didn't know who else to call, sorry," she mumbles, sniffling.
"Don't apologize, flower," I tell her, the endearment falling naturally from my lips. I comb a hand through my hair. "Take a breath for me and tell me what's going on."
"It's not a big deal, but ... can you—can you come and pick me up? Nathan, my date, he's a bit pushy."
My mouth goes dry as rage seeps through every pore of my body. If he so much as laid a fucking finger on her without her consent, I may as well text my agent to mentally prepare to bail me out of custody tonight.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and take a cleansing breath. I swallow, lubricating my parched mouth so I can speak. "Where are you?" I'm already off the couch, dashing up the stairs to get Oliver and heading to the door, "Send me your location, sweetheart, and I'll be there as quick as I can."
"Will you stay on the line with me?" she pleads tentatively and my heart twinges.
A ping lets me know she sent me her pinned location. I open it and pull up directions as I settle my sleeping son into his car seat.
"Of course, flower," I croon. I lower into the driver's seat. "Are you somewhere safe? Can he see you?"
"No, I'm—I'm in the ladies room."
"Okay, good. Stay there while I get there." I say, pulling out from the parking space.
During the fifteen-minute drive it takes me to get to the bar she's at, I keep her company, telling her how smart and brave it was from her to ask for help. Judging by her slowing breathing, my words of consolation calm her down.
People are milling in and out of the bar, holding bottles of beer and smoking. I'm itching to smoke a cig too to regulate my emotions. Instead, I take a centring breath.
"I'm pulling up now. I'll hang up and meet you at the front of the bar, alright?" I ask, slowing to a stop by the curb.
"Okay," she says, her tone fragile.
"You're gonna be fine," I coo. "Walk with purpose. And if he tries anything, I'll handle him."
I lower the driver's window to let some air in, kill the engine and get out of the car. I spot the bouncer and walk up to him. "Hey, I need you to watch my son while I get my girl, yeah?" He opens his mouth to respond but I pat him on the back "Thanks, man."
I stride in, surveying my surroundings. The bar is packed with mostly twenty-somethings who are swinging shots before continuing to throw shapes to the deafening music.
My eyes scan the scene before they come to a landing on Maisy, standing awkwardly by the end of the bar. A burnt orange spaghetti-strapped top accentuates her bosom and reveals a strip of her tummy's milky skin. Cut off black jeans hug her hips and she wears a pair of white rubber-soled Adidas sneakers.
I try not to stare but her backside looks absolutely fire in those jeans.
My strides are big and commanding, parting the crowd as I bulldoze my way to her.
"Hey," I say over the music, grabbing her attention. I rub the back of my hand over the back of her arm in hopes of comforting her.
"You came." She swallows thickly and her eyes gloss over, her lips quivering.
"Of course I did." I smile at her, my hand trailing down her forearm before falling away. She reaches for me then, interlocking our fingers.
My heart spasms.
I give her a reassuring squeeze. "Let's get you out of here."
She nods and I pull her with me, creating a path for us when she slows, prompting me to look back over my shoulder.
"Dude," her date stops us. "What do you think you're doing? She's here with me."
He's slung his arm around Maisy's shoulders. "Get your fucking hands off her," I bark out.
"Whoa, man. Who are you? Her keeper?" Maisy's date laughs like the unaware man that he is.
I blow out a breath through my nose, reining in my anger before picking up his sleeve with my thumb and forefinger, as if he might have a disease, and moving him off her. I then step around Maisy so that my body is between them two.
I square my shoulders and the height and body composition difference is obvious. He's skinny with barely any muscles on him and is maybe a few years older than Maisy. The Patagonia vest he's wearing tells me he probably works in finance.
"Trust me, dude, I'm not the guy you want to piss off." I husk, invading his personal space.
We face off, and I can almost see the words on the tip of his tongue. He wants to say something but doesn't, and I let the silent anger radiating off my body do the talking for me.
He tries to play it cool. "Alright, whatever, she's not worth the hustle anyway, she's prude as fuck. Good luck tryna fuck her."
As the words leave his mouth all I see is red. He tries to back away but I fist his collar. "What the fuck did you just say?" I seethe through gritted teeth.
He holds his hands up in surrender like the coward he is. "Nothing. I didn't mean it, I swear," he blurts.
I give his collar a tug and he goes wide-eyed. "Come on now, at least own your shit." I tower over him. "What did you call her now, huh?" I challenge.
The quick flash of a camera phone reminds me who I am. Whatever I decide to do in these next moments has the potential to end up on the front pages of gossip magazines tomorrow.
I feel a gentle tugging on the back of my jacket. "He's not worth it, Pedro. Let's go home. I want to go home," Maisy pleads.
I pin her date with a dismissing look before—begrudgingly so because if it were up to me I'd surely give the guy a black eye—releasing my grip on him but not without giving his chest a push. He stumbles a little, white as a ghost. I smirk.
Turning, I face Maisy. I slide a hand to her lower back, ushering her to walk ahead of me. Maisy latches onto my other hand, her palm significantly smaller than mine, and we make our way to the exit.
Outside, she lets go of me and rushes towards my blacked-out Audi which is parked illegally in front of the bar.
I tuck a fifty-dollar bill into the breast pocket of the bouncer's polo shirt and catch up to her.
Maisy
I tug on the door handle but the car is locked. Pedro's massive hand lands on his car's roof as he reaches me. "Wait, M, look at me a second," he says softly. Cupping my face with his free palm, he checks me up and down. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine. I promise. Take me home." I tell him, avoiding his probing eyes and instead catalogue his outfit.
He's sporting a gorgeously broken-in leather bomber jacket, a simple black t-shirt and blue jeans paired with his usual New Balance sneakers.
Me on the other hand, I'm scantily clad and in the still of the night, I'm cold. I rub heat into my arms.
Taking notice of my shivering, Pedro sheds his leather jacket and drapes it around my shoulders in a halo of his cologne. I draw the jacket around my shoulders, burrowing into the neck. It's warm from his body like it's his body around mine.
"There, that's better," he croons, chucking me under the chin.
He unlocks the car and opens the passenger's door for me.
For a second I want to ask him if I can hug him but that would cross a line.
"Thank you for saving me," I whisper. "And I'm sorry if I woke you with my call."
"I'm glad you called," he tells me, his eyes a world of tenderness. "Don't want to imagine what would've happened if you didn't."
I press my lips into a thin line, nodding. "No more Tider dates for me. Nathan convinced me of that."
"I'm sorry your date didn't go as you planned," he says, but I get the impression he isn't all that sad about my date's culmination.
I get in the car and he closes the door. In the rearview mirror, I see Oliver drooling in his sleep. I nibble on the inside of my cheek, feeling increasingly bad for waking them in the middle of the night.
Pedro lowers into the driver's seat and turns the ignition on.
"I didn't mean to give you any trouble." He follows my eyes in the rearview mirror to Oliver.
"Your safety was more important than disturbing his sleeping schedule," he says quietly, reversing the car out of its illegal parking slot.
.
.
.
taglist: @biapascal
uppercut - five
summary: Maisy witnesses Pedro's first victory of the boxing season
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: talks of sexual orientation, fem!mc being pathetic and self-sabotaging, mild description of violence (in the form of boxing)
wc: 3k+
series masterlist here.
Maisy
The next morning, we meet up with Pedro's team which includes a physiotherapist, my dad and a second coach at the airport. We get through check-in and security fairly quickly and hunker down in the business lounge while we wait for our flight to Miami to be called.
After a tactical bathroom break before gate info, I return to the spot we claimed as ours in the lounge. On my way back I grab a fruit salad from the buffet and pop a piece of mango into my mouth.
The four other men I'm travelling with are standing in a circle, using a tablet to go over film of Pedro's opponent for tomorrow's match.
Oliver is perched on his dad's left hip, his head pillowed on Pedro's sculpted shoulder, and as soon as I'm close enough, the boy hurls himself at me. I take him but not before Pedro kisses the top of his son's head and murmurs a thank you to me.
Oliver and I sit down on the couch we deposited our cabin bags on. I situate him on my lap, one of my arms going around his back to prevent him from falling down. I feel Pedro's gaze following my movements and as I look over at him, he gifts me with a smile then turns to face my dad and the other trainers accompanying us.
Oliver makes a humming sound, restoring my attention. "What's up, Bug?" I ask, eating a piece of strawberry. His eyes go all big and he smacks his lips together. "Want a bite?" I fork a slice of banana and he eagerly starts at it.
While we wait for boarding, Oliver and I share the fruit salad. He drools all over himself and I pull a cloth from his diaper bag to clean him. As I do, I catch Pedro stealing glances at the two of us. A silent conversation passes us: Hi and Hi back, and You're watching me and No, you're watching me.
A light giggle bubbles out of me.
At that, a debonair smile spreads slowly across his stubbled face. He tucks his tongue into the side of his cheek and winks.
The fluttery warmth in my stomach curdles.
I curse at him inwardly for the way he makes me feel.
When they announce our gate, he strolls over to us, hands in his pockets. He's wearing a baseball cap, a plain grey T-shirt, black joggers and his usual New Balances. Even in a simple outfit he manages to look spruce and otherworldly handsome.
We merge into the line that's forming around the gate. Perdo wordlessly takes my tote bag from my shoulder, sliding it down my arm and carrying it for me alongside his personal bag while I carry his son.
"This is us," he says on the plane now, slowing to a stop. We've got a whole row to ourselves at business class. All six cubicles with reclining cushioned chairs, one with a special seat for Oliver strapped into it. Pedro's personnel take their respective seats. I put Oliver in his seat and take the aisle seat directly next to it, presuming Pedro would need my help with his son during the flight.
He puts our bags in the overhead luggage compartment. "I thought you wanted to spend some time with your dad," he says. "Don't feel like you need to hang out with Oliver on the plane. I'll be with him and if I need to go over film or something he can be with me for that."
"But I like watching him."
Pedro's eyes dart to me. "Okay. I just don't want to burn you out on him."
"It's fine, really," I assure him with a placating smile. "I like spending time with him."
He looks at me with a softness I've only ever seen him wear with his son. "I know. He likes spending time with you too."
The flight and the rest of the day ensues without a hitch. We check in at our hotel and everyone disperses to freshen up. My dad then invites me out for dinner and after Pedro reassures me he doesn't need help with Oliver, we go out into the city and explore for the remainder of the night.
After my mom passed away, I became even closer to my dad. He's always been a role model for me and I heavily rely on his guidance. I consider him a wise, well-mannered, both street and book-smart guy. He gave me the most wonderful childhood—he never missed birthdays or school recitals, read me bedtime stories when I was still little, and gave me permission to follow my dreams.
I couldn't have asked for a better man to raise me. I'm eternally grateful for him.
While I was in another State to get my education, we stayed close. We Facetimed regularly and he pretty much advised me through college.
I had quite the unconventional college experience; I didn't party, didn't join societies nor did I put myself out there. Instead, I focused on my classes, did all my readings, and passed my exams with flying numbers.
I remember dad asking me after I finished my junior year and still nothing panned out romantically if I were into girls. I told him the truth, that no, I was not into girls and he didn't pry about it ever since. I guess he thought I wasn't ready to date yet, which wasn't entirely a misconception but I also knew that it couldn't be just my reserved exterior that warded off boys. I wasn't getting approached, not ever, and no one had ever invited me out on a date.
For a long time, I genuinely believed something was horribly wrong with me. I even debated with myself that I might be asexual. Those thoughts were fueled by the fact that even though I played with myself, I didn't make myself orgasm, still haven't, and nobody truly has aroused me—at least not how Pedro has in the past two weeks.
By my last year of college, I considered my lack of romantic—and sexual—partners as a byproduct of my asexual tendencies (I can count on one hand how many times I found a guy handsome) and my introversion-induced self-isolation. Instead of pursuing those few boys I've found remotely attractive, I retreated into my fantasies: I read romance and daydreamed about my book-boyfriends. Rather than searching for real connections with other human beings, I dreamt up enough to keep my desires and urges satisfied; a habit I still default to.
To this day I often catch myself imagining alternative lives where I chose to be a doctor and now I live with my blue-eyed boyfriend who rock-climbs, or a sugar daddy took me under his wings and now I owe my own pottery studio, selling my craft. When I'm teleported back into reality from one of these trances, I faintly feel sorry for myself but not enough to offset any kind of action that would put me out of my self-inflicted misery.
Apart from my parents and other family members, nobody has ever loved me unconditionally. And lately, despite reconciling myself to the fact that apparently, I'm not most guys' type, at twenty-one I find myself carving affection, both physical and emotional.
God, I feel pathetic, asking someone to love me when all I ever do is beg to be alone.
After my dad and I get back to the hotel, I lie awake in bed, staring at the adjoining door that opens to Pedro's and Oliver's suite, and feel very homesick for arms that have never held me.
×××
The next morning I join Pedro and his personnel for breakfast then fifth-wheel with Oliver in the corner of Pedro's hotel room while they huddle on the match's game plan. Following lunch me and Oliver move to my room to let Pedro get on with his pre-match rituals, and we spend our afternoon watching cartoons on YouTube and reading picture books.
Originally, Oliver and I would've stayed in but when I get a text from my dad saying that he managed to get us a pass for Pedro's match, I jump on the offer.
This will be my first time going to one of his matches and just the mere thought of seeing him in the ring, in his element awakens a horde of butterflies in my stomach.
When he wakes from his afternoon nap, I get Oliver dressed in a pair of forest green trousers and a white polo shirt. I decide on a white and muted pink, tiered ruffle sundress, accessorizing it with my everyday jewleries; my silver droplet necklace and four dainty rings.
At the venue, a hostess shows us to a private box above the bleachers and tells me that later on Jason, Pedro's physio and Sam, his second coach will be coming up here to watch the fight.
We arrive just in time because a few minutes later, they dim the light and the crowd roars in anticipation. I stand right before the window overlooking the arena with Oliver slung over my hip as the boxers get their introduction.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is the main event of the evening. Twelve three-minute rounds for the WBO cruiserweight championship of the world," the speaker hollers. "Miami, I need you to get out of your seats, raise your drinks high and get wild. Let us meet the fighters."
Pedro's opponent walks out first. "Fighting out of the blue corner, wearing blue and red trunks is Cole Wayne." He's the same build as Pedro but appears less agile. "From last season, he holds a record of fifteen victories with nine of those wins coming by way of knockout." The man cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders with a smug expression.
"That's your daddy's opponent," I tell Oliver. "He seems like a brat, don't you agree?"
He makes a jumbled sound and I take it as his version of yes.
"And now, his opponent, fighting out of the red corner, wearing black and green." The crowd erupts as Pedro makes his walkout in his robe. He's focused and in his head, I can tell solely by his posture. The speaker goes on, "He holds an undefeated professional record of twenty victories versus no defeats with sixteen of those wins coming by way of knockout." He climbs into the ring, slipping under the ropes, and like that, he sets my heart aflutter. "Introducing the former WBA InterContiental Cruiserweight Campion. Ladies and gentlemen, Pedro 'The Viper' Pascal."
He lowers the hood of his robe, revealing his perfect brown hair and the most tender brown eyes I've ever looked into. His features and his personality are a stark contrast to his robust, mesomorphic body.
My dad slips the robe from his form, and I see Pedro shirtless for the first time. Hard, defined muscles cover his upper body, with visible obliques. His trunks cut mid-thigh, and his legs are thick and cut.
He bounces on the spot, shaking off his arms. His muscles ripple and my stomach pulls taut.
The referee calls the two boxers over. Cole invades his personal space but Pedro remains stoic and collected. "Okay boys," the referee says, "At call break I expect you to stop punching and take a step back. Don't deliberately throw punches on the back of the head. Protect yourselves at all times. Any questions?" The two of them eye each other. "Alright. Touch gloves." They do so before returning to their respective corners of the ring.
"That there," I point at Pedro, "Is your daddy."
Oliver claps and squeals, his precious eyes wide with excitement.
"Is your dad the best boxer in the world, huh, buddy?"
He nods his head eagerly, though I know he doesn't have any idea what I'm asking.
Jason and Sam join us in the box then. They greet me with polite smiles and wave at Oliver before taking their seats to my right where a couch is positioned in front of the window.
In the ring, my dad feeds Pedro his mouthpiece before leaving the platform to take his spot at the ringside.
I fix the noise-cancelling headphones on Oliver—they look comically big on him—and zero in on the elevated platform.
The bell sounds and the fight begins.
Pedro is quick and light on his feet, slipping and ducking any incoming punch. In the first two rounds, Cole is the initiator, trying to force the pace but Pedro doesn't let him.
In the third round, he takes over and by the fourth one, it's clear as the sky he's got the experience going for him. He lends a few stinging jabs and crosses, throwing Cole off balance. He tries with an uppercut but Pedro guards his face with his gloved hands, then delivers a quick right hook in the ribs.
I watch with batted breaths as the match unfolds.
Another punch disorients Cole and Pedro lets loose a torrent of hard-landing jabs.
His punches are precise and lethal, and the way he conducts himself in the ring has got me handing in my feminism card for the night.
He wins in round five with a vicious right uppercut that has Cole toppling. The referee raises his hand high into the air, declaring him as the victor.
Pedro's eyes scan the faces in the crowds, his chest heaving with heavy breaths, and as his gaze rises, he finds me and pins me with a look, a glint in his eyes and his lips curled into a devilish smirk.
I feel a zing of awareness between my thighs.
"What do you say, Maisy? He's a hell of a boxer, isn't he?" Sam speaks from beside me.
I clear my throat. "Yeah, he really is," I whisper, not daring to take my eyes off Pedro. "He's a knockout."
The speaker asks him for an interview and he begrudgingly breaks eye contact.
I deflate and can only hope Sam and Jason didn't notice the physical effect their boxer has on me.
Surely this is my cue to get a therapist because something is terribly wrong with me if I think we stand a chance.
×××
Pedro enters his hotel suite stealthily. Oliver is fast asleep in the portable crib provided by the hotel, and I've already showered and changed into my nightwear.
He knocks on my door which I've left ajar. I hum in acknowledgement and he steps inside, closing the door behind him so that we can have a conversation and not have to whisper.
"Congrats on your win," I say, climbing out of bed.
He's in the same joggers he wore for the flight yesterday and a simple white t-shirt. His hair is still wet from his post-match shower.
"Thanks," he murmurs. "I liked having the two of you in the crowd."
I hand him the baby monitor. "Oliver liked being there for you."
"And what about you?" he asks in undertones, tentatively. His fingers brush against mine as he takes the device from me.
"Uhum, I—, it was a great match," I mumble, refusing to meet his stare. I touch my necklace to do something with my hands.
"Okay, well, as per usual, thanks for taking care of Oliver," he says, smiling softly. He turns to leave but I stop him.
"Pedro?"
"Yeah?" He faces me.
"I actually—," I pause, unsure how to continue, "I was wondering if I could ask you something."
"Sure," he says, rubbing his hands on his joggers. "Go ahead."
"It might be kind of weird," I warn. "Please don't laugh at me."
He shakes his head, granting me with his softest eyes yet. "I won't."
"Would you—," I begin, nibbling on my bottom lip, "—teach me how to box?"
"I—," he recoils slightly, taken aback by the question. "What?"
"Would you teach me how to box?" I repeat, though my voice is significantly smaller and much more hesitant. "I want to learn how to defend myself."
"Against what?" he asks, his brows knitting together in concern. "Is everything alright?"
My insides warm at his unreasonable protectiveness. "Everything's fine." I wave away his worries with an inattentive flick of my hand. "It's just that, when we, Oliver and I go on our daily adventures, I want to feel safe. And I think knowing how to throw a punch would help ease some of that anxiety."
"Did something happen while you were out? Did someone try to hurt you or Oliver?" he urges, voice low and serious.
"No, no one has hurt or tried to," I tell him calmly. "But I want to know how to react if someone did try something."
Pedro's eyes narrow as he studies my face. "You come to me if they do." I nod firmly. "What do you want to learn?" he asks.
"Anything," I answer breathlessly. "Everything."
The corner of his mouth quirks up a little, a small chuckle rumbling in his chest. "How about I teach you the basics first?"
I nod in agreement. "And please don't tell my dad I want to learn self-defence, he'd freak out." I rush to add.
His smile falls again. "Maisy," he rasps my name lowly, warningly. "Are you sure there's no reason for me to worry?"
"No, nobody is harassing me I promise. Just—," I let out a breath. "It's just Rick doesn't have to know, alright?"
There's a pause and he uses his X-ray eyes on me. "Alright," he echoes finally.
"Alright," I parrot and avert my eyes.
A moment of tension-laden silence descends on the room. "I—we should get some sleep, we've got a flight to catch tomorrow." I remind him quietly, tossing my thumb over my shoulder towards the bed.
"You're right." He touches his lips, scratches his bearded jaw. "I'll, uhm, see you in the morning," he drawls and goes back to his room, closing the adjoining door.
.
.
.
taglist: @biapascal
uppercut - four
summary: As Maisy settles in and slowly becomes an integral part of Pedro's and Oliver's everyday life, Pedro wages an internal battle over his budding feelings for his coach's daughter.
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: mentions of a twelve year age gap
wc: 2.8k
series masterlist here.
Pedro
After our heart-to-heart conversation over a bottle of red two days ago, Maisy's been occupying the forefront of my thoughts.
Scrubbing a hand across my face, I make my way downstairs to get my morning cup of coffee. I move around stealthily, a skill I mastered the moment Oliver came into my life. I unload the dishwasher and draw the curtains while the coffee machine powers up. I go into the living room to let the morning light in when I spot Maisy. I'm surprised to find her already out of bed, she usually wakes an hour behind me.
I haven't seen her from the kitchen because the back of the couch hid her petite form. She's in her typical sleepwear attire—a pair of shorts that reveal her slender legs and a cosy hoodie to ward of the morning chill. She lies on the couch, curled up on her side, clutching a hand to her lower belly. "Are you okay?" I speak softly in hopes of not startling her.
"I'm fine," she answers with her eyes closed.
She doesn't look fine. She looks like she's having the period of hell. She winces.
"Have you taken anything yet?" I tread carefully.
"I took two Aspirins at five am." Even her words sound painful.
Having a period must seriously suck.
I check the time on my phone. "You can alternate with Motrin. I have some in my gym bag," I offer.
She just nods, rubbing her thumb across the expanse of her stomach. I grab two pills and bring them back with a glass of water and hand it to her. She takes them gratefully.
"Thanks," she mumbles, flopping back against the cushions, closing her eyes once more. "How do you know all these things?"
"I'm thirty-four. I've been with enough women to know the drill. Also, have you seen any box match? My body is constantly in pain." I say and a little smile tugs on the corners of her perfectly pink lips.
After my forenoon training session, I stop off at a bodega and grab her some feminine hygiene products, just in case. My kindness certainly doesn't have anything to do with my dislike of seeing her in discomfort, I lie to myself.
When I arrive home, I locate her in Oliver's play area. She's camping on the floor with my son as they play with building blocks. I drop the bag of tampons and pads by her feet. "Didn't know what you preferred so I got a selection," I mutter.
Frowning, she peers into the top of the bag. I watch as her expression morphs with emotion. "You didn't have to. Let me get my wallet."
She moves to stand but I wave her off. "It's okay. Don't worry about that."
She gives me a bashful smile. She already seems to be feeling better. The Motrin must be working. "Have you had anything for lunch?" She shakes her head. "How does a grilled cheese sound?"
"No, Pedro, you really don't have to do all that," she protests but I'm already halfway to the kitchen.
"I have to throw something together for lunch anyways, so you want a grilled cheese or not?"
She groans. "Ugh! Fine. Make me one."
I'm aware that what I'm doing isn't slick, and that my curiosity towards her is entirely wrong. Taking care of her on her period and buying her feminine hygiene products sound far too boyfriend-y to me.
I am not attracted to Maisy. Not even a little. I tell myself but my dick doesn't seem to care.
×××
The next day, she goes on a coffee run with Oliver. I know because she comes by the gym to tell me about it with a proud smile on her face.
It's the first time she's come to the gym since I hired her to nanny Oliver. She burst through the door, radiating eternal sunshine. My son is strapped to her chest in a baby sling, his head resting on her chest, his arms and legs slathered in sun cream.
She greets Magda at the front desk, turning her body so the receptionist can better see Oliver who squeals in greeting.
Maisy is heading towards me now and my heart starts working overtime. I stop the swinging of the sandbag with my hands, discard my boxing gloves and comb my fingers through my curls.
She's wearing a floral print sundress paired with white tennis shoes and her hair is styled in a dutch braid. A few whips of baby hair have come loose, I feel myself wanting to reach up and tuck them behind her delicate ear. Instead, I rub my thumb and forefinger together.
"We got you coffee," she chimes, holding a small takeaway cup. "It's a double shot, no sugar, no milk." I open my mouth to protest, but she beats me as she adds, "A thank you for the other day."
"Thanks." I take it from her, giving it a swirl before swiging it. "What did you guys do today?"
Maisy toys with Oliver's hands that are dangling at his sides. "We went to a quaint little coffee shop, sat on the terrace and people-watched," she says. "We were brave around strangers, didn't we, Bug?"
"Oh, you were?" I ask, petting my son's head lovingly. He perks up at the sound of my voice.
"Dadda," he exclaims.
I chuckle. "That's right, buddy, I'm your daddy."
"Do you, uhm," she swallows thickly, heat colouring the apples of her cheeks. Have me uttering the word daddy made her blush? "Do you want me to get him out of this thing so you can hold him?" Her hands fiddle with the straps of the sling.
"No, that's alright," I assure her. I let my son clutch onto my thumb and we stay quiet for a moment. From the corner of my eyes, I see her take in the space around us.
Sandbags of various sizes and shapes hang from the ceiling, behind us two boxing rings stand on elevated platforms with ropes squaring them.
In one of the rings, two shirtless twenty-something guys fight against one another. I wonder briefly if she finds either of them attractive. She probably does; they're her age, childless and universally good-looking.
To our right, there's a handful of rowing machines and assault bikes and a mobility area. There's a hallway to our left leading to the locker rooms and coaches' offices.
"I'm done for today. I've gotta take a shower and change but if you guys wait, we can drive back together." I speak up, letting go of my son's tiny hand.
"Sure," Maisy agrees with a beaming smile, smoothing a hand down Oliver's hair.
"Okay, I'll be quick," I say, shoving my workout gear into my duffle bag. "Your dad's still here if you want to say hi to him," I tell her, walking backwards to the locker rooms.
Once outside, I walk her to the private parking lot behind the gym. I've got Oliver perched on my forearm and my gym bag dangling from my other shoulder.
"Do you need help with that?" Maisy offers.
"No, it's alright, I got it."
We get to my car and I open the passenger door for her. She lowers into the seat with a sweet, coy smile I don't miss playing on her kissable mouth.
Shooing away my controversial desires, I put my duffle bag in the trunk before situating Oliver in his car seat.
"I'd imagine you rich people drive more lavish cars," she says and our eyes meet in the rearview mirror.
I laugh. "Well, first of all, my car is on the lavish side of the spectrum." I drive a sleek, black Audi A8. "And second of all, I'd say your dad is pretty well off too, don't you agree?"
"Okay, you got me there, but an Audi? Come on, man."
I give the straps of my son's car seat a gentle tug to make sure they're tight but not too tight around his body.
"Hey, I love my car. Plus, I don't need a flashier one." I tell her, getting behind the wheel. "I don't blow my money on things for the sake of having them. That's just not who I am. I have like ten shirts in my wardrobe."
"Then what do you do with your money?"
I slow to a stop at a red light. "I donate half of my income to charity."
"Really? Where to?"
I glance over at her with an impish grin. "Well, currently I'm housing this unemployed college graduate. Total charity case. Tragic story, really."
She lightly swats at my arm, laughing. "Shut up."
The traffic light turns green and I start driving again. "I donate to lesser-known nonprofits that serve impoverished schoolchildren," I divulge, taking on a more serious tone. "My main goal is making sure kids have the textbooks they need for class and food for lunch. And part of my sponsorships is that every year my sponsors have to match my donation in gifting sportwear to kids who need something to wear in order to be active," I elaborate. "There's so much more that could be done but I have no idea how. It feels overwhelming."
Later that night, once I tucked Oliver in, I knock on her door.
She invites me in. I push the door open but decide to linger in the doorway. "I'm gonna put on Gladiator II. Wanna join?" I propose, leaning my forearm on the doorframe.
She's pottering around the room, storing away folded clothes. "I would love to, but I haven't even seen part one."
"Then let's watch part one first."
She chuckles lightly, sweetly. I curse at myself and my obvious desperation to spend more time with her.
"When's showtime?"
"Whenever you want."
"Alright. I'll be downstairs in a minute," she says, and as she breezes past me to the guest bathroom, her flowery scent heads me.
As inconspicuous as I can be, I inhale every note of her smell.
Then a wave of guilt washes over me.
This isn't right. Me lusting after my coach's daughter, after the girl who looks after my son, it couldn't get any more morally grey than this.
I should shut down my developing feelings for her because she's way too young for me and even if age wasn't a problem, there's no way in hell she thinks of me as I think of her.
I hate myself for not being strong enough to close the door on my selfish feelings.
×××
The next day I only have my morning gym session since two days from now I'll be in the ring. To prepare I'm tapering which means less time in the gym and more time resting.
When I get home, the house is loud with cackles of glee. The sounds guide me into the kitchen where Oliver and the girl who is rapidly climbing the ranks to be my second favourite person are baking.
Maisy's nose is covered in flour as is Oliver up to his elbows. He's displaying a toothy grin and is clapping enthusiastically, making dust clouds.
Maisy's got my son situated on her left hip and as he wiggles in her arms, her sundress inches up. I give the bare skin an appreciative glance. She sees me do it. Wearing a bashful expression, she tugs the fabric down.
"We—well, I made cookies." She slides a plate in front of me across the kitchen island.
"Chocolate chip?" I ask with a smirk playing on my mouth, my gaze lifting to meet hers.
She lets Oliver down and leans on her elbows. "Mhm. Whoever bakes them with raisins needs to be locked up."
I chuckle and grab one. "Agreed," I say through a mouthful and as it dissolves on my tongue, I let out an obnoxious moan. "Maisy, these are ridiculously good." I take another bite.
My compliment makes her beam. "Thank you," she mumbles softly.
We share a cookie in companionable silence while watching Oliver crawl across the floor. Then I suggest we go out for coffee and she obliges me with it, even lets me pay for her iced latte.
We take our coffees to go and drink it in the nearby park. We lounge in the grass, Oliver squirming on his back between our bodies. She asks me about my training strategy and how I feel about my upcoming match. I tell her that I'll be getting the jitters the morning of but as for now, I feel confident about it. Then I inquire about her job-hunting. She gives a terse answer and I spare her my many follow-up questions. Instead, I get her talking about her degree. Her eyes shine as she explains Wallerstein's world system theory and how that changed herperception of international relations. What she's saying is so complicated for me that I lose track after the first couple of sentences but still nod along to make her feel like she isn't boring me because she truly isn't.
At home that night, I give Oliver a bath and I shower while Maisy watches him. Then I take over once more and get my son bed-ready in a pair of snug pj's. We work on his walk a bit before I read him a story and put him down.
He's out in a matter of minutes, giving me plenty of time to pack both his and my suitcases for our flight tomorrow.
As I pack, I fall into a meditative trance. By now I do this on autopilot. I no longer stress or give too much significance to my upcoming match, knowing I put in the work. I have enough seasons behind me to feel calm about it.
I used to get anxious many days prior to my matches and that took a toll on me mentally. Over the years, Rick and I worked on building up my confidence and figuring out a system that removes some of the unproductive stress from my training.
Boxing often is a mind game rather than a physical one so my strategy adapted. Training in my thirties is less about my physique and technique and more about maintaining it while strengthening my mental health. I think my mental clarity is what differentiates me from the other boxers. I throw a solid punch and have great footwork but being there mentally when we're on the umpteenth round is what matters.
I zip up the suitcases and carry them downstairs.
"Can we watch Gladiator II when you're done?" Maisy calls from the living room.
I stop under the archway leading into the space. "Did you pack your bags?" I quiz, hands on my hips.
"All packed and ready to go," she promises.
We're maybe one-fourth of a way into the film when she tells me offhandedly I'm the real-life version of Marcus Acacius but younger, and since she spends all one hundred and fifty-six minutes of the movie drooling over the Roman General I take it as a compliment.
I try my best to concentrate on the plot happening on-screen but it all feels domestic—cosying up on opposite ends of the couch and enjoying a movie together—almost too comforting. On second thought, this whole day felt too domestic, too family-day like.
The realization scares the shit out of me but as we let the credits roll, a part of me—a self-sabotaging part of me— secretly hopes our movie nights become a tradition.
.
.
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taglist: @biapascal
uppercut - three
summary: Masiy and Pedro have an unfiltered drunken conversation.
parings: boxer/singledad!pedro x nanny!fem oc
warnings: alcohol consumption, talk of feeling lost post-graduation
wc: 2.3k
series masterlist here.
Maisy
I've been watching Oliver for the past week and it seems all three of us have acclimated to this new normal.
Usually, Pedro wakes with Oliver, changes and feeds him. I let them have their uninterrupted father-and-son time before taking over when he leaves to train. He sometimes comes back home to have his lunch but the majority of the time he's too busy with business calls and sponsorship deals and spends his whole day out.
When he gets in, he's exhausted. Next week, he has his first match of the season and I'm flying with him to Miami to look after Oliver.
He's less hurried to check on his son, now greeting me before he peeks his head into the nursery to make sure Oliver is still breathing. I take that as a sign that I've earned his trust around his son.
Over the span of the past week, I too have learnt to trust myself around Oliver. Though I must admit, he's making it easy by being a mellow fourteen-month-old. He makes me feel like I have a knack for kids. I was even debating taking him on a coffee date, but I wanted to ask his dad before I did so.
We spend our days working on broadening his vocabulary and on his balance. While he takes his naps, I tinker with my resume and send in a few job applications before losing all my willpower to exist. When that happens, I entertain myself by going through Pedro's book collection, flipping through the well-thumbed pages of his paperbacks.
I didn't anticipate that taking care of a fourteen-month-old would tire me out the way it does, but by Oliver's bedtime, I'm ready to hit the sack.
I wait until Pedro gets home with the baby monitor. We exchange a few words—I ask how his training was and he inquires how Oliver's and I's day went. Mainly our conversations revolve around his son.
Tonight, however, he shows more interest in getting to know me.
I'm lounging on the couch, scrolling on my phone when he walks through the front door. He texted me late afternoon, informing me that he had an emergency meeting with one of his sponsorship partners.
I hear him in the foyer, putting his shoes away and the soft thud of his duffle bag as he drops it. Instead of checking on his son, this time he goes in search of me. He strolls over to me, hands in his pockets.
My gaze rises over his tall body. On the bottom, he's wearing a pair of black pressed pants, and the material hugs his corded thighs. A faded green chenille button-down graces his upper body. The first three buttons are undone, displaying his pectorals. If I squint I make out the freckles dotting his tanned skin.
"Hi."
"Hi," he parrots, his rich, velvety voice is like a caress. "Is Oliver sleeping?"
I pass him the baby monitor. "Out like a log."
His eyes fill with overt fondness as he watches his son through the screen. "He didn't give you trouble?"
I shake my head. "He was easy, as always."
He sets the device on the coffee table. "You're really good with him. He likes you."
"I'm glad. I like him too. He's the sweetest." I busy my hands with redoing my bun. "And while I got you, I wanted to ask if it would be okay with you if I took him out on a little outing, like for a stroll around the neighbourhood or to the bookstore? Just to stimulate him."
His face brightens. "Yeah, sure. I bet he'd enjoy that." He makes his way into the kitchen. The first floor of his house is open plan so I can follow him with my eyes. "I have a stroller in the foyer's wardrobe. But if you don't want to push him around I have a sling you can use to carry him on your body. That's in the bottom drawer of his dresser."
"Cool, I'll test it out."
He begins to open cabinets, my cue to leave. I stand, starting for the stairs.
"Hey," he stops me, "You don't have to lock yourself up in your room once I get home, you know that right?"
I freeze on the bottom step. "I know. I just don't want to get in your hair."
He chuckles at that. "You're not getting in my hair." He bends to open the built-in wine cooler and grabs a bottle of red. "Now, I don't normally encourage alcoholism," he starts, rummaging through his cupboards. "But would you want a glass of red?" He must see hesitation in my eyes because he adds, "You've been taking care of my boy for a week now and I don't even know what's your favourite colour." He flashes one of his debonair smiles and the cannibalistic butterflies in my stomach start flapping their wings. "Soo... can I get you to tell me about yourself over a bottle of wine?"
I feel myself preen under his soft gaze. "Fine, but you're not going to get me talking with the most dreaded job interview question." I retake my seat on the couch.
He laughs, pours us a glass each. "Fair point. A little too unoriginal." He carries our glasses to the couch where he plops down next to me. "You lost your mom, right? Rick hinted at it a couple of times," he asks, handing me my glass.
"Yeah, when I was seventeen. She had a heart attack."
"What was she like?"
I let out a slow breath. "Fun... and too kind for this world. She was my best friend in a way. She worked as a nurse, met my dad in the ER, but you probably know that already," I tell him. The memories of my mom bring a fond smile to my face. "What's your family like?"
He grins and puffs air from his cheeks. "Let's see. I'm one out of thirty-four cousins. I was nine months old when we left Chile to seek political asylum."
"Political asylum?" I frown, taking a sip of my wine.
"Yeah. My parents were liberal socialists and they had family members very involved with the opposition movement against the military regime at the time. So we fled to Denmark, spent a bit of time there and then we settled in San Antonio for a bit before moving to Orange County."
"And now you're a New Yorker. That's a lot of moving," I observe. "I've only ever lived in New York besides my college years. And what about your parents?"
"My mom died too, actually. She passed away in my early twenties, when my boxing career was taking off. That was a fucking hard time for me." He looks away briefly before our gazes lash together once more. "She was sort of the love of my life. I use her maiden name, Pascal, as my stage name."
He relives these intimate memories for me; I see it in his eyes. Him revealing such personal details of himself twists something in me I can't identify. I just know it holds significance.
"She must've been wonderful," I offer.
"She really was." He takes a sip of his wine. "Do you have any siblings?"
I shake my head. "Only child."
We continue to swap stories from our childhood. He tells me about his siblings and how he found boxing. I confess how I didn't have that romanticized college experience and how lost I feel now that I graduated.
Then he starts asking me questions and, while I talk, he sits, unmoving, and listens to my answers.
We get sucked into the conversation and as we do, we both relax into the couch. I curl my legs underneath me and he props one leg on the edge of the couch so he can turn towards me. He leans his side against the back of it, his head propped up by his hand as he studies me.
He asks if I have a boyfriend. I tell him I don't. He doesn't react, his face unreadable.
"On the topic of love," I take a sip before continuing, "I've always had this silly, romantic notion of falling in love organically—like meeting someone on the subway or in a coffee shop," I divulge, surprising myself with my admission. "But the chances of that are growing slimmer by the day. God, twenty-one is a harrowing age," I mumble, staring into my glass ruefully.
Pedro takes a slow, thoughtful sip of his wine. "I think that thought is sort of beautiful. And it's definitely not silly."
A little smile tugs at the corners of my lips. "I appreciate you saying that, but that's not how the dating pool works. And I hate going out and clubbing, so I don't foresee myself a bright future in the love department." I let out a sigh. "I'm aware I should put myself out there, but a part of me is like, if it doesn't happen naturally, I'm not sure I want it."
"Which part? The meet-cute or the falling in love?" He tops up our glasses.
"I guess I want us to meet without it feeling forced, if that makes sense. Like, I don't want to chase love, I want it to find me."
His facial expression softens and something warm floods his eyes, making them gleam. Our gazes slot together like puzzle pieces and I'm forever hypnotized.
This doesn't feel forced, my heart screams at me.
He doesn't seem to notice my silence and goes on talking.
For a moment my brain goes blank and I have to ask him to repeat himself. He chuckles at me and the deep, mellifluous sound rolls through me. My whole body buzzes.
As I continue to overshare, he grants me his undivided attention. His focus is like he's shining a light in my eyes. I feel seen.
He gets me talking, and I'm rarely the talker. With most people, I'm the listener, the shoulder to lean on. Alongside the very few—nowadays my dad and grandma—he's able to create a space where I can unburden myself. He doesn't judge when I reveal that I don't have many, if any friends—the closest connection to friendship I have is with Lindsey, my roommate from college, but I wouldn't categorize the two of us as anything above friendly acquaintances. I leave out the part that even though I'm turning twenty-two in a few months, I'm yet to have a boyfriend. Hell, I haven't even been kissed before.
Up until recently, my lack of experience in love and relationships didn't bother me that much. But now that I've graduated, the empty cavern I've masterfully ignored all my college years feels more substantial. Now I just feel embarrassed for myself.
All while staying unjudgemental, Pedro is asking the best follow-up questions and as our conversation reaches a natural conclusion, I'm left as if I just had a vulnerable but productive therapy session.
He's now telling me about a road trip he went on a few years ago, and I try to listen, I do, but his bulging biceps captivate my attention. They're like suspension cables. Every time he makes the tiniest of moment, the muscles in his arm ripple. I must be seriously touch-starved because I want to reach out and wrap my fingers around his biceps, which my fingers probably couldn't encircle.
His other hand that's not supporting his head holds his glass, balancing it on his thigh. I've never in my life been this severely mesmerized by thighs.
I hum a few times and say "That's so cool" to show that I'm listening before my stare leaves his face and dips to his hand once again.
His forefinger is tracing the lip of the wine glass. The longer I stare, the sexier his hand becomes. He has a little doodle tattoo between his thumb and forefinger and I find myself wanting to sink my teeth into the flesh.
This is so inappropriate, I scold myself. I really shouldn't be mapping his body.
I try my best to tidy up my head but the two glasses I drowned have made me loose and floaty.
"You alright there?" he probes, tilting his head to the side. My cheeks crimson. He must've clocked I was drooling over him. The corner of his beautiful, moustache-topped mouth lifts in an amused smirk.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm great," I cover up and a laugh slips me.
I clumsily place my now empty glass down and he reaches out to steady me by the elbow. My breathing turns shallow and rushed with the knowledge of his proximity.
"What is it?" he presses, chuckling lightly, clearly entertained by my tipsiness.
I groan, hiding my flushed face in my hands, cursing myself and the wine for making me more candid than I intended to be. "Nothing," I hiccup.
"Now you've got to tell me," he urges, cupping one of my elbows in his massive palm.
His touch is warm, his callouses scrap my skin. It feels like a parade of fire ants are crawling out of the area he's touching into every direction.
I move my hand from my face, dropping it onto my lap as his fingers trail up my forearm, which he squeezes lightly before letting go.
"It's stupid really," I mumble.
"Come on, you can tell me," he assures me, his eyes crinkling with a smile.
I shake my head at myself. "It's just that—oh my God, I can't believe I'm saying this—, it's just that you have nice hands and arms, okay?"
His cheeks blush visibly at my compliment, but he immediately turns it into a joke. "These?" He pulls back the sleeve of his t-shirt and flexes his bicep.
"Yeah," I admit sheepishly, letting out a nervous laugh.
"Can touch them if you want," he teases in a low murmur, a crooked smile spreading across his perfectly smooth lips.
"No, Pedro, I shouldn't have said what I said," I stammer coyly.
"Alright, alright," he drops it and fixes his sleeve. "Didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
I swallow, whising away the redness colouring my face. Silence lapses for a beat and I notice the tops of his ears have turned red.
He leans over to grab the bottle of wine. "More?"
I shake my head. "I'd rather not further embarrass myself."
His smile fading, he chugs the rest of his wine and stands up. He gathers our glasses and the bottle, carrying them over to the sink where he rinses them. "I should get some sleep," he says with a sigh.
"I should too," I agree, sleepiness crashing down on me. "I'll—, I'll see you in the morning," I mumble and flee to my room, my heart soaring.