This blog is ABOUT AND ADVOCATES for love towards all Black women
This blog SUPPORTS all Black women being the love interests and soulmates
If you're racist/this isn't your "cup of tea," then my blog isn't for you. I will continue to post about and talk about Black women, and it won't ever stop. 💗
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
siren!reader + rafe feel like the type of people that would drunkenly get married in vegas out of sheer spite.
Rafe woke up to sunlight stabbing through the open blackout curtains.
His mouth tasted like he'd licked the bottom of an ashtray, his head felt like someone had taken a golf club to it (wouldn't be the first time), and there was a weight across his chest that definitely wasn't a pillow.
He cracked one eye open.
The suite was trashed with champagne bottles on their sides leaking onto the carpet, a bra dangling from the ceiling fan, glitter (where the fuck did glitter come from?) scattered across every surface.
One of his shoes was in the jacuzzi tub; the other was nowhere in sight. A half-eaten room-service burger sat abandoned on the nightstand, ketchup smeared like blood spatter.
And you.
You were sprawled across him, face buried in the crook of his neck, one leg hooked over his hip, pinning him even in your sleep.
As per usual, he woke up before you did, especially when the hangover wasn’t quite vicious enough to knock him out cold.
Your breathing was slow, soft puffs against his skin, mouth slightly open. Irritating, so fucking irritating.
And cute.
Goddamn it. You were the only person on the planet who could look this wrecked and perfect at the same time.
The ring on your finger glinted when you moved deeper into his shoulder, the cheap gold catching the light.
Rafe should’ve been panicking and calculating annulment timelines, damage control, what Ward would say when the news inevitably leaked back to the Banks.
Instead, all he could think was: mine.
He propped himself up on one elbow, ignoring the throb behind his eyes, and looked at you for a solid minute, tracing the faint hickey blooming under your jaw that he didn’t remember putting there.
His perfect fucking girl.
He leaned down carefully and pressed his lips to your temple, then kissed the corner of your eye next. Then the bridge of your nose and the apple of your cheek.
You made a sleepy noise protest, slithered with contentment, and tried to burrow deeper into the pillow.
“Wake up, princess,” he murmured, voice still rough from last night’s shouting and tequila. He kissed the shell of your ear. “Your husband’s getting impatient.”
You groaned, but didn’t open your eyes. “Five more minutes.”
“Nope.” He rolled half over you so his weight pinned you to the mattress. “You’re gonna open those eyes and look at me, or I’m gonna keep going until you do.”
You cracked one eye open, bleary and unimpressed, squinting at him
"Why are you assaulting me with your face?”
You stretched lazily, arching your back so the sheet slipped lower, exposing the dip of your collarbone and the bruise he’d left there yesterday.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his breath, eyes dragging over you.
You propped yourself up on one elbow, hair tumbling over your shoulder.
"Can't believe you begged a fake Elvis to let you put a ring on it, Cameron.”
Rafe’s jaw flexed, exasperated with your need to piss him off as soon as you opened your eyes. “I didn’t beg.”
He did.
“You got on one knee and everything. Looked up at me with those big wet Bambi eyes.”
“Bullshit.”
“Want me to pull up the video?"
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
There it was—that punch-to-the-gut that had been frying his brain since Rafe was fourteen and you'd leaned over the boat railing in that red bikini.
He glared down at you properly this time.
“You’re gonna hold it over me, aren't you?"
"Yeah," You stretched again, like a cat, giving him that saccharine smile that made him want to do extremely raunchy things to his brand-new wife. “I woke up a Cameron."
Rafe’s breath hitched at the way you said, the most casual, filthy little victory you’d ever claimed. His last name in your mouth sounded better than it ever had on anyone else’s.
“Yeah?” He dropped his forehead to yours. “And you’re fucking glowing about it, aren’t you?”
You hummed, dragging your nails lightly down his bare back.
“Little bit. I always knew you had it in you. Just didn’t think you'd do it with a twenty-four-hour chapel and a fake Elvis who called you ‘my boy’ the whole time.”
He chuckled despite himself, the sound slipping through the hangover haze. It turned into a groan when you moved under him, and the sheet slipped further, around your waist. All that skin. His marks on you.
“Goddamn it,” he muttered, kissing you hard before you could fire off another smartass comment. You tasted like stale champagne and sleep and you, and Rafe was so fucked.
He’d been gone for you since you were kids, stealing beers from his dad’s cooler and daring each other to jump off the pier at night.
This was a whole new level of pathetic.
“You’re not freaking out.”
“Nope.” You grinned, the same exact smile that used to make him do reckless shit to keep your attention. “I’ve been waiting for you to lock it down since you punched Kelce for looking at my ass too long."
Rafe’s ears went hot. “I didn’t—fuck, okay, I did. But you liked it.”
“I loved it.” Your leg hooked higher around his hip, pulling him closer until there was nothing but warmth and the sticky remnants of last night between you. “My big, jealous husband.”
“Say it again.”
“Husband."
His arms tightened around you, completely down bad. He didn’t care anymore.
“You’re evil,” he hissed into your skin, kissing down your throat, teeth grazing what he’d left behind. “Dragged me to Vegas, got me drunk, and stole my last name.”
“You got on your knees, baby." Your fingers threaded through his messy hair, making his eyes flutter. “Very romantic. I have the video, remember?”
He nipped your collarbone in retaliation. “Delete it.”
“No.”
“I’ll buy you a real ring. Big one. Whatever the fuck you want. Just delete the video.”
“I’m keeping both. The ring and the blackmail material. Keeps you honest.”
Rafe lifted his head, eyes dark and helplessly soft all at once. “I hate you.”
“You love me.”
“Yeah. I really fucking do.”
He’d spent years choking them down with coke and rage and whatever else he could shove between himself and the truth, until last summer.
He remembered last night in flashes.
Fake Elvis egging him on, all sideburns and polyester, while Rafe was on one fucking knee, with whatever balance he could find after drinking his bodyweight in tequila.
"Marry me right now or I’ll lose my mind. I don’t deserve you,” he’d slurred against your mouth right after. “But I’m keeping you anyway. Fuck everyone else.”
You’d answered by biting his bottom lip and muttering “Good boy,” loud enough for the officiant to clear his throat.
“Thinking about it again?” you purred. “You got teary when you said the ‘till death do us part’ bit. It was cute.”
“I wasn’t teary,” he lied immediately.
He’d been fucking misty.
The chapel lights had hit your face, and suddenly all he could think about was every summer night you’d spent tangled up on his boat, every time you chose him over his bullshit, over everything.
“Remember how you couldn’t even wait to get back to the hotel? Had me in the limo like a fucking animal.”
Flash.
The divider was up. Your dress was recklessly rucked around your waist. His hands shaking as he pushed your thighs apart and buried his face between them while you tugged on his hair and moaned his name loud enough that the driver definitely heard.
“My wife,” he’d growled against you, drunk and delirious. “Gonna keep you forever.”
You’d come on his face with the cheap ring glinting on your finger, then pulled him up and kissed him sloppy, tasting yourself on his tongue.
As a matter of fact, he wasn’t annulling shit.
This was forever. Glitter, cheap rings, blackmail videos, and all.
You seemed to read that realization on his face, smirk deepening, that dangerous curve of your lips always meant trouble.
“One little reminder that you’re my husband now and you look like you’d crawl across broken glass to keep me.”
“Keep talking, and I will keep you in this bed for the next week.”
You sat up straighter, straddling him fully now, the gold ring glinting on your finger as you trailed your hands down his chest. Rafe followed, sitting up so you were chest to chest, one arm banded around your back, holding you there.
“You’re such a fucking brat.”
"Yeah? So fuck me like you mean it, Mr. Cameron. Show your wife how grateful you are that she finally let you put that ring on it.”
Rafe didn’t need to be told twice.
He was halfway inside you when both phones started exploding.
First, it was his, vibrating so hard it nearly walked itself off the edge, and then yours joined in, ringing from somewhere under the pile of discarded clothes on the floor.
He didn’t have to look to know who it was.
Rafe couldn’t give less of a shit.
He thrust the rest of the way in with one smooth roll of his hips, burying himself to the hilt.
“Ignore it,” he growled, already moving, “Let them call.”
You let out a breathy hum that turned into a moan when he hit the spot that always made your back bow. “That’s my dad. He’s probably losing his mind. Might even be on a plane right now.”
“Don’t care.” Rafe hooked your leg higher, spreading you wider as he fucked you harder, the bed creaking under you both. “You’re mine now. Legally. He can scream all he wants.”
Another flash hit him mid-thrust—last night, right after the chapel, you’d answered a random call from your dad while Rafe was three fingers deep in you in the back of the limo. You’d tried to keep your voice normal, biting your lip bloody while telling your dad you’d “call him back later,” all while Rafe whispered “tell him you’re getting married” against your soaked pussy.
Not his finest moment.
The phones kept going. Ring after ring, then the dings of incoming texts, probably paragraphs of threats and disappointment.
You reached up, threading your fingers through his hair and yanking to watch his eyes flutter.
“Rafe Cameron ignoring his father for pussy? That’s a new low, even for you.”
He ground deeper, making sure you felt every inch. “It’s my wife’s pussy.”
Rafe moaned shamelessly, burying his face in your neck as he felt you start to tighten around him. Nothing else mattered, certainly not the inevitable hurricane waiting for you both back home.
Ten minutes later, he came with your name on his lips and your ring digging into his shoulder where you were holding on for dear life.
He collapsed on top of you, both of you sweaty and panting, the phones finally going quiet for a blessed thirty seconds before starting up again.
You pressed a kiss to his temple. “They’re not gonna stop.”
“Don’t care,” he mumbled, kissing along your collarbone, sated and still so fucking in love it hurt. “We’ll deal with them later. Much later.”
!18+!warning(s): smut but not really?, oral (f receiving), biting/marking, drug use(shweed), drinking, in my universe dom has a small eyebrow piercing lol, etc.
a/n: HEARD WE IN A DROUGHT?? lol, been about a year since i've written fanfic.. bear with me. tried something different and gave more plot than i'm used to, might be some errors, but i'll work them over the next few days.
¥
Apple and notes of caramel waft around you in the quaint café as you listen, somewhat intently, to the owner. A bulky tape recorder sits in the center of the booth, its grey vinyl chipped and scratched with time.
A slight ‘stip’ sound emits now and then, letting you know the recording will have beats of static in the playback. Great.
For months, you’ve been meaning to buy a new one, but it's been with you since high school, and you can’t find it within yourself to part with it just yet.
That, and you feel you should be compensated for a decent tape recorder when working under such a prestigious journalist company.
“I just couldn’t have believed we would rise to such popularity! And so to answer your question,”
The owner sighs and purses her wrinkled lips to the side, picking at her big apple red nail polish; there’s already a small pile of scraps next to her. She must be a delight at the nail salons.
You offer an encouraging smile, tight-lipped, and what you hope looks warm enough.
“I’d say that our Lavender Apple Pie is the one that everyone should try when stopping through Chicago this autumn! I’m certain it’s what will make everyone fall in love with our bakery!”
She giggles at her use of the worn-out pun, and your lips stretch so hard your cheekbones push up your glasses.
Your bottom lip makes an uncomfortable, silent pop! at the pull, and you taste metallic seep onto your tongue. Of all the days to misplace your lip balm in your other coat.
Your fingers tightly grip your 0.9 ballpoint pen. Yes, 0.9, because the 0.5 always snaps too easily, and the 0.7 scratches right through your notebook pages.
This big, fat 0.9 blue pen is the only one that can withstand the pliable aggression that seems to always materialize in your grip, in moments like these.
“Grip my hair a little tighter, baby, come on.” He whispers into your neck.
Right.. In moments like those, too. You shake your head, not right now.
You hadn’t seen him since that night four months ago, when you stole him for a small interview for your music column after he performed at some summer festival.
A video that shouldn’t have taken more than 15 minutes ended with you leaving three hours later.
You wonder how many times he's done that. How many girls he pressed up against the bed in his tour bus and fucked her like it would be the last time he’d ever.
It didn’t matter then, though, because your off-handed jokes of “I just need two hours with that man, that’s it!” Had suddenly come into fruition, and by the grace of your spirit guides, you were given the extra hour.
He stuck his hands into your psyche and pulled out a side of you, you didn’t know existed. He held you as if he knew you, moved inside you like all he could ever need was you.
He knew your body better than you did, whispering words into your skin that sounded as if they'd been just for you.
So much so that when it was all said and done and you were sent on your way, it hurt more than you thought it would.
Despite knowing the way that shit goes. And as cliché as it sounds, you hoped that you were burned somewhere deep in his mind, the same way he was in yours.
The chances of you seeing him again are slim to none. You’re in Chicago, and he’s somewhere, caught up in California.
You had hoped that when you posted the interview to Instagram and tagged him, he’d be first in your DM’s, wanting another go.
But again, that’s not how this shit goes. To add salt to the wound, it didn’t even give you the big break you'd been hoping for at your firm.
They wanted an A-list, not a B. And it sent you back to “wet behind the ears” story pitches, despite your columns being the best in your unit.
You’d woken up the next morning in your bedroom, citrus and earth still clinging to your nose and body.
You remember the way it wrapped around you when in his sheets, getting lost in it when he begged you to suck up his throat.
It was stronger there, warm in the crease of his neck. You couldn’t forget that scent if you tried.
“Not yet, baby. You can hold on a little longer, can’t you?”
He murmured against your lips, using his thumbs to wipe your tears as he rolled his hips in a slow pace. Ruining your pending orgasm for the third time.
“Gonna make you feel so good, I promise.”
And he kept that promise.
You’d never been fucked that good in your life, and damn it, he should take responsibility for it. He’s the reason for this, making you feel like some hung-up groupie.
Not even for his name, but for how he made you feel that night. If you had just two more hours, you’d—
The tape recorder clicks, the end of the tape, and you straighten up, eyes snapping out of its hazy focus.
Mrs. Tweedle jolts, too. She was probably still talking by the looks of it. Scraps of big apple red bigger than it was a moment ago.
Your patience is little to none as of late, having been tested beyond its limits. Your potential is being wasted on a story that someone who’s been in the industry for half the time you have should be doing.
But you can’t just barge into your boss's office, slam the expensive black coffee (three sugar, four cream, that he insists you get for him every morning at 7am on the dot) onto his desk, and demand more.
Maybe even thrown the damn drink in his face. So instead, you smile, that same, tight-lipped smile that just split your bottom lip, and carry on.
“Oh dear, looks like I’ve talked the recorder out.” She presses a hand to her mouth to suppress a hearty chuckle. Your eye twitches.
“No worries, Mrs. Tweedle–”
“Please, call me Bertha.”
“Right.. No worries, Bertha. Thank you for your time.” You click your pen back in and begin tucking your belongings into your cross-body bag.
A brown leather vintage piece, Cat gifted you after you graduated. You’re sure it cost her a pretty penny, and you’ve spent months trying to figure out how much to pay her back.
Eventually, you stopped nagging when she threatened to stop doing your nails for free. And well, some things just aren’t worth the sacrifice.
“Once I write up the story, I’ll send you the final draft for review.” You tap your nails; shiny, black, and almond, against the recorder, “It’s a miracle this thing is still working.”
You slip it into your bag and hastily stand up. If you’re in here a minute longer, you’ll throw up lavender and red polish.
“I have your email. We’ll be in touch. Have a great evening, Mrs. Twe- Bertha.” You shuffle out of the booth before she can respond, and scurry out the doors.
Early October’s chill cools the sweat that's pooling at your neck, and you sigh as you take off your glasses. It was too warm and stuffy in there.
You need a shower and a drink. And sex.
You make it to your car when your phone rings. It’s Cat.
“Hey, wanna go for drinks tonight?” and just like that, you're once again in your best friend's debt.
“Yes, please,” You check your watch, quarter past eight. “Pick me up at ten?”
“See you then! Mwah!”
¥
Cat is many things; she’s kind, loud, ready to land a few punches on your behalf if you ask, and utterly devoted to the people she deems close. She loves you more than words, which is why she can be a bit too blunt for her own good.
Your feelings be damned, she’ll tell you how it is and justify it before you can get a word in, making you feel just as stupid, if not more, than before.
So you weren’t expecting hugs and kisses after you told her about your Dominic debacle.
Even now, after explaining to her how your boss is letting the new snobby intern snuff out your stories left and right.
Though it would have been nice...
“Well, that’s shitty,” She mutters, chin resting on the palm of her hand as she leans into your space. Her braids sweep over her shoulder, and cascade down in waves.
“You’re telling me,” you scoff into the rim of your glass, rolling your eyes before knocking back the rest of your lemon drop.
“Blond and blue eyes?”
“Blond and blue eyes.” You give her a side eye, then both of you lean into eachother with giggles.
“Yeah, she’s probably fucking him.” Cat laughs, popping the cherry off her Old Fashioned, onto her tongue.
Pushing up onto the counter, you rest your temple on your knuckles, waving the bartender over for another martini, already feeling the knots loosen out of your shoulders.
You sweep your eyes around the bar; it’s one of the nicer lounges residing deep in Chicago’s house music district. Upscale and sleazy. People sway to the music, loud enough to feel it, but soft enough for conversation.
Lawyers in booths, their blazers tossed over the back, white button-ups rolled over their elbows– a little bit of everyone fills up the space.
Your gaze passes over a group of girls surrounding a girl with glittered eyeshadow, a “Birthday Bitch!” crown lopsided on her head as she throws back a shot.
Then you settle on a man who was tucked into a corner.
Hollow spreads across your chest. He was already staring in your direction, nursing a half-empty glass of something dark. His eyes remain sharp and unmoving despite being caught.
And you’d remember that face anywhere.
It's him.
He’s there, right there across from you, and you feel your heart drop to your ass. Your foot shakes against the side of the stool, and he catches it, eyes drinking up the anxiety seeping out of your body.
You don’t have time to think about soaking it all back in when his lips curl into a smile. The same one he used to coax you into his bed all those months ago. Your head spins.
You part your lips to say what? “Hey, long time no see, please fuck me again. Thanks!”
He’s across the room and wouldn’t be able to hear you, but the sudden throb between your thighs is crossing out rationality. You need to say something. Anything at all to–
A poke to the back of your neck, and you jump, swiveling your barstool around.
“You good?” Cat asks, eyebrow arched. You glance over your shoulder, back into that corner, and he’s gone.
Of course, and maybe it's for the better.
The moment you shared couldn’t have been more than a minute, and you were ready to bend any which way if he asked. Right then and there, an audience be damned.
You breathe out, “Yeah, yeah, all good.” The bartender slides you a new lemon drop, and you dance your finger around the rim to scrape off the sugared coating.
Cat narrows her eyes. You know that look; she doesn’t believe you, and questions are brewing.
You’d ran her dry with every possible scenario of seeing Dom again, she wouldn’t bat an eye if you told her you saw him here.
She’d probably pat your head in pity, acknowledging you had a few too many drinks.
No, thank you.
“So how’s everything going? Nia finally out of the picture, right?” You cut in. Cat’s lips quirk up, head dropping at the mention of her infuriatingly hot, but shitty ex-girlfriend.
Mission accomplished, but annoyance takes the place of victory at her hesitance to respond. You throw your hands up, the bangles stacked on your wrists clattering, “Cat?!”
“I know, but wait, hear me out!”
Cat’s excuses finally wrung out. You found yourselves moved from the bar, sinking into the plush red velvet couches placed around the lounge.
You’re a bit out of breath, having danced around an hour after your last drink. Contentment settles over your bones, the night finally having a start.
“So, where to next?” You twist around the rings on your finger, hoping she’ll want to check out the new bar across the way, but furrow your brows when she begins to gather herself up.
She swipes at the sweat that’s started coating her forehead, edges coiling up.
“Where to next? I have work in the morning. My nine am wants a nail design from hell. I need to mentally prepare.”
You huff a laugh, but reach out towards her, drunk and a little sore, but still itching to move to the Kaytranada beat playing overhead.
“What, no!~.”
“No, nothing, not everyone took off work the next two days.” She laughs, standing up from the couch, and rummaging in her purse for her keys.
“You coming with me?”
You probably should go home, end the rest of the night with takeout from your favorite Chinese spot, and Supernatural reruns. It’s familiar, a cozy nest of comfort and predictability.
Under normal circumstances, yes would have rolled off your tongue, but you were waiting, hopeful for something. For him.
You don’t even know if he’s still here, but you danced like you had an audience. Subtly keeping your head on a swivel, hoping to lock eyes with him again, but to no avail.
Every corner, every tucked-away spot, remained vacant.
“Nah, think I’ll linger around a little bit.” You lazily turn on your side, draping your right leg over the left, “A few more moments of bliss before reality sinks in again.”
Cat's face softens, “You sure?” You wave her off, “Promise, now go before I start searching for that bag’s price tag again.”
She groans, “You wouldn’t.”
“Go!”
“Okay, okay, text me when you get home, love you!” She leans in to kiss your forehead, then she scurries towards the exit.
Your head thuds back against the couch, a lopsided smile on your lips. Over ten years of that, and it never fails to fill you with warmth.
It's quiet around you again, despite the bass. No more banter, or a thigh for you to drape your legs over.
For a moment, you let your eyes fall, watching as a girl clumsily tangles herself with a man who looks just as inebriated as she is.
They have matching neck tattoos, and you squirm when she leans over to press a wet kiss where his is under his ear.
The look he gives her promises just what she’s asking for, and then he’s dragging her towards the back of the club, out of sight.
You shiver and avert your eyes. That must be nice.
A beat passes, and you tap your acrylics together. The music fades into another house beat, and the bar grows more crowded. You should have just gone home; this isn’t an A24 movie; he’s not showing up.
With a defeated sigh, you pull out your phone and gear up to call an Uber. Your head felt as if it could roll off your shoulders, the last lemon drop you downed nesting itself comfortably into your nervous system.
A blunt would be nice right now, too; you have a few rolls left, just what you need.
Just as your thumb goes to call a ride, the cushions next to you sink slowly, and your shoulders tense. Solid and dark out of the corner of your eye, his presence makes your stomach churn.
You know who it was, but can’t will yourself to look, not yet. Not when your heart is hammering against your ribs, as if it’s trying to break from its bone cage and fall into his hands in a bloody plop.
Long and drawn out, his exhale ghosts over your neck, making you shiver. How close is he? The breath sounds bored, waiting.
You sit frozen. Get yourself together! You silently scream.
The cushions shift, and his body heat moves away, icing you out. Was he about to leave?
Your head snaps up as if controlled by strings. Of course, he’s already watching, waiting for you with a knowing curl on his upper lip, and eyes glinting.
“I wasn’t going anywhere.” His voice settles deep into your bones; it’s nasally, and it sounds just like you remember.
His eyes are still sharp, but glossy and round—a telltale sign of a drink or three.
The air's suddenly prickling with static, making you hyperaware of every breath you struggle to take in. You swallow, but it’s hard to get down.
You feel like you’re right back on that tour bus.
Your lips part as he trails up your body, trying to etch you into his memory again. Black pants sit low on your hips, and a thin top that stops right where the pants kiss your hip.
It’s everything you’d hoped for.
The primal attention that makes anyone on the receiving end of it feels like the luckiest woman alive, and you’re soaking in it.
Unable to handle the weight of his stare, you shift, and that calculated attention snaps up to your face. Your mouth moves before you tell it to.
“Hey,” you breathe.
“Hi,” he grins, eyes crinkling. You wonder if he even remembers you, but then he brings a hand up to your shoulder and softly tugs at the loose fabric of your shirt.
He pulls it down to reveal more of the wispy tattoo starting at your neck and trailing to your fingers, and that doubt goes away.
His large, veined hands are cold, and goosebumps awaken down your arm as his fingers trace over your ink, just like he did back in July.
“What are you drinking?” You clear your throat, regaining a bit of your voice. The short glass he holds is full. He pulls his fingers away from your arm, and you almost mewl at the loss.
“Spiced rum,” He swirls the glass, sloshing the liquor. “Wanna taste?” Before he can say anything else, you nod.
You know what spiced rum tastes like, but he’s offering, and you’ll agree to anything he asks right now.
He makes you work for it; you have to use a bit of your strength to pull the glass away.
He snickers; you roll your eyes.
At the first sip, your lip gloss leaves a pink frosted kiss on the rim. The rum’s spicy, wraps your tongue in notes of toffee and dried plum. Nothing like the spiced rum you’ve had before, this is expensive shit.
It practically melts down your throat, and you do nothing to stop the small moan you hum.
“Good?” he tilts his head, grinning.
You take another sip, shudder, then roll your shoulders back. Small talk, you’re good at that. It’s your fucking job, for God's sake.
“I know what rum tastes like.” You shrug, “Nothing I haven’t had before. But it’s pretty good.” His eyebrow raises, and you notice a piercing glint under the colored lighting above the couch. Oh, that’s new.
“Got it, so you just wanted to press your lips where mine were, then? That it?” He nods towards the glass, and your lips part, neck suddenly feeling too hot for the hair falling around it.
His grin widens, and you hate how beautiful it looks.
Still, it doesn’t stop your scoff, “Fuck off.” It comes out airy, with no bite.
You turn your head and lift your chin, having to see it through now, but he still hasn’t outright said he remembers you. So the attitude isn’t completely in vain.
He kisses his teeth and plucks the glass from your hand.
“Come on, don’t be like that.” He throws an arm along the back of the couch and spreads out. "You remember how good you were for me last time, don’t you?”
Oh.
Your heart thrums. He remembers, and from the sound of it, that night’s been burned deep into his mind just like it has yours.
You turn to face him, already thinking of ways you could worm your way back under him, but the words die in your throat.
You catch as his tongue swipes out to wet his lips, then he drags it along the rim of the glass, licking off your lip gloss smear in one go.
You heard it before you saw it: the clink of metal hitting the cup, a small silver ball in the middle of his tongue showing through the glass.
A fucking tongue piercing, that’s new too. What the hell happened over these past months?
Your body sizzles with an untamed heat. Never have you wanted to pounce on him more than you do right now.
“Vanilla, right?” He husks, placing the glass on the table in front of you. You take in the sudden deep rise and fall of his chest; his voice seems to have left him. “I remember smelling that everywhere I went after you left.”
“Mm-mm, no.” Lying, you look down at his lips, “Try again.” His hand comes down to rest on the curve of your ass, thumb sliding into your pants to rest over your hip.
His lips are a breath away from where they should be. Tension thick, and sucking the air out of your lungs with a permission you’d give again and again.
He knows it’s vanilla, you can tell by the way he digs his thumb hard into your hipbone in warning. You push up against it.
“You know how hard it was to forget you? I smelled you on my lips for days, aching to just fucking taste you again.” His fall into your hands wasn't expected; you thought you'd have to work for it, so this is a welcome surprise.
You’re quivering with the need to take him back to your place. Mind beginning to black out at the edges, a wave of confidence oozing from you, at his blatant need for you. So you act on it before it can slip away.
“You missed me?” You slide your hand around his neck and anchor it there, up and under his curls.
His eyes flutter closed as he nods, “So much.”
“Show me.”
He’s close enough for you to lean forward and just take what you want, but you want him to do it. Your voice is lost to your ears. All that registers is the slow smile stretching across this beautiful man’s face.
You swear right then, you’ll do anything to keep it there.
He’s on your lips before you can blink. Your fingers tangle in his hair, struggling to find grounding at the intensity of it. His lips are soft, just like you remember, and taste of dried plum and spice.
You press your chest to his. Both his hands slide to palm your ass, yanking you closer. You let him, hiking a leg over his lap, hips now flush against his side.
Earth and citrus swarm your senses again, and you just about lose yourself. It ferments the air around you, the more he invades your space, mixing with your sweet perfume, and you bite back the wild urge to lick up his jaw.
With a mind of its own, your hand slithers down to wrap around his neck. No pressure, yet the moan that rumbles out of his throat shoots right to your pussy.
His piercing clicks uncomfortably against your teeth, making you grimace. It vibrates up your gums, and you yearn for him to do it again.
“You still like being choked, huh?” You grin against his lips between kisses.
Dom’s grip tightens on your waist. Your leg twitches, and you intend to climb fully on top of him. Just thinking about your clit pressing against the prominent tent in his jeans leaves you whimpering into his mouth.
He sucks on your bottom lip, then lets it snap back into place before putting space between you.
You have stop yourself from chasing his lips; you haven’t swept your tongue against his piercing yet, and trying to hold on to the self-control you usually have feels almost impossible right now.
Well, what’s left of it anyway.
Cat would lose her shit if she saw you right now: hair roughed up, lip gloss smeared across your cheek in public like this.
“Take me back to your place?” He noses along your jaw. You sigh and lean into him with a nod, not trusting your voice. Hoping your eagerness is pliable enough for him.
You don’t remember much of the Uber ride back to your place, or even which one of you unlocked the door to your apartment before you were slammed up against it, heels falling off your feet.
You’re supposed to text Cat that you made it home, but that can wait; she’ll understand.
“Room is down the hall. Second. Door. On the left” You pant in between kisses. And now you’re lying on your mattress, with Dominic fucking Fike right back between your legs like he’s always belonged there.
He remembers where to kiss, to press, and more importantly, where to bite. What to say, and how to say it, to make you tighten your grip in his hair.
His eyes are glossed over and wild as he looks up at you, licking the birthmark on the inside of your thigh before nipping at it.
Your pants are somewhere on the floor, yanked off along with your top. But your panties stay, and you could feel the warm puff of his breath through them.
At the whisper of contact, you buck your hips up, eager for him to get to where you need him. You watch his eyes flutter close, as he greedily nuzzles his nose into your clothed cunt with a deep inhale.
Your hand tightens in his hair. Saliva pools around your tongue.
“Fuck Dom, you’re something else.” You pant. He just sighs, hands squeezing into your thighs. This is too much, you feel you'll pass out if you don't busy yourself with something.
You feel up for your nightstand and dig around the ashtray for one of your blunts and a lighter.
“Come here,” You coax, as you light it. Both his arms are wrapped under and over your thighs.
Taking a deep pull of the joint, Dominic pulls himself up and hovers his face over yours. Your eyes roam over his nose, his cheekbones, the freckles dotting up his jaw, and along his ear.
Lips, pink and plumper after being bitten. You can’t believe you’re back here after all this time.
Dropping the blunt into the ashtray, you yank him down for a shotgun. He greedily inhales all that you give him, and the buzz you feel right after is just what you were looking for as you melt into the bed.
Barely having a moment to exhale before Dom's lips are back on yours.
It’s wet and swollen. He still tastes of the spiced rum and peppermint gum you’d slipped under his tongue earlier.
Then finally, finally, his tongue slips into your mouth; you suck on it, flicking your tongue over the piercing. His breathing turns erratic, and he firmly caresses your cheek, silently begging for more.
And who are you to deny him?
Moving down, you suck at the skin right under the back of his ear. He tilts his head, giving you more room, and curses out your name. It quickly becomes your favorite sound.
Dropping his weight fully to his forearms, his body firmly presses against yours, and he rolls his hips.
The deep, slow grind of his hard-on, poking through his jeans, makes your mouth drop against his neck at the friction.
“Dom please.” You choke. He hasn’t fully touched you yet, but you knew you’d come too soon if he did that again. Your ears feel as if they’d been stuffed with cotton, and Dominic’s bare chest feels molten against yours.
When did he take off his shirt?
You turn your head towards his, which has found its way into your neck, and nip at his ear. “Might cum if you do that again,” You warn, though it sounds more like a plea.
“Yeah? You promise?” He whispers against the side of your mouth. His hips roll again, and you can’t help but move your hips to match his rhythm.
“Don’t wanna cum like this. Need you.”
“You already have me.” You roll your eyes, knowing he knew what you meant, and that he was making your work for it.
So, grabbing hold of his hand, you slide it between your bodies to press his fingers to your aching clit.
“Want you here..” Your voice is small, and Dominic’s eyes gloss over.
You tug at the belt around his pants, “Need these off, too.” He lets you unclasp the metal buckle and unbutton his jeans before he kicks them off, along with his boxers.
Once he settles back over you, he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip, “Look at you. Missed me that bad, didn't you?” You lean into his touch, but your eyes remain focused between your bodies.
Mouth watering at the sight of him again. You lick your lips and reach to wrap around his shaft.
Hard, it throbs in your hand, and you hear his breath hitch. If you weren’t so hellbent on wanting this to last as long as possible, you’d have sunk down on him before fully processing that you had crawled on top.
You blink up at his fucked out expression, eyes red and low. Imagining you must look the same, you slowly began to move your hand up and down his cock, your fist tight and twisting.
But he wraps his hand around your wrist.
“Another time, okay. Need to taste you again.” Your brain short-circuits at the promise of a next time.
He moves your hand off him and up, intertwining them with his as he moves down. In a matter of seconds, he’s back settled between your thighs.
He presses one, three, five kisses along the band of your panties, icy heat left behind each one as his hands slide up to hook around the soaked lace and slip them down your legs.
“Look at how wet you are.” He whispers, watching as your panties peel away from your sticky folds, “Bet you taste better than last time.” Your toes twitch at the soft awe in his voice.
Time seems to slow, you wait impatiently with bated breath to feel his lips. And you don’t have to wait long before he kisses your clit, then suctions his lips around it. A white-hot pleasure licks at your spine.
“Dom~.” You draw out, “Yes, yes.”
He pulls back to push forward a ball of spit, letting it slowly spill over your folds. It’s warm as it slips down between your ass and pools onto his sheets.
Your jaw slackens when he takes his pointer and middle finger to push apart your folds and expose your clit. It’s so obscene, so nasty, how he’s playing with you.
He hikes your legs further back, spreading you wider.
Your fingers flex in his hair at how he’s moving you. You’re completely pliant under him, and he knows it.
“You smell so good,” He breathes, "Just how I remember.” Then he flattens his tongue to lick a slow stripe up your cunt, flicking the tip of his tongue wildly against your bundle of nerves.
Your eyes shut, and before you can beg for more, he’s eating you like he’s starved. It’s so good, too good.
Before you can stop it, your mind drifts without warning. Who else has he had like this between the months– Nope. You stick a pin in that. Dominic’s yours right now, no one else's.
“Yes,” You roll your hips up to meet his tongue, that little ball of metal catching on your clit in the most delicious way.
“Just like that.” He groans against you, his fingers pressing harder into the meat of your thighs, sure to leave an imprint. You hope it does.
The thought of him leaving something there made your chest fill with pride. Proof that you belong to him, no matter how delusional that sounds right now.
His middle and index fingers push into your fluttering walls, knuckles deep and your back arches.
His long, thin fingers fit perfectly, and his pace is quick. Your vision lags, the lewd sounds of his mouth working you almost too much.
Overcome with the need to lay your claim over him, you start sputtering out nonsense. Anything to keep him right where he is.
“Yours, Dom, I’m all yours.” You slur.
“Yeah, all mine.”
“No one else’s.”
“Then cum for me, you can do that for me again, can’t you?”
Your knuckles turn white in his hair, as your hips pick up against his tongue.
He keeps his head there, his movements not slowing down, if anything seeming to get faster when you start to cry out, voice cracking before you let out a broken cry.
His face is completely pressed into you, and you aren’t sure if he’s breathing. If he even cares to be or not.
“M’ gonna cum, you’re gonna make me cum already.” So close, so fucking close.
“All over my face, baby. Come on.”
That’s it.
Your thighs clamp around his head, bottom half lifting off the bed as your coil snaps.
You feel it before you process it, eyes closed so tight your vision begins to speckle stars, thighs locking up, as you cum harder than you believed possible.
Dominic slows down, suckling your clit while his fingers slowly slide out, lazily dragging his piercing over your cunt. Your thighs are trembling around his head, and he's showing you no mercy.
The overstimulation is immediate. You try to paw at his face to push him away, mewling at him to stop.
He lingers a little longer, just to be an asshole, then pulls off with a pop. Watching your clit snap back into place before rising over you, the bottom half of his face glimmering.
His hair’s tousled from your fingers, chest heaving as he sweeps over your body. He’s never looked hotter.
“Wanna taste?” He pants, and at this point, you don’t know why he bothers asking you anything. You pull him down, too fucked out to remember words.
That slow, teasing smile works its way across his face, and you can’t help but mirror it, laughing breathlessly.
“You’re such a fucking freak.” Voice hoarse from all your screaming.
“Yeah, still hit though.”
You cringe and push at his face, as he laughs against your hand.
Summary: You find yourself in a pickle when you accidentally toss Rafe's stash.
warnings: DUB-CON, slightly toxic relationship, voyeurism (or some form of it), Rafe is mean but what else is new, dumb!reader, bimbo!reader, kook!reader
➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies | divider by @firefly-graphics
⭑
You picked at the omelet Sarah made you, stuffing the scrambled egg into your mouth as she ranted about your boyfriend.
“...and then he has the nerve to actually be peeved at our dad like he’s not in the wrong,” she scoffed. “He asked you to do something important, you told him you would, and then you didn’t. It’s not hard math.”
She roughly dumped the skillet into the sink, shaking her head as she turned back around.
“You know what it is…?”
You stared at her as she angrily stabbed into her own omelet.
“I bet you anything he spent the money on booger sugar instead.”
You blinked at her at that and after a few moments she finally lifted her head. Your gazes met as you evenly stared at her, and with a small sigh, she touched your hand. A small smile was on her lips.
“Cocaine.”
“Ah,” you softly replied, nodding.
You weren’t exactly a fan of Rafe’s…habits, but you also saw firsthand how mad Ward could get with him sometimes. Rose too, and when Rafe explained to you one day that the drugs helped to clear his head and prevent him from doing things he’d regret, you became a little more understanding. You supposed that it did help you a bit to see firsthand that he was able to still behave pretty okay whenever he was high, sometimes watching with a slight frown as he snorted the powdery substance off of his hand.
“That doesn’t hurt?” you’d asked him one day.
His only response had been a wolfish grin as he asked you if you wanted some. He’d only laughed to himself before kissing you when you shook your head. You’d never given it much thought—the idea of partaking in that particular hobby of his—but Sarah had done a good job of scaring you away from the idea of ever trying it. Sometimes you swore that Rafe secretly didn’t want you trying it either despite his jokes. That’d been the only time he’d ever offered even though you’d witnessed him with the white substance on many occasions, especially in the privacy of his bedroom.
It was with that thought that your lips parted, something going off in the back of your mind.
“Cocaine is white…right?”
You knew that, but you needed confirmation from someone who wasn’t you. You were starting to second guess what you knew to be true in the hopes that it wasn’t true. In the hopes that you were just having a dumb moment—something Rafe often said— that was different from the dumb moment you were positive you’d had earlier. Sarah gave you a strange look before giving a slow yes, the word dragging out of her mouth.
Your heart skipped a beat.
“...and…kind of like powder?”
Again, her answer remained the same.
“Yes.”
“Oh God.”
You felt her eyes on you as you hurriedly stood up, feet tripping over each other as you rushed to the big garbage in the kitchen. Your heart dropped at the sight of a brand new bag in it, bringing your hand up to your mouth before facing Sarah again.
A ball of dread filled your gut.
“Rose already took the garbage out?”
Sarah’s frown deepened.
“Yeah–Y/N, what is going on, right now?”
“Oh my God, Rafe is going to kill me,” you whined.
“Why–? Hey! Hey, what’s going on?”
She was standing with you, now, her hands on your arms as she forced you to remain still. You heaved a shaky sigh, glancing up towards the ceiling as it was starting to sink in that you fucked up. Again.
“I was straightening up Rafe’s room this morning… You know, putting things away and getting rid of trash,” you softly started, shrinking in on yourself.
Sarah eventually blinked before rolling her eyes.
“I’m not even going to get into that, right now, but okay…”
She urged you to continue.
“I was just tossing away junk…and there was a bag by his lamp, not very big, and there was like…white powder in it…”
Sarah straightened up when you trailed off, lips parting as she seemed to understand what you did before you even said it.
“I didn’t realize what it was!” you rushed to say, explaining yourself. “It didn’t really click at the time and then you started talking about booger sugar and I had it on my mind and…”
You huffed, rubbing your forehead.
“Rafe is going to be so pissed,” you mumbled.
“Who cares? Serves him right, if you ask me,” the blonde shrugged, sitting back down to finish her breakfast.
“Sarah! It helps him,” you defended.
The laugh she barked made you frown.
“Is that what he told you?” she stuffed her face. “It only ‘helps’ him because he’s so goddamn addicted to it. It helps him like tequila helps an alcoholic.”
She didn’t seem concerned in the slightest, and you crossed your arms over your chest.
“So, you’re not going to help me replace it?”
“Uh…that would be a no, and that should go for you too,” she threw you a frown. “God forbid he forgoes the hard drugs for a day or two. Let him be pissed.”
With a frustrated huff, you turned away from her, ignoring her as she told you to just forget about it.
This wasn’t the first time you’d accidentally thrown something out that Rafe needed, only this time was the first time you hadn’t been able to get it back, and you recalled him talking about how expensive it was once. You grimaced at the thought of how much you’d have to pay to replace what you’d thrown out, but it was better than the alternative.
While you were positive Rafe loved you just the way you were, you also didn’t think he’d prefer to deal with your screw ups all the time if he didn’t have to. You frustrated him, that was no secret, and while that frustration never seemed to last for long, you knew that it couldn’t be easy to have you as a girlfriend. You didn’t like to remind him of that.
“Stupid, stupid” you mumbled to yourself as you grabbed your purse, lightly hitting the side of your head.
“Hi! Barry…?”
The dark-haired guy wasn’t alone, and the way he turned his head towards you told you that you had the right guy. Topper had given you a few spots as to where he might be—albeit reluctantly—and you were grateful that you’d only had to go to two locations to find him. Feeling so relieved that you found him—and that Rafe wasn’t going to kill you—you hurried towards him.
He looked at you like you were crazy.
“Oh, thank God,” you sighed. “You sell cocaine to Rafe, right?”
His reaction wasn’t what you expected, at all, the other guy quickly sporting a frown and harshly telling you to ‘shut the fuck up’. You blinked in shock, only able to follow along as he roughly grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the guys he was with. You struggled to keep up—stumbling a bit—and when he felt satisfied enough with the distance to let you go, you almost fell.
“Ayo, are you stupid or something?” he asked you, his fingers pressed to his temple. “You can’t just ask me that, and especially not in front of whoever I’m with.”
Your eyes were wide as he snapped at you, and you deflated a bit, swallowing.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t…”
It didn’t occur to you to be discreet about it, and now that it had been pointed out to you, you felt silly.
“What, you wanna buy or something?” he threw his arms out.
You nodded at that, perking up a bit.
“Yes, please. Whatever you normally sell to Rafe…”
Barry paused at the mention of your boyfriend, eyeing you for a moment before his face evened out entirely. A soft chuckle left his lips as he shook his head. The soft chuckle turned into a full blown laugh, and you felt awkward as you waited for him to finish.
“You’re with Country Club,” he finally said, pointing to you. “You’re his girl…”
You pressed your lips together, head tilting a bit in confusion.
“Rafe,” he gently told you, leaning in, his gold tooth winking at you.
“Oh! Yes,” you excitedly confirmed. “He told you about me?”
The thought made your stomach flutter.
“Oh, yeah,” he dragged the word out, smile crooked. “He’s told me all about you.”
Your smile widened, and he only shook his head again.
“Now…Rafe said you didn’t do drugs,” Barry said, his voice much gentler now as he took your arm and led you away.
“I don’t. It’s not for me, it’s for Rafe…”
“...but I just sold to Rafe. Not even three days ago. You’re tellin’ me he went through all of that already?”
You grew quiet at that, and you glanced away. At the feel of his eyes on you, you met Barry’s gaze again, teeth sinking into your lip.
“Something you wanna tell me?” he softly asked you, leaning in again.
“I accidentally threw it out…”
He seemed to find that hilarious, letting out a laugh that made you jump.
“I was cleaning Rafe’s room,” you started, feeling embarrassed. “...and…”
The dark-haired man wouldn’t stop laughing, and you felt your face heat up.
“Stop! It’s not funny,” you whined. “Rafe is going to be so pissed at me, and I’m trying to replace it before he notices.”
At that, Barry calmed down a bit, but the odd chuckle still climbed you of his throat every time he glanced at you.
“Well, isn’t that sweet,” he commented. “Alright…”
You blinked at him.
“I’ll sell you what I normally sell him, and you know what?” he hummed, thinking.
“What?”
“Since you’re so sweet, and you’re just trying to be a good girlfriend, I’ll sell it to you for a discounted price.”
“Oh!”
Your mood lifted at that.
“Really? Thank you! So, where is it?”
Barry paused at that before chuckling again, and truthfully you didn’t understand why. You weren’t saying anything particularly funny, but you allowed him to lead you along as he neared a black bike.
“See, I keep the uh…cocaine,” he lowered his voice. “...back at my place.”
“Oh,” you softly replied, nodding because that made sense.
“...and you walked here. So uh we’ll have to go on my bike,” he told you, gesturing to the vehicle.
Now, it was your turn to pause, eyeing it as you both stood by it. There didn’t seem like much room for you to ride on it, not unless of course you were plastered to him on the back. You chewed on your lip, weighing it over in your head.
Rafe wouldn’t be happy about this, at all. Your boyfriend practically lost his mind any time another guy so much as glanced at you, so you didn’t want to imagine how he’d feel about you riding on the back of some other guy’s bike. On the other hand though, you wondered what would upset him more? The coke or the bike? Not to mention…
You wouldn’t have a ride back.
You’d likely have to let Barry drive you back to this side of the island, and you sighed in frustration.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Country Club?” he sweetly asked.
You ignored the nickname.
“How am I supposed to get back…?”
Barry softly laughed at you before climbing on his bike, seemingly sure that you’d be tagging along. You watched him grab the helmet before handing it to you, and you hesitantly took it. When Barry smiled at you, the sun glinted off of the gold on his tooth.
“Don’t worry,” he told you. “I’ll make sure you get a ride back.”
His response seemed genuine, and so you allowed him to slide the helmet over your head, tilting it back to let him secure it. You struggled to push the skirt of your dress between your thighs as you comfortably settled behind him, obeying when he told you to wrap your arms around him. It was only when he was pulling off that it occurred to you that you’d never even ridden on the back of Rafe’s bike like this.
Barry’s house…wasn’t what you expected.
As you sat on the couch in his living room, you looked around the limited space with wide eyes. He’d disappeared into a room somewhere in the back almost immediately the moment you both stepped through the door, telling you to take a seat as he left. You did as he said, and the couch was where you’d been for the past thirty minutes or so.
This process was completely unfamiliar to you, but you told yourself to be patient. You liked to think that Rafe wasn’t home yet and that you still had time to replace his drugs before he noticed. If your boyfriend had noticed, there was no doubt in your mind that he’d currently be blowing up your phone. Speaking of, you glanced at said device again, frowning at the time and wondering what was taking so long.
Just as you were about to call Barry’s name, he finally rejoined you.
“I was starting to think you fell in,” you teased.
He didn’t smile, merely raising one dark brow at you, and you sheepishly chuckled.
“It’s a joke my father says, sometimes…”
You trailed off, shaking your head.
“Is it ready?”
You hoped you didn’t sound as frantic and as desperate as you felt, but you really wanted to get back before Rafe noticed.
“Yeah,” Barry drawled, a crooked smile on his lips as he held the bag up.
You started to stand, but he held a hand out, signaling for you to stay, and you frowned.
“How much do I owe you?”
You watched as he merely sat down across from you, and your frown deepened just as you heard a vehicle outside. You thought nothing of it, instead focused on Barry as he tilted his head from side to side. The dark-haired man hummed to himself.
“I haven’t decided just yet,” he grinned, spreading his arms along the back of the chair. “I’m waiting on a second opinion.”
His answer confused you, and you blinked a few times, trying to decipher what that meant when his front door opened. You didn’t realize he was expecting someone else, but when you turned your head, your eyes widened and your stomach dropped.
“Rafe…?”
Your boyfriend didn’t say a word as he shut the door behind him, and you didn’t need to be a genius to see that he wasn’t happy. Your lips parted, mouth opening and closing as you struggled to understand why he was here, right now. Had he noticed that his drugs were gone and was currently here to buy more? Was this merely an unfortunate coincidence?
“Country club!”
You jumped at Barry’s loud voice, never taking your eyes off of your boyfriend. He kept his hard gaze on you too.
“Glad you could make it—nice girlfriend you got here. She’s a sweetheart, man. I mean, really, she went through all this effort to fix her fuckup,” he said, making you frown. “I almost felt bad calling you.”
At that, you finally looked away from Rafe, spinning around to face Barry, gaze accusatory.
“You called him?” you almost yelled.
“Yes, he did.”
You looked down at the sound of Rafe’s voice, your boyfriend finally speaking to you.
“Get up,” he sneered, nearing you, and you made a noise when he pulled you to your feet.
“Rafe…”
“Inside.”
He forced you back into the very room Barry had disappeared into, surprised to find that it was his bedroom. You didn’t get a chance to look around.
“Are you insane?” Rafe snapped, forcing you to face him with a tight grip on your arm. “Going to Barry? Letting him take you to his house? Alone?”
“He’s your friend,” you mumbled.
You watched Rafe’s nostrils flare.
“He’s not…”
Your boyfriend huffed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Barry and I aren’t exactly friends,” he said to you. “There’s mutual bullshit between us that makes this transactional relationship work, but he’s not my friend and even if he was, you knew better.”
You threw your arm out.
“I was trying to…”
“I know what you were trying to do,” Rafe cut you off. “Barry told me everything. So I ask once again, are you fucking insane?”
“I didn’t want you to be mad at me,” you defended yourself.
Rafe ran his hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead. He chuckled to himself before leaning in, his nose brushing yours.
“Well, good job, baby because I’m not mad,” he quietly told you. “I’m fucking furious.”
“Rafe–!”
“You throw away my shit and then in an effort to replace it, you ride on the back of some guy’s bike alone to his house!”
“Well, how else was I supposed to get here?”
“Don’t come here,” he bit out at you, hitting his hands together. “How is that not obvious to you? Anything could’ve happened.”
“I figured you knew him so it was okay…”
Your words died in the air as soon as Rafe started to shake his head.
“I don’t care if it was Topper or Kelce, you know better,” Rafe spat. “So, now not only am I pissed about the drugs, but I’m pissed about this too.”
You felt your throat tighten, and with one look at your eyes, Rafe rolled his own.
“No, no, don’t give me that bullshit…”
“I was trying to fix it!”
Silence stretched between you as you sniffed, looking away from Rafe as you wiped your face. You leaned against the door, staring at the wall as he stared at you. Neither one of you spoke for what felt like a while, and you hesitantly looked at your boyfriend again.
You figured you had a long night ahead of you, but the situation with Rafe’s coke seemed more pressing, and you accepted that you couldn’t make Rafe not mad about this.
“So…what now?” you quietly asked. “How much is he making you pay to replace it?”
Rafe didn’t respond right away, and you felt confused as he moved to sit down on Barry’s bed before reaching out to you. Despite the fact that he was frustrated with you and you were frustrated with him, you went to him, taking his hand. When he pulled you closer, there was a gleam in his eye that you didn’t quite recognize.
“Barry feels bad for you,” Rafe murmured, dragging his eyes over your frame. “To be honest… I think he’s got a bit of a hard-on for you.”
You felt your face heat up at Rafe’s crass language, feeling like you should be used to it.
“Okay,” you dragged the word out. “So how much is he charging…?”
Again, Rafe didn’t answer the question, choosing instead to pull you between his parted knees. You blinked when he slowly reached under your dress, his fingers grazing your thigh as he pressed his lips to your stomach through the fabric. You were slow to catch onto a lot of things, but never when Rafe wanted to get your clothes off of you.
“Rafe…what are you…?”
“You were just trying to fix your fuckup,” he whispered. “I know that, baby…”
He roughly cupped you, making you gasp as he forced you into his lap.
“...but you still have to make it up to me.”
Your lips parted in a silent gasp as he kissed along your throat, worriedly looking at the door.
“Rafe, we can’t! This isn’t–.”
“Don’t worry about it,” was all he said to you, pulling you into a rough kiss.
His 180 gave you whiplash, and every time you tried to remind him that he was in someone else’s room—someone else’s house with said person right outside of the door—he didn’t care. You always said that Rafe was a hard person to say no to, and you really did try. After all, you didn’t feel right about this, at all, but all of your doubts completely disappeared the moment he had you pinned on top of his face.
Your hands pressed against Barry’s wall as Rafe swiped his tongue between your folds, struggling and failing to remain quiet. If you didn’t know any better, you’d swear that Rafe was trying to make you scream. Every time you tried to get off of him, he only tightened his hold and sucked on you harder. It made you gasp and whimper on top of him, squirming with every swipe of his tongue.
“Rafe,” you sighed, feeling no sense of relief when he let you go.
Your chest was heaving and you were fighting to catch your breath when he wrapped his hands around your ankles, yanking you towards him and pushing your knees back. With his own thighs pressed to the backs of yours, you were trapped as he released himself, stroking his cock a few times and rubbing it against you.
“Let me hear you,” he gruffly told you just before sliding his cock past your folds.
You couldn’t hold in your sharp gasp at the intrusion, no longer caring about whose bed or house you were in. Rafe didn’t waste any time, picking up a steady pace and pushing his cock into you to the hilt over and over. You reached up to press your hands against his shoulders in an attempt to ground yourself.
Despite what you wanted, choked moans and soft gasps started to escape your lips. The sounds of them seemed to egg Rafe on, his thrusts growing rougher. Every curve of his hips against yours created static in your brain, and you couldn’t stop mewling beneath him.
“Rafe…oh my God,” you breathed, throwing your head back.
“That’s it,” he whispered from above you.
The unfamiliar bed jostled beneath his movements, and you bit your lip in an effort to stifle the noises climbing out of your throat, but Rafe only fucked you harder at that, making it nearly impossible.
“Rafe, please,” you brokenly gasped. “I’m trying… I’m trying to be…”
“...but I don’t want you to be,” he purred, leaning in and kissing the corner of your mouth. “You know I like it when you get loud.”
You did know that, but you also knew that this wasn’t your house and you were not alone. That didn’t seem to bother Rafe a bit though, and you long decided not to let it bother you when Rafe eventually had you on your hands and knees. One of your hands was pressed into the wall in front of you while the other twisted into the sheets, unintelligible sounds leaving you.
One of Rafe’s hands was pressed into the small of your back while the other was tight around your throat. Your underwear had long been yanked off and thrown somewhere, Rafe’s skin slapping against yours as he pressed kisses to your cheek and jaw.
“I’m not mad anymore,” he whispered against your skin. “...but you can’t trust everyone I trust. You understand?”
“Uh huh,” you breathed, eyes rolling.
“...and stop touching shit in my room.”
“Okay,” you whined, toes curling.
“...but this was really sweet of you…even if it did piss me off…”
“I’m sorry,” you moaned.
“I know, baby,” Rafe breathed, stretching you out around his cock.
When you came around him, you couldn’t stop moaning and whimpering—something Rafe encouraged—and you felt completely worn out when he finally pulled out of you.
The embarrassment didn’t start to set in until a few moments later, and you sat up with wide eyes. Rafe was already coming to you with your underwear, and you didn’t know what to say as he dropped to his knees and slid them up your legs for you.
“Rafe… Barry, he… Oh God,” you sighed, pressing your hands to your face.
Rafe only chuckled before grabbing said hands, pulling them away from your face and you to your feet.
“Barry’s not going to care. Trust me,” he said, leading you to the door.
“How do you know?” you wondered.
Your boyfriend’s only response was a haughty chuckle, and when you exited the room, Barry looked as calm as ever, still in the same spot.
“You two lovebirds make up?” he wondered, a grin on his lips as he eyed you both.
You avoided his gaze, face feeling so hot.
“We’re good?”
You watched as Rafe held his hand out, Barry dropping the bag of coke in it.
“Yeah, Country Club, we’re alright…”
When Rafe started to walk you out, you frowned.
“Wait, but you didn’t pay him…”
Rafe leaned in, his lips brushing your ear.
“Don’t worry about it.”
You didn’t understand, but you didn’t get a chance to think on it more, Barry telling you goodbye from the door.
“Bye, Mrs. Country Club!”
Not wanting to be rude, you peeked around Rafe’s arm.
“Bye, Barry!”
“Pleasure doing business with y’all…!”
Rafe was forcing you into his truck before you could respond to that, tossing you the coke you went through so much trouble for.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ The one where… Conrad is a munch, he loves to eat your pussy.
⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ A/N;; this is pure smut with connie baby, and not very long🤓 but enjoy!
“Conrad..” You moan loudly, your thighs aching from how tense they were, squeezing tightly around your boyfriend’s head as his tongue continued to lap at your soaked and sensitive pussy.
His tongue slides from your tight entrance all the way up to your clit, softly grazing over it before he nips at the swollen bundle of nerves with his teeth.
Your legs twitch again, your hands gripping tightly at his messy brown hair, trying — and failing — to push his head away. His large palms tighten on your thighs, keeping you spread open wide for him, allowing his mouth full access to your cunt.
He slurps and licks at you, devouring you like a man who’d been starved for months. You gasp loudly, head flying back into his soft pillows when he sucks your clit into his mouth again, sucking and nipping at it with his teeth.
Conrad sucks roughly, never letting up as he drinks down the juices your pussy was offering him. He slurps loudly, gathering your arousal in his mouth before pulling back, lifting his head from between your legs for a second.
Your head is spinning, drunk on pleasure and overstimulation from your boyfriends need to eat your pussy for the last hour. Your hazy eyes find his, staring at him intensely. He gives a soft smirk, spitting your arousal back out, letting it fall onto your clit. He bites his bottom lip, watching as his spit and your arousal mix leaks down your pussy, past the seam of your ass and dropping onto the mattress below you.
Conrad groans, his lips swollen and glistening with your arousal while his cock strains painfully against his shorts. “You’re so fucking beautiful, you know that?” He rasps, dipping his head back down and licking softly at your clit again.
His hands grip your thighs again, holding you open for him to devour you once more. His green-blue eyes stay locked on yours, never breaking eye contact as he continues licking you from entrance to clit, over and over again. He pushes his tongue deep inside your pussy, swirling it in circles before gliding his way back to your clit.
“Connie… I don’t think.. Oh God, please!”
Conrad hums against your pussy, the vibrations shooting a zap of pleasurable electricity straight through you before he pulls back, those beautiful eyes shining as he smirks down at you, “Come on my tongue again, baby. Do it and I’ll fuck you, then we’re done,” he grins, a knowing look in his eyes, “For tonight, tomorrow we do it all over again.”
He buries his face in your pussy again, licking and sucking until you felt that band in your lower belly coiling tightly again. Your thighs tense around his head, squeezing tightly as you cry out his name. Your pussy spasms, clenching around nothing as you come undone on Conrad’s tongue, grinding your pussy against his face as you do.
Once he’s satisfied and you come down from your high, Conrad pulls back, licking his lips slowly, his eyes on you as he does.
“You taste like fucking heaven, I could survive off your pussy and your pussy alone.” He groans, shoving his shorts down his legs and letting his hard cock spring free.
You whimper as you watch him stroke himself, and he smiles down at you. That smile, you know it all too well. Conrad isn’t truly done with you tonight, no… He’s just getting started.
thinking about...scratching jjs back with your nails n how he likes it, well sorta.
jj was definitely not asleep.
he lay on his stomach, face buried in the pillow, lips parted just enough to let out the occasional groan - a sound somewhere between tortured and blissed out. and there was you, curled up beside him on the couch, legs tangled with his, utterly unaware of the power you currently held. or maybe you were just pretending not to notice.
because your nails. your nails, man. they were dragging lazy circles down his bare back, light and teasing, like you were absentmindedly petting a dog and not slowly turning your boyfriend into a puddle of mush.
jj’s eyes were closed, but he was painfully, exquisitely conscious of every. single. stroke.
he grunted - low and needy. you didn’t flinch.
on the screen in front of you n him, some cheesy romcom was playing and you were focused, eyes bright, hand moving in slow, rhythmic motions. you didn't miss a beat. not even when jj let out a soft, almost involuntary “fuckkkk.”
still nothing. not even a glance.
“you’re gonna kill me,” he mumbled into the pillow.
“Mmm?” you hummed, still not looking at him. still scratching.
jj peeked one eye open, watching your profile. “I said I’m dying.”
you nodded, lips twitching with a hint of a smile. “tough way to go.”
“baby-”
“shh. this is the good part.” you finally flicked your eyes toward him for half a second, smirking like you knew exactly what you were doing. then turned back to the movie. jj groaned again, louder this time, half hoping you'd stop just to spare him. but no - your nails kept dancing across his skin, featherlight and infuriating and perfect.
snd jj decided, right then and there, that fake sleeping might just be his new favorite hobby.
@al-1-na (personal fav blog for like Rafes natural persona.)
@cameronsbabydoll (amazing series)
@nadvs (THE BEST AU’s)
@harryspet (one of my top fav Dark!Rafe writer)
@rafesbimbo (NATURALLY AMAZING WRITERRER)
@rafeslittlepup (another fav dark!rafe writer)
@rafescherie (Ugh just amazing I love the fics sm)
@rafey-baby (SUCH cutsey fics im obsessed.)
@rafeangelita (Don’t even get me started this girl is such a good fucking writer - honestly inspo for starting my account.)
@liorabb (SHES AMAZING I CANT LITERALLY SO TALENTED)
@cherrygirlfriend (Love the smut sm.)
JJ Maybank -
@imkissingjj (WRITES SO BEAUTIFULLY)
@bbyg4rl (BEST SMUT FR)
These are all I can think of rn, but to be honest these are all such amazing writers and have me such great inspo I’m just obsessed these are my top to go read blogs! I have lots more I can do a pt 2 for fic recs and more people! <3
military!rafe marries a one-night stand, knocks her up, and obsesses over her polaroids overseas.
a/n: inspired by this anon
you were supposed to be a one-night stand. a quick fuck after too many shots, just another girl hanging around the base like a pretty little souvenir waiting to be claimed. you wore lip gloss and a crop top and called him “sir” just to tease. he fucked you in a twin-sized bed with a ripped sheet and a case of beer on the floor.
he meant to forget about you. really, he did.
but then you made him breakfast the next morning. and when you bent over in those tiny shorts, humming some pop song while his dog tags swung between your tits, he looked at you and said, “we should get married.”
you blinked, mascara smudged. “what?”
“deadass.” he leaned back in the cheap kitchen chair, beer in hand, bare chest on full display. “barracks suck. married marines get paid more. get better housing. you want benefits, right?”
you should’ve said no. should’ve laughed. but then he called you sweetheart and said he’d pay for your nails and suddenly, you were standing in front of a government official in a sundress and flip flops, signing your name next to his.
he knocked you up within a month. didn’t even mean to, but he didn’t pull out either.
“look at you,” he murmured, palm flat on your stomach, cock still buried inside you. “gonna get all swollen for me, huh?”
he deploys two weeks later. leaves behind a house full of laundry and the memory of his teeth on your neck. but he takes a shoebox with him—stuffed full of polaroids he won’t show anyone else. you in lace pink nightgowns with nothing underneath. you in the passenger seat of his truck with your thighs spread and a lollipop in your mouth. you in his bed, all flushed and fucked-out, grinning like the devil.
his squad knows when he’s thinking about you. knows when he disappears into the tent with headphones and a locked jaw. they make jokes, but nobody pushes it.
“you miss your little wife?” someone asks, smirking.
rafe just shrugs. “miss that mouth.”
and when he finally calls, scratchy and low from some godforsaken corner of the world, the first thing he asks is:
thinking about... jj flinching when you accidently raise your hand to fast.
(angst, suggestive content, comfort)
the sun spilled into the living room through cracked blinds, catching dust in its light. jj sat on the floor, his back leaned against the couch while you folded laundry beside him. the tv played in front of the two of you, the volume low but able to be heard.
you were quiet, comfortable. at peace.
you turned to toss one of his shirts toward the pile on the armchair and raised your hand quickly, instinctively. something you did without a thought, eyes still trained on the tv.
jj flinched.
it wasn’t a subtle twitch-it was a full-bodied recoil, his shoulders tensing hard as he ducked like something was about to hit him. his eyes squeezed shut. for a split second, he wasn’t in the living room anymore. he was somewhere darker. somewhere colder. somewhere that still bled through when he least expected it.
you froze mid-motion, heart squeezing in your chest as you realized. “oh..” you breathed out, voice quite like you were scared if you spoke any louder, he'd flinch again. “jj-baby. no.”
but jj was already blinking, trying to laugh it off, his mouth curling into that too tight, too quick grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “sorry. just-reflexes,” he shrugged, brushing it off.
you scooted closer on the floor, looking at him with a look that asked for approval even though you knew he wasn't scared of you, he was scared of him.
he swallowed hard, his throat bobbing, but his eyes wouldn’t meet yours. “I wasn’t gonna hit you. I’d never-” your voice cracked before you could finish.
“I know,” jj said, too quickly. “I know that.”
you wrapped your fingers around his bicep, slowly. he didn’t flinch from your touch. he leaned into it. and a second later, he folded. just like he always did. Into your arms, like gravity pulled him there. he breathed you in like air after drowning. his fingers gripped the back of your shirt with white knuckled desperation.
“I hate that its still in me,” he whispered, voice raw.
a/n: wrote this lil thing bc i was feeling a bit down, hope yall like it
JJ was sitting against the edge of your bed, legs stretched out, head tilted back on your lap while you worked on his hair. He was barely paying attention, lost in the feeling of your fingers gently tugging and twisting.
“You awake?” you chuckled as you secured the last tiny braid with a clear elastic.
He hummed in response, cracking one eye open to look at you. “Barely. You turned my brain off, baby.”
You giggled, running a hand through his hair, admiring your work—dozens of tiny little braids scattered throughout his mess of golden waves. “You look ridiculous.”
JJ smirked lazily. “Ridiculously hot?”
“No, ridiculously stupid” you said, deadpan.
“Wow. Harsh.” He sat up, stretching before shaking his head like a dog. The braids bounced around, and he grinned. "Damn. I look sick."
You rolled your eyes. “You're so full of yourself.”
“Nuh uh, I'm full of love for my super talented, crazy hot, braid-master girlfriend.” He leaned in, nosing against your cheek, voice dropping to a murmur. “You gonna do my special ones?”
You sighed, but your heart swelled. “Yeah, yeah, gimme a sec.”
You moved to the lower left side of his head, where two tiny, perfect braids always sat—his favorites. They had started as a joke months ago, but after a few days, he refused to take them out. Now, every time they started coming undone, you had to redo them.
“Y'know, you could learn to do these yourself” you teased as you undid the old braids and started fresh.
JJ scoffed. “No way. These are yours, angel.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Mine?”
He turned, resting his forehead against yours. “Mhm. You put 'em in, you fix 'em, and every time I touch 'em, I think about you.” His voice softened. “I like having a little piece of you with me all the time.”
Your fingers faltered for a second before continuing. “God, you're so sappy sometimes.”
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up” he chuckled, pulling you in for a quick kiss. “But I can see you blushing,” he winked at you.
And you were blushing. You really, really were.
check out my other works ! masterlist
a/n: think of how to train your dragon 2, astrid braiding hiccups hair ! this whole thing is inspired by that! i love hiccstrid sm! this is how i imagine the braids!
“You seriously gonna carry all that?” you asked, watching JJ juggle three grocery bags, your oversized tote, and a bouquet he insisted on getting you “just ‘cause.”
He shifted the weight easily and smirked. “Yup.”
You reached for your tote. “Let me take—”
“Keep runnin' your mouth, and I’ll carry you too.”
You laughed, stepping toward the door. “No, you won't.”
He dropped the bags with a dramatic sigh, wrapped his arms around your thighs, and before you could blink, tossed you over his shoulder.
“JJ!”
“That's me.” he said smugly, scooping the bags back up like it was nothing. You wiggled, squealing through laughter as you smacked his back. “This is so unnecessary!”
“Nah,” he grinned, walking toward the house. “Unnecessary is not having this ass next to my face all day.”
“You’re insane.”
“I know,” he said, like it was obvious.
When he finally set you down inside, you were breathless and a little dizzy. He kissed your forehead. “Told you, baby. I carry everything.”
JJ had you folded beneath him, your legs locked around his waist, breathy little uh uh uh's falling from your lips as he rolled his hips deep and slow. His hand was planted around your waist, arching your back so you could feel him all the way in your stomach. His forearm flexing, shark tooth swinging lightly with each movement.
And he was smirking. Of course he was.
You were already fucked-out, fluttering around him with every slow grind, and then, then—he let out a breathy laugh and grinned down at you, that fucking dimple popping on his cheek like it knew you were weak.
Your body reacted before your brain did and JJ felt it instantly.
His hips stuttered. He blinked, then leaned down with that shit-eating look that meant danger.
“…Knew it,” he murmured, eyes dark, voice all low and smug. “Knew you’d get tighter when I smiled.”
You slapped his chest. “JJ!”
“What?” he laughed, not even pretending to be sorry. “That was so fast. You’re a little dimple freak.”
“I hate you—”
“You love me. And my dimple.” He grinned again just to prove a point, dragging his hips slow and deep, and sure enough—he felt you clamp again.
He moaned, all dramatic. “Jesus. That’s crazy. You're literally squeezing my dick over a face crease.”
You buried your face in his neck, humiliated.
“Don't hide now, baby,” he whispered, breath hot at your ear. “We’re gonna talk about this every time I smile.”
And unfortunately for you, JJ Maybank made it his life mission to keep smiling now.
summary: you walk in on your boyfriend fixing the sink and looking absolutely delicious, so you cannot resist him
word count: 1.2k
warnings: porn without plot, unprotected p in v, cowgirl position, tits sucking
a/n: inspired by the tiktok i saw not so long ago😋
When you walked into your kitchen after going out for some groceries, the last thing you expected to see was Rafe lying on his back halfway under the sink. Without a damn shirt on.
His grey sweatpants were low on his hips, showing a glimpse of his underwear, abs on full display for you, with a thin layer of sweat glistening under the sunlight from the window nearby.
You swallowed harshly as you put the bag on the counter and looked back at your boyfriend, who was still unaware of your presence. The way Rafe’s muscles were flexing with every move under the sink and the way his toned and big arms moved back and forth with a wrench in them made your mouth water and left your head completely empty.
“What are you doing in there?” You finally asked.
His head peeked from under the counter, your favorite sheepish grin stretched across his face at your voice. “Hey, baby. Just though— you son of a bitch.” He cursed, and you heard a crunching noise of metal. “Just thought I would fix this thing you’ve been telling me about. I’m almost done.”
Rafe sent you another smirk, and you were done for. You didn’t even think, your mind being completely blank, as you went closer and dropped to your knees near him. You swung your leg over, straddling his hips, hands flat on the lower part of his stomach, thumbs trailing the line just under the band of his boxers.
“What the—“ His deep voice was followed by a loud thud of his head against the sink as he moved, surprised by your actions. “Ah, shit… Babe, the hell are you doing? Like right now?” With one hand still holding a wrench and the other one instinctively gripping your thigh, Rafe’s eyes roamed over you with amusement and curiosity.
You bit your lip, not even paying attention to his words, instead slightly lifting yourself and tugging at his sweatpants and boxers. The need and desire in you was excruciating, and you doubted that you ever experienced it in that way, but seeing Rafe like that—spread out on the floor, sweaty, half naked, looking like a fucking glazed donut—made you go feral.
“I’m so wet, Ray.” You mumbled, barely able to think straight.
“You’re wet because…?” He grinned, throwing a wrench near his head, and paying his full attention to you. He was slightly shocked, yes, but this is Rafe, and no matter what, he will never miss an opportunity to do something dirty and inappropriate with you. This man was obsessed, and when you showed initiative, he could get turned on in a second.
Your hands finally managed to pull the pants down, just enough for you to pull out his quickly hardening cock. Instantly wrapping your hand around the base, you spit on the tip, working your hand up and down his length to make it nice and ready. Rafe’s hips buckled, a hiss leaving his lips at the skilled movements of your hand. “Holy fucking shit.”
“I’m wet because you look so fucking hot like that.” You moaned, your free hand desperately tugging at your dress, trying to pull it up. A frustrated huff left your lips when it kept falling down, preventing you from reaching your underwear and finally releasing the ache between your legs.
Rafe’s head lifted off the floor, pupils blown wide at the sight of you on top of him, desperate as never before, angry at not being able to have him the way you wanted to. Your hand kept working with his cock, as he was already painfully hard. An amused laugh left his lips when your brows furrowed, a pout evident on your lips. “Lemme help you, baby.”
He pulled the dress up, fisting the thin material in his hand, while you finally pushed your underwear aside. There was no teasing, no preparing yourself for his cock, or even giving him a chance to realize what you were doing with how fast you moved. You just sank on him in one smooth motion, throwing your head back and moaning at the stretch.
Rafe’s fingers dug into your thighs, his mouth hanging open with surprise and pleasure, looking up at you with lust and need. “Fuck, baby.” He breathed, his voice rough and raspy. “You didn’t even give me a damn second to— shit!”
You shut him up mid-sentence, dragging yourself up and down his rock-hard cock, making his hand fall back on the floor with a thud.
“Couldn’t wait.” You whispered, planting your hands on his firm chest, feeling every muscle shifting under your palms. “I’ve been thinking about you since morning, and then— then you were here looking so sexy…” You trailed off, eyes rolling back with a high moan slipping past your lips.
“You’re crazy, baby, fucking crazy.”
You leaned down, palms flat on his chest, lips barely ghosting his jawline as you dragged your hips slowly in circles. “You’re making me crazy.” You whispered, grinding down harder, pulling a ragged moan from deep in his chest.
Rafe’s hands trailed up your thighs, gripping your ass harder, pushing you down on him. You lifted yourself almost completely, then dropped back harder. Your pace quickened when you sat straight again, moving even though your legs started to feel tingly.
Rafe couldn’t wait any longer. His fingers dug harder into your hips, bruising, as he started pushing up into you, making the filthiest and wettest noises fill the small and cozy kitchen. Your eyes rolled back, while his zeroed in on your nipples, picking through the thin fabric of your dress.
“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re so hot right now.” He grumbled, propping himself on one elbow, his face now closer to your breasts, and catching the swell on your tit with his mouth. Rafe’s moan mixed with your gasp when he sucked on you through the fabric, dragging his teeth around the bud hard enough to make you cry. Your fingers threaded into his sweaty hair, tugging just a little, and Rafe growled low in his throat.
You felt the heat in you building faster. The way Rafe filled you so perfectly, his cock kissing your cervix with every hard thrust, the way his hands and mouth were so desperate for you—it all made you spiral. “Need you to come, Ray…” He cupped the back of your neck, stopping his assault on your tits, bringing your mouth to his, and then falling back on the floor with you lying on his chest.
“Fucking will, baby. You’re gonna cum on my cock too, hm?” Rafe asked, barely even stopping the kiss, before pushing his tongue back in your mouth—sloppy and borderline nasty. He started fucking into you again, feeling the way your pussy barely was letting him go. His cock throbbed inside, and with a few more thrusts, just when you couldn't hold back your orgasm anymore, you felt ropes after ropes of hot liquid painting your insides.
You collapsed against him, both of you slick with sweat and panting, the only sounds in the kitchen your breathing and the distant hum of the fridge.
"Next time," he said, voice rough against your ear, "I'm not fixin' shit unless you're supervising like this."
You laughed, still too blissed out to even lift your head. "Deal."
He grinned, his hand smoothing up and down your back, lazy and possessive.
The sink was still broken, tools were lying all around you, and your grocery bags were completely forgotten on the counter, but in that moment neither of you cared.
idk if you feel comfortable writing this but when you and jj have your baby; he underestimated how much they would eat 😭 when they start having real food, they will finish an thing of fruit by themselves and still use their chubby little hands to grab off his plate
man i wanted to see jj as a dad so much :(
JJ holds the empty fruit jar up like it wronged him. “You just ate this whole thing. Alone. How are you still hungry, baby?”
Your daughter blinks up at him, cheeks rosy and eyes wide—then grabs a chunk of toast right off his plate with her sticky little hands.
JJ gasps like he’s been betrayed. “Ma’am. That is my toast.”
She giggles, victorious, shoving it in her mouth.
From the other side of the table, you’re already laughing. “Told you she’s got her daddy’s appetite.”
“She’s got everything of mine,” JJ says, watching her with total adoration as she now sets her sights on his eggs. “My breakfast, my heart, my will to live.”
She makes another grab, and he doesn’t even hesitate—just hands her a bite.
“She’s the boss,” he says, wiping her chin gently. “I’m just here to serve.”
You smile as she babbles happily, crumbs everywhere. JJ looks at her like she’s the moon.
