You don’t know what prompted your husband to even go on a bulk; he was massive, arms adorned with thick muscle, defined abs. In no world would you have ever guessed him to be in his late forties. But winter was coming up and he liked food. More specific the food you cooked, so might as well get fed by the missus, be happy and double as heat radiator for the colder months.
Doesn’t track calories, only asks you to double the cooking if it was convenient with these pretty eyes of his, the promise of an even bigger, warmer and softer version of him already reason enough.
You can hear the rustling from the door and just know he’s back from the gym, wishing you had joined him to see him effortlessly hip thrust your body weight all while he filled out that shirt of his so goddamn nicely. He had gotten stronger; before he already had been handling you easily, hands on you, guiding you with the broadness of his shoulders, arms around you like a wall. But right now? He could carry things like they weighed nothing, two weeks of groceries on one arm, you in the other. The thought alone made you bite your lip.
“Hey, doll.”
Heavy steps approach you standing by the stove, his hands coming right down to hold your hips as his cold nose buried into your neck.
“Tickles, Leon.”
“Mhm. How has my beautiful wife been?”
His hair was still damp. He must have showered at the gym, much to your dismay. He should have at least sent you a gym pic today or so.
“Missed you. How was the gym?”
“Great. Always feels good to get some movement into these old bones of mine.”
He has the audacity to softly grind into your ass.
“So what is my perfect girl cooking up? Smells like heaven in here.”
“Burgers. Cookies in the oven and salad in the fridge.”
He hums, pressing a soft kiss against your nape.
“What did I do to deserve you?”
“Save the world multiple times and being a good husband.”
You softly laugh, your left hand resting on his, feeling the cold metal of his wedding band.
“Only good? Need to step up my game if the wife thinks I’m only ‘good’.”
“Just set the table. Lunch’s ready in a few.”
He nods, but doesn’t let go quite yet, hand moving under your apron, travelling higher until you smack him.
“After lunch. We’ve let the food get cold way too often these days.”
You can feel him pout against your neck, but off he goes like a good boy, fetching the plates.
He gets his reward after lunch. A warming up for the cookies that stood on the counter, too hot to be eaten, really. Face buried between your thighs right after he threw you on the couch, only caring to slide off you’re pants. You’re head is thrown back as his nose nudges your clit and he starts slurping against your folds. Between your legs, he felt impossibly big, taking up more space than you’re used to, eating you out with a feverish focus.
“Thanks for the meal, doll.”
He hums into your cunt.
“Feedin’ me so well with your body.”
His lips ghost over your clit and his hot tongue swirls against the pink pearl, squishing it around. Had he always been able to hold your hips so tight? Like vices, his hands were holding onto you, fingers sunk into the plush, giving you no way to wiggle free if you wanted. Your hand wanders to where his head rested under the apron, wanting to feel him under your palm.
“God baby-…you’ve gotten so big.”
You mumble out and he gives your clit a soft little kiss.
“’s all thanks to you. Y’like it, doll?”
“F-fucking love it.”
“Yeah?”
He sinks two fingers in.
“Tell me more.”
Hot breath fanning against where your pussy was dripping, now focused on giving your sensitive nub all the attention she deserved.
“Mhm…you’re just so b-big.”
His fingers curl into you and you clench your thighs, hard.
“Carry me around so easily.”
A soft frown appears on your face, trying to muster up words.
“You j-just feel so good against me.”
“Go on.”
He was smugly smiling with his mouth buried in you.
“…Everything’s j-just so big on you. Your shoulders look so good to bite on a-and your thighs got thick.”
Running your hand down his body early in the morning was heavenly. Soft tissue over hard muscle, comfortably warm. And just thinking about what he could do to you, pressed down by his body’s weight had you clenching.
“I just wanna be in your lap all the time.”
You whine.
“Oh doll.”
The stretch of a third finger felt so good with him sucking your clit.
“Your thighs jus’ look s-so good.”
He pulls out, just to rub all your slick onto your folds and sink them right back in, second hand massaging your ass. Heat blooms deep inside you, a coil building up.
“Makes m-me want to bounce on your cock w-with your arms around me.”
It pushes him to the edge, yanking down hard until your slid onto your back and he gets obscenely loud, pressing open mouthed kisses against your cunt, fingers fucking you much faster.
“F-fuck, L-Leon!”
You whimper out, eyes shutting tightly. The orgasm washes over you with unmatched intensity, his fingers rubbing against your clenching walls, soothing them through your climax while he keeps on licking your clit. Slowly, until sensitivity takes over and you start trying to pull away, dizzy from him eating your pussy like a man, starved.
His head pops out from under your apron, big smile on his face.
You don’t know what prompted your husband to even go on a bulk; he was massive, arms adorned with thick muscle, defined abs. In no world would you have ever guessed him to be in his late forties. But winter was coming up and he liked food. More specific the food you cooked, so might as well get fed by the missus, be happy and double as heat radiator for the colder months.
Doesn’t track calories, only asks you to double the cooking if it was convenient with these pretty eyes of his, the promise of an even bigger, warmer and softer version of him already reason enough.
You can hear the rustling from the door and just know he’s back from the gym, wishing you had joined him to see him effortlessly hip thrust your body weight all while he filled out that shirt of his so goddamn nicely. He had gotten stronger; before he already had been handling you easily, hands on you, guiding you with the broadness of his shoulders, arms around you like a wall. But right now? He could carry things like they weighed nothing, two weeks of groceries on one arm, you in the other. The thought alone made you bite your lip.
“Hey, doll.”
Heavy steps approach you standing by the stove, his hands coming right down to hold your hips as his cold nose buried into your neck.
“Tickles, Leon.”
“Mhm. How has my beautiful wife been?”
His hair was still damp. He must have showered at the gym, much to your dismay. He should have at least sent you a gym pic today or so.
“Missed you. How was the gym?”
“Great. Always feels good to get some movement into these old bones of mine.”
He has the audacity to softly grind into your ass.
“So what is my perfect girl cooking up? Smells like heaven in here.”
“Burgers. Cookies in the oven and salad in the fridge.”
He hums, pressing a soft kiss against your nape.
“What did I do to deserve you?”
“Save the world multiple times and being a good husband.”
You softly laugh, your left hand resting on his, feeling the cold metal of his wedding band.
“Only good? Need to step up my game if the wife thinks I’m only ‘good’.”
“Just set the table. Lunch’s ready in a few.”
He nods, but doesn’t let go quite yet, hand moving under your apron, travelling higher until you smack him.
“After lunch. We’ve let the food get cold way too often these days.”
You can feel him pout against your neck, but off he goes like a good boy, fetching the plates.
He gets his reward after lunch. A warming up for the cookies that stood on the counter, too hot to be eaten, really. Face buried between your thighs right after he threw you on the couch, only caring to slide off you’re pants. You’re head is thrown back as his nose nudges your clit and he starts slurping against your folds. Between your legs, he felt impossibly big, taking up more space than you’re used to, eating you out with a feverish focus.
“Thanks for the meal, doll.”
He hums into your cunt.
“Feedin’ me so well with your body.”
His lips ghost over your clit and his hot tongue swirls against the pink pearl, squishing it around. Had he always been able to hold your hips so tight? Like vices, his hands were holding onto you, fingers sunk into the plush, giving you no way to wiggle free if you wanted. Your hand wanders to where his head rested under the apron, wanting to feel him under your palm.
“God baby-…you’ve gotten so big.”
You mumble out and he gives your clit a soft little kiss.
“’s all thanks to you. Y’like it, doll?”
“F-fucking love it.”
“Yeah?”
He sinks two fingers in.
“Tell me more.”
Hot breath fanning against where your pussy was dripping, now focused on giving your sensitive nub all the attention she deserved.
“Mhm…you’re just so b-big.”
His fingers curl into you and you clench your thighs, hard.
“Carry me around so easily.”
A soft frown appears on your face, trying to muster up words.
“You j-just feel so good against me.”
“Go on.”
He was smugly smiling with his mouth buried in you.
“…Everything’s j-just so big on you. Your shoulders look so good to bite on a-and your thighs got thick.”
Running your hand down his body early in the morning was heavenly. Soft tissue over hard muscle, comfortably warm. And just thinking about what he could do to you, pressed down by his body’s weight had you clenching.
“I just wanna be in your lap all the time.”
You whine.
“Oh doll.”
The stretch of a third finger felt so good with him sucking your clit.
“Your thighs jus’ look s-so good.”
He pulls out, just to rub all your slick onto your folds and sink them right back in, second hand massaging your ass. Heat blooms deep inside you, a coil building up.
“Makes m-me want to bounce on your cock w-with your arms around me.”
It pushes him to the edge, yanking down hard until your slid onto your back and he gets obscenely loud, pressing open mouthed kisses against your cunt, fingers fucking you much faster.
“F-fuck, L-Leon!”
You whimper out, eyes shutting tightly. The orgasm washes over you with unmatched intensity, his fingers rubbing against your clenching walls, soothing them through your climax while he keeps on licking your clit. Slowly, until sensitivity takes over and you start trying to pull away, dizzy from him eating your pussy like a man, starved.
His head pops out from under your apron, big smile on his face.
“Pretend, then. You're my date. You picked me up. You told me I looked beautiful—”
“You do look beautiful.”
“—and we danced. And now prom is over. What happens next?”
synopsis: when your prom date doesn't show, zayne makes sure you still get your special night.
tags: nsfw, explicit sexual content, protective father figure!zayne x innocent fem!reader, pseudo-incest, age gap, emotional hurt/comfort, roleplay, daddy issues, kissing, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex, doggy style, spit as lube, size difference, first time, floor sex, praise kink, creampie
wc: 7.3k | ao3
a/n: zayne vs. a backless dress??? challenge level = impossible……..
The mascara was a mistake.
Not because it looks bad—your makeup looks incredible, actually, and you’re pretty damn proud of yourself for pulling it off after an embarrassing number of tutorials and one very tense standoff with your eyeliner pencil. The mistake is that you're currently crying it off in the bathroom sink while your phone sits face-down on the counter because you can't look at the screen without wanting to throw it into the toilet.
He posted on Moments. One hour before prom. One hour before he was supposed to ring the doorbell and meet Zayne and survive whatever impossible interrogation Zayne had planned for him in his valiant attempt to give you the overprotective father experience you’d otherwise never have. You'd prepped for this, rehearsed the be cool, don't scare him off speech three times, knew it was useless because Zayne was going to interrogate him regardless and probably already had the guy's GPA memorized and his family medical history saved to his hard drive.
None of that matters now.
He posted a picture in a car full of girls, laughing, with someone's arm draped over his shoulder. The caption says better plans with a shrug emoji, which is the kind of innocent cruelty that only a teenage boy could be capable of producing without remorse.
Better plans.
You stare at yourself in the mirror, at the dress you’re still wearing—a dark blue thing with a low back, the kind of back that dips below your shoulder blades and follows the curve of your spine to your waist. You bought it with your own money. Saved for it. Tried it on four times in the store before you committed, turning in front of the dressing room mirror to see the way the fabric fell at every angle, imagining the way he'd look at you when he saw it.
He isn't going to look at you. Nobody is, not tonight. Not your friends, not your enemies, not the girls in your fifth period biology class who you've been trying to impress all semester and who would have finally, finally acknowledged your existence if you'd shown up on the arm of one of the most popular guys in school. Not a single person is going to see you in this dress, and what are you even supposed to tell your grandkids someday when they ask about prom? Oh, funny story, I spent three hours getting ready and then cried in the bathroom while my—
A knock on the bathroom door halts your spiraling thoughts.
“Hey, sweetheart. Camera’s charged and ready to go,” Zayne calls, voice muffled through the wood. “I found a spot on the balcony where the light’s best, but I cleared space on the rooftop, too, if you’d prefer that. The city looks good from up there this time of evening—although golden hour’s got about twenty minutes left, so if we want the good shots we should—”
Your chest aches. Because of course he scouted locations. Of course he found the best light. Zayne, who barely uses his camera for anything other than maintaining a small but growing collection of photos of the squirrel that keeps appearing at his office window, went and found the perfect backdrop for your prom photos because he wanted them to be beautiful for you.
“I don’t need pictures, Zayne,” you call back, aiming for steady and missing by a mile. You keep scrubbing at the mascara under your eyes with a wet cotton pad. “He’s not coming.”
There’s a long silence, and you can almost see him on the other side of the door—arms crossed, head tilted, running his diagnostics, deciding which version of Zayne you need him to be in this moment.
“What do you mean, he's not coming?”
“I mean he's not coming. He posted—” You pause to calm your voice, the words tumbling out thick and wrong. “He made other plans. It's fine. I'm just—taking off my makeup. I'll be out in a minute.”
“Open the door.”
“I look awful.“
“Open the door,” he repeats. “Now.”
“Just one more—”
“Please.”
The please works on you the way he knew it would. You unlock the door.
He pushes it open gently, taking in the full picture—the dress, the smudged mascara, the cotton pads scattered on the counter like evidence at a crime scene. Whatever he sees makes his expression shift to that of a man recalculating how many laws he's willing to break.
“What's his name?” Zayne asks quietly.
“It doesn't matter.”
“What's his name.”
“Zayne, you're not going to—”
“I’m asking a question. I haven't committed to a course of action yet.” He leans against the doorframe, and the casualness of his stance is completely at odds with the look in his eyes, which is downright murderous. “His name.”
“You're a doctor. You took an oath.”
“I took several oaths. None of them preclude me from having a conversation with a boy about accountability and the consequences of treating people like they're disposable.”
“A conversation.”
“A firm one.”
“Zayne.” You almost laugh. Almost. “You can't threaten a high schooler.”
“I wouldn't threaten him. I'd educate him,” he says simply. “There's a distinction I'm prepared to defend legally.”
This time you do laugh, wet and broken and genuinely amused, because Zayne in protective mode is absurd and terrifying and the only thing in the world that could make you smile right now.
“Doesn't that violate your principles or something?” you ask, wiping your eyes. “Don't you doctors have a thing about hurting people?”
His gaze softens, the homicidal edge receding to something warmer, something that makes your heart ache in a completely different way.
“I have a thing about people hurting you,” he corrects without hesitation. “My principles begin and end with you.”
It lands heavier than either of you expects, the way he states it so easily. Yet he doesn't walk it back, doesn’t try to soften it, just lets the words exist between you in the bright, unforgiving light of the bathroom.
“Come here.”
You step into the hallway and he's right there, the narrow space leaving him close enough to take in each detail one by one: the floor-length dress, dark blue silk, fitted through the bodice, with a slit along the left thigh that the salesgirl called flirty and you called terrifying. And when you move past him, the back—open from the nape of your neck to just below your waist, following the line of your spine, held together by two thin straps that cross between your shoulder blades.
He clears his throat. “That boy is an idiot.”
“I look ridiculous. I'm going to change—”
“You're not changing.”
“Zayne, no one is going to see this—”
“I’m seeing it.”
Something shifts in the air between you, something that isn't comfort anymore, isn't paternal, isn't safe, but another feeling entirely—something electric and dangerous you don’t know what to do with. So you stand there, barefoot in the hallway, in a dress that cost three months’ allowance with mascara on your cheeks, and you let Zayne look at you like you're something worth the camera he set up on the balcony.
“I don't want the night to be ruined,” you whisper, and you hate how pathetic it sounds.
“It's not ruined.”
He disappears down the hallway, and a minute later you hear music, a soft number with piano and saxophone that is far more sophisticated than whatever’s blaring through your school cafeteria’s sound system tonight. When he comes back, he's holding a clear plastic box. Inside is your corsage—small and elegant, white flowers with a sprig of green, tied with a ribbon that matches the exact shade of your dress.
Your throat goes tight.
“When did you—”
“This afternoon. I wasn't willing to leave it to chance.” He opens the box and lifts the corsage out, handling it like it’s made of glass. “I had the florist match the swatch you left on the counter.”
The fabric swatch. The tiny square of dark blue silk you brought home from the tailor to make sure your shoes matched and then forgot about beside the coffee maker.
“Zayne.”
“Give me your wrist.”
You hold out your left hand, and he slides the corsage on—adjusting the elastic, positioning the flowers so they sit right, holding your wrist a moment longer than necessary. You're not sure he notices. You notice. Acutely.
“Wait here,” you tell him.
You go to the kitchen, to the fridge, retrieving the small box that’s been sitting on the top shelf since yesterday. The boutonniere. You had it delivered—a single white bloom with dark green leaves—meant for someone else. But that someone else is in a car full of girls right now, and the only person who's shown up for you tonight is standing in the hallway looking at you like he's afraid you might cry again.
“Your turn,” you say, lifting the flower from the box.
He looks down at the boutonniere, then at you, and for a moment you can see what's hiding underneath his calm exterior—surprise and something softer that’s gone before you can name it.
“You bought one,” he says.
“I was being thorough. Someone old and wise taught me that.”
His mouth curves dangerously close to a real smile. He stands still while you pin it to his white button down with clumsy fingers, mercifully only stabbing yourself with the pin once before getting it right. Zayne doesn't help, just watches your hands work like a man who is content to let you fumble with a sharp object near his heart for as long as you need.
“There.” You smooth the fabric around it. “Now you look like a prom date.”
“And you look like a girl who deserves a dance.”
He extends his hand.
“What are you doing, Zayne?” you ask, even though you already know.
“You still have a dance to go to.” He says it like it's obvious. Like this is a reasonable solution and not the most dangerous thing he's ever offered you.
“Really, you don't have to—”
“I know I don’t.” His hand stays outstretched between you. “But you're in a beautiful dress, and I have a boutonniere, and the music is playing, and I would really like to dance with you.”
You take his hand.
He pulls you into the kitchen, one hand finding your waist while the other holds yours as the music drifts around you. You're both barefoot on the cool tile, the height difference almost comical without your heels, the top of your head barely reaching his collarbone.
And you dance.
He moves you in a slow, unhurried circle that has no choreography and no purpose other than being pressed close to each other. Your free hand rests lightly against his chest while his at your waist stays solid and warm, the kind of hold that promises nothing bad will reach you if you just stay here, in his kitchen, in his arms.
“Thank you,” you say into his shirt.
“For what?”
“This. The photos you set up. The florist. The music. All of it.” You press your face closer. “You made it better.”
“You deserve better than what happened tonight.” You feel the steady beat of his heart under your cheek, and you swear it speeds up for just a moment. “You deserve someone who shows up.”
“You showed up.”
“That's different.”
“Is it?”
He doesn't answer.
The song changes to something slower, but you don't pull apart. If anything, you drift closer, your hand sliding up around the back of his neck, the lines of his body fitting into the curves of yours in a way that feels less like dancing and more like coming home. His hand shifts on your waist lower by a centimeter, then another, until his pinky grazes the bare skin of your back, right where the fabric ends, and you shiver. Zayne notices. You know he notices because his hand stills before settling fully against your skin, his whole palm pressed flat against the small of your back where the dress leaves you bare.
His thumb finds the dip at the base of your spine and traces it—a slow, absent motion, back and forth, like he doesn't realize he's doing it. But your body realizes. Your body is paying very close attention to the way that single point of contact radiates outward, spreading like wildfire across your skin and down into your stomach and lower still.
You wonder if he can sense it. If he can feel the change in you, the way your body has become more alert, more aware, shifting closer to his without your permission. He must know. He notices everything about you. Which means he's choosing to keep touching you anyway.
The thought makes your stomach flip.
You've heard things about what happens after prom. Rumors, mostly—stories that are probably embellished and definitely not things you should be thinking about right now with Zayne's thumb soothing your back and your heart beating so loud you're sure he can hear it through his chest.
“Zayne?”
“Mm?”
“What happens after the dance?”
His thumb stills against your skin. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—” You pull back enough to look up at him. “We go to prom, and then we leave. What's supposed to happen next?”
His eyes search yours and you can see him consider the question, holding it next to every boundary he's built between you, every rule he follows, every reason this shouldn't go where it's so clearly, so recklessly, so inevitably headed.
“I wouldn't know,” he says carefully. “It's been a long time since I went to a dance.”
“Pretend, then.” Your heart is hammering, but your voice is certain. “You're my date. You picked me up. You told me I looked beautiful—”
“You do look beautiful.”
“—and we danced. And now prom is over.” You hold his gaze, tilting your head slightly as you blink up at him expectantly. “What happens next?”
The kitchen is quiet except for the music and the sound of your breathing and the almost-audible sound of Zayne's restraint fracturing at the edges like thin ice beneath a tentative step.
“If I were your date,” he says slowly, “I would walk you to the door. I would tell you I had a wonderful evening.”
He stops. The music fills the quiet, though neither of you is dancing anymore.
“And I would ask permission to kiss you goodnight.”
He swallows, and you track the movement of his throat, the way his gaze drops to your mouth.
“So ask,” you whisper.
His hand is still spanning your back, warm against the goosebumps pebbling your bare skin, and the distance between your faces is small enough that you can feel his breath and count the variations of green and gold in his eyes.
“May I kiss you goodnight?” he asks, and his voice is so devastatingly earnest that it doesn't sound like a game anymore.
“Yes.”
He cradles your jaw, tilting your face upward as you close your eyes and wait for his mouth on yours—for the heat, the pressure, the culmination of everything that's been building since the slow dance, since the hallway, since the day you arrived at his doorstep with your suitcase and nowhere else to go.
Zaynes kisses the corner of your lips.
Not your mouth. The edge. The part where your lips meet the curve of your cheek, so precise it could almost be accidental, except nothing Zayne does is accidental. His mouth presses there softly, lingering for exactly one breath longer than polite, the kind of kiss you give someone at their front door under a porch light while their parents watch from the window.
“That's it?” you whisper when he pulls away.
“That's what a gentleman does.”
Your heart is doing something that’s probably clinically concerning, and the place where his mouth almost touched yours is buzzing like a live wire.
“And if he wasn’t a gentleman?”
His hand hasn't left your jaw. His thumb traces the line of it, soothing along the bone, and you can feel him weighing what comes next against everything he's supposed to be.
“Then I’d have to bury him,” he says simply, “which would really put a damper on prom night.”
“Zayne.” His name comes out shaky, but you don’t care anymore, intoxicated by the desperate need for him to answer the questions your mind can’t make sense of but your body understands fluently. “Please.”
He studies your face for hesitation, for doubt, for any sign that you're caught up in the hurt of the evening and reaching for the nearest warm body. He won't find it. You're not reaching for the nearest anything. You're reaching for him and him alone, the only person who has ever made you feel like wanting to be cared for isn't something to apologize for.
“I’m your prom date tonight,” he says, eyes never leaving yours, making sure every word lands. “Only tonight. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” You’re nodding before the word can make it out. “Only tonight. I understand.”
“And if it's too much—if any of it is too much—you tell me. Immediately.”
“I will.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, pulling you forward to kiss you fully this time, his lips parting yours, opening you for him in a way that’s not gentlemanly in any sense of the word. Your hands fist in his shirt and he lets you, lets you tug him closer, lets you set the pace for exactly as long as it takes you to realize that you don't want the pace you're setting at all. You want his.
He takes over without asking, sinking his fingers into your hair, angling you just the way he wants you, and the kiss becomes something infinitely more raw. His teeth catch your lower lip, sucking until you moan, which admittedly doesn’t take much time at all. He catches the sound with his tongue, stroking it against yours so thoroughly your knees go weak, his free hand holding your hip steady against the wall you didn't realize you'd been backed into.
He breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as you both catch your breath.
“Turn around,” he orders. “Hands on the wall.”
You turn, your body responding to his command like instinct as you press your palms flat against the surface. The position arches your back, pushing your shoulder blades together, baring the full length of your spine to the air, to him.
Two fingers land at the nape of your neck and trace down, the touch barely there, following the line of your spine —between your shoulders, along the center of your back, to the point where fabric resumes.
“I’ve been trying not to stare at this all night,” he says, voice has dropping into a register you've never heard before. “Since you walked out in this dress. The way the fabric just—stops. And everything underneath is—”
His mouth replaces his fingers, pressing a kiss to the top of your spine, then lower—open-mouthed and warm between your shoulder blades—then lower still, his lips tracing the path his fingers took, each kiss wetter and slower than the last. By the time his mouth reaches the small of your back, your arms are shaking and your cheek is pressed against the wall and you're making sounds you didn't know you could make.
He rises behind you, chest solid against your back as he reaches for your jaw from behind, turning your face toward his to claim your mouth once more—messier this time, louder, greedier, while his other hand spreads flat across your stomach, keeping you tight against him. You can feel where his cock presses hard and insistent against the curve of your ass, and the knowledge of what you're doing to him makes something bold and terrified flare in your chest.
You ease your hips back into his, testing the movement.
“Careful,” he warns against your mouth.
You roll your hips again even slower, even more intentionally, grinding back against him with the kind of reckless courage that comes from knowing you've already won, that whatever line that stood between you burned down the moment he took your hand in his.
His head falls back with a rough groan.
“You want to play, sweetheart?” he murmurs, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Fine. We'll play.”
His hand on your stomach tightens, pulling your hips back harder against his, and it’s too much and not enough all at once—his cock straining against his slacks, his breath hot at your ear, your palms flat against the cool wall, his composure in pieces on the floor.
“Your date isn’t a gentleman.” He says between kisses below your ear, down your neck. You tilt your head to give him better access, rewarded immediately with a firm roll of his hips against your backside. “He doesn’t settle for a kiss goodnight at the door.”
“Then don’t settle,” you breathe.
“Invite me inside.”
You take his hand and lead him out of the kitchen, down the hallway, into the living room, where the lamp casts the furniture in its dim, golden light.
“We have to be quiet,” you whisper. “My father is home.”
The words are in the air before you can overthink them, pulled from a part of you that’s never seen the light of day but has somehow decided to trust the amber glow of this room. The shift behind his eyes is instant, understanding first, then something darker—desire disguised as a game he should not be playing, a game he has decided to lose before it even begins.
“Your father,” he repeats, testing the shape of it in his mouth.
“Mhm,” you hum. “He's very strict. He wouldn't approve.”
“No.” His fingers find your spine once more, dragging a slow line up the center of your back. “I imagine he wouldn’t.”
“So we have to be quiet.”
“Then you’re going to have to behave.” He guides you toward the couch, and the whole thing is absurd, the way the only person you’re sneaking past is the version of himself you’ve agreed to pretend doesn't exist tonight—but when you sit down and he kneels between your legs, there's nothing absurd about the way he looks up at you. “Can you do that for me?”
“I—I think so.”
“We’re going to have to do better than think.” He parts your knees slowly, using the slit in your dress to push the fabric aside. His thumbs press slow, dizzying circles against the inside of your thighs. “Tell me. How do you like to be touched?”
“I don’t—” You shake your head. “I don’t know.”
His hands still after a moment, like his body has just caught up to what his brain just heard.
“You don’t know?”
It’s the truth, even if the look on his face makes you feel like it’s the wrong answer.
“No one’s—” You swallow. “I haven’t—”
“No one,” he repeats, and it’s no longer a question. His hands haven't moved from your thighs, but his touch has gone lighter, more aware of each point of contact.
“I was saving it,” you say quickly, because each second of silence feels enormous. “For a night that mattered. With someone who—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out tight, cutting you off before you can say anything else he won’t survive hearing. “You don’t have to explain.”
“I want to.” You make yourself look at him. “I wanted it to be someone I trusted. Someone who'd be—” You gesture at him, at his hands on your legs, at the careful way he holds everything he touches. “Like this. Like you are. With me.”
“Sweetheart—”
“I know you think you shouldn’t be here. I know this is—I know what this is.” Your fingers trace the boutonniere pinned to his chest, the one you put there before you knew the taste of his mouth, the way his voice sounds when his lips brush your ear. “But I also know you would never hurt me, and I trust you more than anyone, and I—I'd rather it be someone who cares too much than someone who doesn't care at all.”
His eyes close, and you watch his jaw work—the clench, the release, the negotiation between the man kneeling between your legs and the man who will have to look at himself in the mirror tomorrow morning.
“You make it very hard,” he finally says, “to do the right thing.”
“Am I not the right thing?”
You know you’re not playing fair, know it’s not right to pull the man you have wrapped around your little finger further into your grasp than he has any right to be.
“You’re the only thing,” he says simply, like a diagnosis he’s finally accepted.
His eyes open again, and whatever war was being fought behind them has reached some kind of ceasefire. Not resolved, not entirely, but agreeing to stop fighting what’s already been lost, if just for tonight.
“Then I’m going to make it right for you. Show you how it’s supposed to feel—” he says, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “—with someone who cares about you—” His lips drag higher, higher, nipping the soft skin of your inner thigh with his teeth before soothing it over with his tongue. “—far too much.”
You feel his breath first, ghosting over your sensitive skin through the lace of your underwear—the tiny black pair you’ve been saving for tonight, the ones you washed yourself after Zayne went to sleep so he wouldn’t find them in your laundry. Then the flat of his tongue, dragging over the fabric in a long, lazy line that makes your thighs try to close around his head on instinct. His hands catch them, pressing them apart, holding you open as he draws the lace soaked with your arousal taut against his tongue. When his lips close around your clit and suck, you can’t contain the sound that escapes—too loud, too unguarded—sending his hand flying up to cover your mouth.
“What did I say, hm?” he breathes, eyes flicking up to yours. “Quiet. He'll hear you.”
You nod against his palm. His thumb hooks the waistband of your underwear, and you lift your hips without being asked—an instinct that makes your face heat, how quickly your body is learning to answer him. He slides them down your legs and tucks them away somewhere you don't see, and his mouth returns between your thighs like it never left.
The first stroke of his tongue against bare skin is almost too much, your hips bucking off the couch so fast his arm has to catch you and hold you down. He holds you still with a patience that says he expected that as he works you with his tongue, alternating between slow, hungry thrusts and deeper, demanding pressure. It builds and builds and builds until he takes you right to the edge—right there, and you—you're going to—
His mouth leaves you so suddenly you sob against his palm.
He kisses the crease of your thigh, infuriatingly close to where you need him most. “Tell me why I stopped.”
He slides his palm from your mouth to cup your cheek, giving you a chance to explain yourself, but all you can do is look at him, lips parted, the explanation drifting somewhere behind your eyes.
“Go on. Use your words.” His thumb drags across your lower lip. “I’m waiting.”
You swallow. “Because I was too loud.”
“That's right.” He removes his hand entirely, and you feel the absence like a void. “And we had a deal, didn’t we?”
“I’ll be quiet, Zayne, I promise—”
“You've been making promises you can’t seem to keep for the last five minutes.” He stands from his knees and you watch, dazed, as he undoes his belt, the button, the zipper. When he frees himself, hard and flushed and leaking from the tip, your thighs press together on their own accord. Because this is actually happening, this is real, this is Zayne standing above you with his cock in his hand and your taste still on his tongue. “So forgive me for adjusting accordingly.”
He takes a seat beside you on the couch, pulling you into his lap until you're straddling him. The dress pools around you both, the slit giving him room.
“And you think this will make me quiet?” You’re face to face like this, closer than you've been to him, to anyone, every breath both yours and his. “Being closer?”
His hands slide up your thighs, guiding your hips down until you feel the length of him flush against where you're still wet and aching from his mouth. The contact makes you both inhale sharply, his eyes locked on the shape of your mouth as you gasp.
“No.” His hand comes up to your face, thumb tracing the curve of your lower lip. “But from here, when you forget yourself—” He tilts your chin up. “My mouth is right here to remind you.”
You lean forward to kiss him and he pulls back, just an inch—just enough that your lips chase his and find nothing, the denial sending a flare of heat through your stomach.
“Ah-ah.” His thumb presses gently against your mouth, holding you there. “Earn it.”
You try again. He tilts away, his eyes warm with something that's half-admonishment and half-amusement, and you make a frustrated sound against his thumb.
“Patience,” he murmurs, leaning in just close enough that his lower lip brushes yours before pulling back again. “You'll get what you want. When I decide you're ready for it.”
He shifts you forward in his lap with his knees, a small adjustment that presses the head of his cock directly against your clit.
“Zayne—”
“There,” he says softly. “That's it.”
He kisses you deeply, finally, thoroughly, the way you know better than to get used to, but you’re too far gone for that now. You melt into it, your hands gripping his shoulders, your hips rocking against him in small, helpless movements that make him groan against your tongue. When you pull apart, you look down between your bodies. At the reality of what's about to happen. At the size of him pressed against you, and the math your body is doing that doesn't quite add up.
“What if I can't—what if it's too—”
“Look at me.”
You look at him. His hands frame your face, thumbs resting on your cheekbones, holding you steady like the world could fall apart around him and he wouldn't move a muscle.
“I’m right here. You’re safe with me. And I will never let anything hurt you.” His gaze never wavers, making sure you feel the weight of each word. “Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks once before pressing a gentle kiss to one corner of your mouth, then the other. “Tell me you trust me.”
“I trust you.”
He lifts his hand to your mouth, tapping two fingers at the seam of your lips. “Open.”
You part them, and he presses his fingers in slowly, watching as your mouth closes around them. Your tongue moves against his knuckles on instinct, wetting them, sucking slightly as you taste the clean salt of his skin, and his jaw tightens as he watches you with a heat that goes straight to your core.
He withdraws his fingers carefully, holding his palm open beneath your chin.
“Spit.”
You hesitate for a second too long, heat creeping up your neck as saliva pools under your tongue.
“It's okay,” he assures in that patient voice, the one that’s talked you through blood draws and surgeries and every hard thing your body has to do. “It's just me.”
You lean forward and spit into his palm. It's graceless and embarrassing and makes your whole face go hot, but he doesn't blink—just closes his hand and reaches between your bodies, slicking himself in preparation, like he’s making sure this doesn't hurt you more than it has to.
His hand returns to your hip and you brace yourself for the pressure, the pleasure, the pain. It doesn’t come. Instead, his hand guides yours, wrapping your fingers around the base of him. The feel of his cock in your palm, throbbing against your grip, is almost too much to bear.
“Take all the time you need,” he murmurs against your temple, then presses a kiss to the same spot. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You position him at your entrance, and the first press of him, blunt and warm and wide, makes your thighs flex around his hips.
"Breathe, sweetheart.” His hand grips the back of your neck, steadying your thoughts, your emotions, your body. "Don't tense up. Just let your body adjust.”
You sink down an inch. The stretch stings and your muscles resist and you stop, your nails digging into his shirt hard enough to leave marks.
“Stay with me.” His thumb strokes behind your ear. “You’re doing so well.”
Another inch, and your forehead drops to his shoulder with a sound that's closer to a whine than anything else.
“It’s so—ah—”
“I know,” he murmurs. “I know it's a lot. But you're taking it, aren’t you? You're handling it so perfectly.”
You breathe, letting your body accommodate every inch, and when you're fully seated the feeling is so overwhelming you have to press your face into his neck and just exist like that for a moment. He doesn't move or push, holding himself still with a restraint that you can feel costing him in the faint tremor of his thighs beneath yours, the way his fingers hold the back of your neck just a fraction too tight before he consciously loosens them.
“There you are. You have me,” he says into your hair. “We don't move until you're ready. There's nowhere to be. Just us, alright?”
You nod against his neck, feeling his heart racing beneath your cheek. It’s so fast and uneven and nothing like calm, measured rhythm you've fallen asleep to on the couch, the one you always thought nothing could shake.
“Is it—for you, does it feel—”
“You have no idea,” he interrupts, voice held together by a thread. “You have absolutely no idea.”
You stay connected, suspended in time for moment longer as your body learns the shape of Zayne’s, before you shift your hips against him. It’s a tiny movement, one that draws a curse from behind his teeth.
“Like that?” you whisper.
“Exactly like that.”
You start to move in small, cautious motions that make you gasp and his jaw clench. He lets you find your rhythm, lets you figure out the angle and the depth, his hands guiding but never controlling, letting this be yours. The leather creaks beneath you, quietly at first as the couch gives under the pressure, then louder as you grow bolder, deeper, less careful, the hesitation burning into a hunger that won’t let go.
“The couch,” you gasp.
“I hear it.”
“He'll hear it.”
“Then we’d better move,” he decides, but his hands pull your hips down, grinding you against him with a pressure that makes clench harder around him. “In a minute,” he groans low against your jaw. “Give me one more minute like this.”
He holds you there with your hips pinned to his, and he thrusts up into you from below—once, twice, then again and again, each stroke deep enough that your vision blurs. You give him the minute. You give him two, three, as he fucks up into you while his mouth catches every sound you make, his tongue stroking against yours in time with his hips.
“Not a sound,” he says, lifting you up and off of him with painstaking care. “Hands and knees. On the floor.”
You slide to the carpet on trembling legs, palms pressing into the floor, and he's behind you immediately, gathering your dress and bunching it at your waist. His fist closes in the fabric at your back as his other hand covers your mouth from behind.
“What would my father do,” you whisper against Zayne’s fingers, “if he caught us like this?”
You feel the question land in the way his hand tightens on the dress, the way his cock twitches against your swollen cunt, the way his palm presses firmly over your lips in warning.
“He wouldn't knock,” he says, breath ragged at the shell of your ear. “He'd hear you from down the hall and he'd come in without knocking and he'd see you—” His hand over your mouth shifts, tilting your jaw so you're looking back at him over your shoulder. “—just like this.”
He pushes inside—one long, deep stroke that fills you completely, the new position so devastating your arms give out. You drop to your forearms with a moan his palm barely catches before both hands grip the curve of your waist, holding you in place as he adjusts to the new angle.
“And he'd lose his goddamn mind,” Zayne continues, holding still inside you, letting you feel every solid inch. “Seeing his sweet girl on her knees, ruining her pretty little prom dress. He'd never recover.”
With your cheek against the carpet, back arched, the angle deepens impossibly and you can't think, can't breathe, can only feel him everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
“He'd watch,” Zayne says, voice wrecked around the edges. “He'd stand in the doorway and he wouldn't be able to look away. Because his little girl is making sounds he's never heard before—” He thrusts once, and you bite back a sob. “—sounds like that. Sounds you're giving to some boy who doesn't deserve a single one of them, letting him take care of you the only way your father’s not allowed to.”
He starts to move again, slow at first, his hands guiding your hips and pulling you back onto him with each stroke. The sounds you make are muffled against your forearm, spilling into the room with every thrust.
“And he’d send the boy home. Lock the front door. Come back to this room and look at you, still on your knees, still in this dress, still shaking and trying to catch your breath and looking so pretty underneath him it’s a problem.” His pace picks up, unrelenting now. “A real fucking problem.”
He slows his pace so abruptly you whimper. His palm smooths down the bare plane of your back, the slope of your ass, the curve of your thigh—before coming down in a short, sharp smack that makes you cry out and clench tight around him.
“And he’d remind you,” he says, rubbing the sting away with his palm, “who's been taking care of you this whole time. Who feeds you. Who drives you to school. Who stays up when you're sick and carries you to bed when you fall asleep on the couch.”
You try to push your hips back against his, chasing the friction, the pressure, the heat, but he won’t let you have it. He leans over you, chest pressing against your back, the petals of his boutonniere soft and cool against your shoulder blades as his mouth meets your ear.
“Who bought you a corsage,” he says quietly, “because he wanted your night to be perfect. Even if he wasn't supposed to be part of it.”
You moan, loud, and his hand covers your mouth for only a breath before sliding to your throat, his fingers framing the column of your neck like a collar.
“You can't keep quiet, can you?” he murmurs against your ear.
You shake your head.
“You want him to hear you?” His fingers flex where they rest against your skin. “Is that it?”
You nod. “Yes.”
“You want him to walk in and see his little girl like this?” His thumb traces the line of your throat. His pace picks up again, thrusting deeper, almost punishing, and his voice has gone raw in a way that doesn't belong to your prom date anymore. “The one he tucked into bed last week, on all fours on his carpet dripping down someone else’s cock?”
“Yes—”
“Then let him hear you,” he mouths against your neck. “Let him hear how pretty you sound when you come.”
His hand leaves your throat and slides between your legs, fingers finding your clit, working tight, perfect circles in time with his strokes. His other hand presses flat over yours, lacing your fingers together, pinning your hand to the floor.
“Zayne, please—”
His pace builds, each stroke longer, more intense, and you can feel yourself climbing again, the orgasm he denied you earlier tightening in your core. The sounds you make get louder and more desperate and he doesn't try to quiet them anymore—just lets you be heard, lets his apartment echo with the damning evidence of what he’s doing to you under his roof.
“Zayne—”
“I know. I’m right here.” His forehead drops to the space between your shoulder blades, slick with sweat, his breath coming rough against your spine. “Let it go. That's my girl. You've been so perfect for me tonight, haven’t you? Let me have it. Be good for me one more time and give me everything.”
You come with a cry that fills the room, his name ripping out of you like something set free. You clench around his cock and hear him swear, feel his hand on your jaw turning your face toward his, claiming your mouth over your shoulder in a messy, desperate kiss as his own orgasm hits. His hand tightens over yours on the carpet as his hips falter, the corsage petals crushed between your wrists as he fills you with the heat of his release.
His mouth lingers against yours as the kiss softens, slowing from greedy to tender until you're barely moving at all, held there by something neither of you wants to break. He eases out of you carefully, and you feel the loss of him like something vital's gone missing. But his arms don't go anywhere. They wrap around your waist and pull you back against his chest, and he holds you there on the living room floor while both of your heartbeats slow to a rhythm that almost matches.
Somewhere in the back of your mind, you register that your dress is destroyed. Three months of savings, wrinkled beyond anything a dry cleaner could forgive, and it never even left the house. You can't bring yourself to care even a little.
You stay tangled like that for a long time.
“You still haven't told me his name,” Zayne says after a long quiet.
You trace a scar along his forearm where it's wrapped around your waist. “Does it matter at this point?”
“No.” His arms tighten around you, and the possessiveness in his hold doesn't pretend to be anything else. “But I'd still like to have it. For my records.”
“If I tell you, do you promise not to do anything?”
“I promise not to do anything you'll find out about.”
You laugh, quiet and real, and feel his chest move against your back with something that might be a laugh too, or might be the exhale of a man who's holding something precious and knows it, something he has to return in the morning but is his for tonight. You close your eyes and sink deeper into his warmth, letting the night stretch on just a little while more.
Your date said he had better plans. And lying here on Zayne's living room floor, in the wreckage of stained silk and crumpled petals and everything you'll have to figure out when the sun rises, you think—yeah. So did you.
SYNOPSIS: Tara convinces you to download a safety app that'll help you discover hidden cameras. What's the worst that could happen?
TAGS: MDNI! NSFW CONTENT!! Seriously, this contains explicit content, so minors please stop reading and scroll away. Perv Caleb, creepy Caleb using hidden cameras, stalking, masturbation, implied mutual masturbation, sort of phone sex (?), Y/N screws with Caleb on purpose, improper use of Gideon's name (lmao), implied smut
WC: 1.8K
Find Part II - Eyes On Me, Pips here.
A/N: Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!! Was having a diabolical chat with a friend of mine about Caleb today and she's been begging me to finally post my writings, so I'm kicking off with this one to test the waters. If you like this and wanna see more, feel free to let me know and leave a comment! I'd love to hear what you have to say, and if y'all like it enough, I'll be more than happy to share a part 2. Enjoy reading ^^
-
“No, seriously! Everybody’s been talking about this online,” Tara swears to you, pointing at her phone’s screen enigmatically. “It’s foolproof and recommended for women travelling alone, just one tap and the bluetooth connects to any possible hidden cameras in your room! I haven’t been to a single Air BnB without using it.”
You sigh, trying not to laugh at how insistent she was about her fixation of the week. “Have you ever actually caught a hidden camera with it?”
“Not me, but my cousin’s friend Leah did! Even got the landlord to pay her compensation for it,” she says resolutely, making your eyebrows raise slightly. Could it be that one of these popular apps actually worked, for once?
“And it’s free? Sounds too good to be true, what’s the catch?” you ask skeptically, trying to add things up and stumbling at the fact that such a useful app could be available free of charge.
She shakes her head with a big smile. “No catch! The creator is some super boss-woman, said she made it to keep all her girlies out there safe.”
Impressed, you concede and open your phone to download the app, thinking that nothing bad could come out of it either way. Tara is obviously happy, and proceeds to talk about it some more over dinner before switching to tens of other topics throughout, as she always does. By the end of the night, your stomach is full, your cheeks hurt from laughing too hard, and you’re in a great mood.
It's around midnight when she finally drops you off at your apartment building, and you wave her goodbye before walking in and taking the elevator up.
Your heels are off as soon as you’re through your front door, groaning as the blood finally circulates and staves off the numbness in your legs. You hear your door’s lock click and wobble to your kitchen, sighing when you ease yourself into a stool at the island counter.
Not twenty seconds after you’d locked your door, your phone buzzes in your pocket.
You glance at the microwave clock and see that it’s well past midnight. Who could be texting you this late on a Saturday night?
Shimmying your phone out of your pocket, your screen comes to life to show you two new messages from Caleb. Your lips curve into a soft smile as you tap the notification and unlock your phone, leaning against the counter while you read.
Hey pipsqueak!
Home yet? xD
A soft snort leaves you as you respond, typing back swiftly.
Just got back, are you in my walls?
His response is just as quick, adorned with a few laughing expressions.
You wish ;p
Going to bed?
You get up from the stool and head for your room, shrugging off your jacket before texting back.
Yep, just a quick shower and then Colonel Pipsqueak is off to dreamland
He doesn’t wait too long to reply.
Roger that :) Guess that means I’ll text you in the morning, so g’night!
Captain Caleb, over and out xD
You giggle a little despite yourself, appreciating how his texting style never seemed to change no matter how much time would pass. You text back a simple ‘Night ^-^’ and leave your phone to charge on your bedside table before walking in to have a quick shower.
The hot water helps relax you further after a fun night out with one of your best friends, and you leave the bathroom with your towel wrapped around you as you hum a soft melody you’d heard earlier that day. Sitting down on your bed, you grab your phone and open it to find Caleb’s chat still open. You tap to sift to a different app for a distraction when you notice the app you’d downloaded during your time out with Tara was still open.
With an amused little huff, you tap to move back to it and enable its access to your phone’s bluetooth. Without a second thought, you choose the ‘Scan’ option and wait for the app to probably find your speakers or headphones. Instead, a list of unnamed devices shows up.
Active within a 10 metre radius:
Device 001
Device 002
Device 003
Device 004
Your blood runs cold.
This was your apartment. Your home and safe space, where nobody but the people most trusted in your life is ever allowed to enter. This can’t possibly be right.
You switch your bluetooth off and back on again, then restart the app before scanning one more time.
Same results.
Your hands are shaking when you close the app again in a hurry, half-throwing the phone onto the bed like it had suddenly shocked you. Your breathing is erratic, chest feeling a little too tight, when your phone suddenly buzzes and makes you jump. With trembling fingers, you grab it and check your notifications.
Hey pipsqueak, is everything okay?
You still. The shock is broken almost as soon as it had come, and your shaky hands type a quick response.
I thought you were sleeping. Why do you ask?
His reply is instant.
Just felt like something was off and it made me text you
You’re immediately hyperaware of your surroundings, but the feeling of danger has all but gone. Instead, a bitter pettiness worms its way into your body as the situation clicks into place. What were the odds that Caleb would ask if you were okay out of nowhere when you’d just been starting to panic?
Well, about the same as somehow always knowing when you got back home as soon as you were through the front door.
A part of you hates that you’d never considered that he could have been watching you despite the odd ‘coincidences’, and the Hunter training in your head cusses you out for having left your guard down and fallen prey to him so easily.
A quieter part, however, sparks at the idea. Caleb, your Caleb, had been watching you this entire time. Just how long had these cameras been here? How much had he seen? Did this mean your feelings were reciprocated?
You don’t allow yourself to back out as you leave his text unanswered and unwrap the towel, propping some pillows up so you could lay back, still undressed. Forcing yourself to breathe and relax, you part your legs slowly and allow your free hand to trail down your body at an agonisingly slow pace while the other continues to hold your phone. Within seconds, another text comes through.
You there? Watcha up to, pips?
The forced nonchalance while he pretends not to be watching is enough to make an indignant anger crawl under your skin. You decide to fight fire with fire, and your fingers finally dip between your thighs while you reply.
Sounds silly, but thinking about someone. Been on my mind for a while…
You begin to touch yourself, a whimper escaping you as you watch him type, backpedal, type again, and then repeat. The ellipses keep showing up, but he seems to take longer to respond the louder your pretty sounds continued to get. Finally, a short message comes through.
Yeah, me too
You see him begin to type something else, and your anger decides that the opportunity for revenge has presented itself on a silver platter. You waste no time, and in the most deliciously wanton tone, you moan out Gideon’s name.
The typing stops. Five seconds later, your phone is buzzing in your hand as a call from Caleb comes through, and you try your hardest not to smile. You make a point of watching it ring, but you don’t pick up. When it sends him to voicemail, Caleb immediately sends in a text.
Pick up the phone.
You make sure your next moan is extra sultry, and the erotic tone has your cheeks pinking in embarrassment as Gideon’s name tumbles from your lips yet again. In your head, you hope he forgives you for using him in your scheme.
The phone buzzes with a call again, and this time, you answer on the fifth ring. Your tone is petulant and bratty when you address Caleb with, “I’m busy.”
You’re greeted by heavy breathing on the other end of the call, interrupted by the occasional hitch. “Who are you thinking about?”
It’s working. You make sure to keep touching yourself, taking your sweet time to answer his question, and you actively hear his breathing deepen and stutter the longer you go on. “Are you okay, Caleb? You don’t sound so good.”
“Answer me, Y/N,” he all but begs, breathy and anguished.
You finally smile then, hoping he can see it clearly as you touch yourself while he speaks to you. “What, did you hear something you shouldn’t have?”
It’s audible when he stops breathing for a few seconds, the line going dead quiet as your words register and he realises he’d been caught. About half a minute later, his voice comes out strangled. “You knew I was watching. You did that on purpose.”
You tease yourself some more, whimpering into the phone to torture him further. “Didn’t like the consequences of your own actions, Caleb?”
“Brat,” he stutters out in disbelief, like he can’t tell if he should laugh or not. It’s followed by a muffled groan and a hiss, which makes you laugh as you realise he was stroking himself to you.
“Did me being cruel to you make you even harder? What a masochist,” you coo at him, though the anger hasn’t quite left you yet. “How long have you been watching me, Caleb?”
The tone makes him whimper, and you can hear his breathing get even more unsteady. “Don’t stop talking, pips… Fuck, it’s even better hearing you talk to me directly.”
At that, you moan Gideon’s name again. The reaction you get is exactly the one you wanted.
“Y/N, if I hear his name one more time, I’m going to – ” he starts angrily, but you interrupt him with another laugh.
“You’ll what, hm?” you taunt, surprised with yourself and your ability to rile him up so easily.
The line goes quiet, and the eerie silence makes you lose a bit of confidence. You stop touching yourself, but before you can say anything else, his voice comes through with a resolute finality. “Give me forty minutes.”
Your brows furrow as you glance at your clock. “What? Caleb, it’s two in the morning. I was just getting back at you for spying on me like a perverted creep. Don’t be so – ”
“Forty minutes,” he repeats, but you can hear the predatory smile in his tone this time as the shuffling of movement is heard through the phone. He’d caught you off guard and pulled the rug out from under your feet, and you’d fallen prey to him yet again.
“Listen, if you think I’m actually letting you win this, you must be – ” But he interrupts you once more, already on the move.
“You won’t mind if I let myself in, yeah?” he says smugly and hangs up.
You look around you, then back down at your still-naked state, and everything that just happened finally registers in your brain.
You were thoroughly fucked, metaphorically and literally.
-
Find Part II here.
calebslittlesecret writings are my own work and all rights are reserved. It is not allowed to plagiarise, edit/modify, republish, copy, or translate this or any of my works in any way.
