he surely has a daddy kink, right? i feel like it just makes sense. i also saw a post about how he'd def call you "young lady" and now i can't stop thinking about it..................................................
When I tell you I could get so in the WEEDS writing about Phillip's kinks.
I reeallllyy had to rein myself in for this one because hevean only knows I could write fic after fic after fic about my thoughts on this.
A Daddy Kink? Oh, absolutely.
But with Phillip, I don’t think “Daddy” is just about the word.
It is about what the word does to him.
Phillip likes titles. Commander. Sir. Daddy. Husband. Father. Those words put him in place. They tell him who he is in the room, what kind of authority he has, what kind of claim he gets to make.
So before kids?
Yeah.
“Daddy” is pure cocky authority kink for him.
It is the same part of his brain that likes being called Commander Graves. The same part of him that likes giving orders and watching people obey. Except now it is you saying it, breathless and flustered, handing him control with your own mouth.
And he would be so smug about it.
You’re mouthing off, pushing him, acting real brave for someone standing that close, and he just tilts his head.
“Careful, young lady.”
And you hate how fast it works.
Hate that your mouth shuts before you can stop it. Hate that your breath catches. Hate that your whole attitude stumbles for one stupid second.
Phillip sees it.
Of course he does.
His eyes drop. Just once.
Then they come back to your face, slow and mean and pleased.
“Oh,” he says, voice low. “That’s what we’re doin’?”
Awful man.
Terrible man.
Because now he knows.
And once Phillip Graves knows something works, you are finished.
I think he is very much a say my name man. He wants you present. He wants you looking at him. He wants all that attitude stripped down until the only thing left in your mouth is him.
“Say it, darlin’. Let me hear it.”
“Look at me.”
“Who’s got you?”
“Who do you belong to right now?”
And yes.
Absolutely.
“Who’s your daddy?”
Not in a goofy way. Not in a corny way. In that low, controlled, too-cocky Phillip voice where he already knows the answer and just wants to make you give it to him.
That is the part he likes.
The admission.
The fact that you can be stubborn and mouthy all you want, but eventually he can get you soft enough, flustered enough, desperate enough, that you say it.
And the worst part?
It gets to him too.
You can see it. The way his eyes go darker when he finally hears it. The way his mouth parts for half a second before the smugness slides back into place. Like hearing you hand him that title hits somewhere lower than he expected, and now he has to make that your problem.
And Commander Graves?
That is its own fucking issue.
Because that one is cleaner on the surface. Polished. Professional. Respectable.
Which somehow makes it dirtier.
I can absolutely see his secretary calling out sick and you filling in for the day. Nothing serious. Just answering phones, organizing papers, sitting outside his office in a skirt and heels like you are not fully aware of what you are doing to him.
And Phillip tries to be normal about it.
He really does.
For about twenty minutes.
Then you walk into his office with a folder tucked against your chest, all eyelashes and floral perfume, sweet and helpful, and say:
“Commander Graves?”
His pen stops moving.
That is it.
Just one little pause.
For one second, Phillip does not look at you.
He looks at the paper like it has personally betrayed him.
Then his eyes lift.
Slow.
Sharp.
He takes in the heels first. Then your legs. The skirt. The folder held against your chest. The innocent little expression on your face like you are not playing with fire in his office while he is trying to run a company.
“Need somethin’, sweetheart?”
And you smile like butter would not melt.
“Just your signature, sir.”
There.
That one gets him.
You can see it in the way his jaw shifts. The way his hand tightens around the pen. The way his eyes flick to the office door and back to you like he is doing math he already knows the answer to.
That door is getting locked eventually.
Maybe not right away, because Phillip has restraint when he wants to.
And honestly?
He likes the waiting.
He likes watching you sit outside his office pretending to behave while he knows exactly what that title sounded like in your mouth. Likes having to school his own hand away from his belt buckle when he catches sight of you through the glass, sitting at that desk in your skirt and heels, working so hard for his company like you are not doing every bit of it on purpose.
But eventually, the intercom clicks on.
“Come here a minute, darlin’.”
And when you step inside, he is leaned back in his chair, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, expression calm in that way that should immediately make you nervous.
He does not say anything at first.
Just looks at you.
Then he nods toward the door.
“Lock it.”
So yes.
Daddy. Commander. Sir.
It is all the same family for him.
Authority. Control. Permission. Proof that you know exactly who he is and still want him anyway.
But after he becomes an actual father?
The Daddy thing changes.
Not disappears.
Changes.
Because now “Daddy” is not just something you call him when he has you pinned down and flustered. Now there is a baby in the house calling him that with sticky hands and sleepy eyes and his whole little chest.
Now it is real.
Now it has weight.
Before kids, Daddy means:
I’m in charge.
After kids, Daddy means:
I made you Mama.
And unfortunately for everyone involved, that would go straight to Phillip’s head.
Because Phillip’s breeding kink is not just “I want to get you pregnant” in some shallow way.
It is proof.
Evidence.
Consequence.
It is the fact that your body carried something that came from both of you. The fact that there is a little person in the world because you loved each other hard enough to make life.
And Phillip Graves would be absolutely unbearable with evidence.
The baby is proof.
Your body is proof.
The way you answer to Mama now is proof.
The little voice calling him Daddy from down the hall is proof.
Proof that he had you.
Proof that you let him.
Proof that you chose him so completely that both of your lives changed shape around it.
He would see you holding the baby on your hip, tired and soft and giving him attitude over your shoulder, and it would hit him low and hard all over again.
That is his wife.
That is his baby.
That is the woman who let him love her so hard it became a person.
And God help you if he decides he wants to do it again.
Because now when you call him Daddy in bed, it is not just a game anymore.
It is a reminder.
A threat, almost.
A promise.
He is thinking about another baby.
Another little voice.
Another piece of proof.
He is thinking about his hand spread low over your stomach and the first time your body took him seriously enough to make him a father.
It is not just:
“Who’s your daddy?”
It is:
“You remember what happened last time you called me that?”
And he says it with his mouth close to your ear, voice rough and too fucking pleased with himself because he knows you remember too.
Because there is a baby sleeping down the hall who happened last time.
Because he knows exactly what he gave you.
Because he knows exactly what you gave him.
That, to me, is where the kink gets hotter.
Because it stops being only about control and starts being about consequence.
Phillip is a results man. He likes proof. He likes outcomes. He likes being able to point at something and know he made it happen.
So of course breeding would get under his skin.
It is the most physical, undeniable version of all of that.
His name in your mouth.
His baby in your arms.
His whole life suddenly walking around outside his body because the two of you could not keep your hands off each other.
Before kids, he likes the title because it gives him power.
After kids, he likes it because he is Daddy.
Because you made him one.
Because every time he hears it, some greedy, possessive part of him remembers that he got to make you Mama too.
Sweetheart Gaz propaganda. sweetheart soft top Kyle who coos and kisses you and also knows how to snap a man’s spinal cord instantly.
Sweetie pie Kyle who holds you so closely and seems to have such perfect control over his weight and hands, never too much or too rough. Gaz who knows exactly how much weight it takes before the human skull cracks and squishes beneath a boot- exactly how hard to stomp.
Gentle, always able to keep his cool no matter the situation. Kyle who can keep rolling his hips even as he whines and sighs through another one of your orgasms. Gaz who won’t stop until every man in the room is dead but him, a relentless quick shot who follows orders like a perfect soldier- instant, reliable.
Ohhhhhh Kyle who kisses your cheeks and rumbles out that scratchy little chuckle when you whine against him, sooooo soft.
Mm competency kink.. idk man he also just looks like he smells good as fuck. Like Soap looks like he uses Axe body spray, Ghost looks like he stinks like shit and Gaz looks like he has the most insane naturally delicious ass musk that you could lick off.
Ghost has still got blood cooling on his gloves, the metallic tang thick in the air as the last body hits the floor with a wet thud. He tilts his head, listening to the quiet that follows, thumb already moving toward his comms to report in to Price.
Then he sees you.
Crouched in the corner behind a stack of crates, knees drawn up, eyes wide and shining in th low light. Civilian. Wrong place, worse timing. Which is unfortunate for you. His orders were clear: no witnesses and no loose ends.
Ghost starts toward you with that slow, rolling prowl, boots heavy on the concrete, thighs flexing under blood spattered gear.
He expects you to flinch. To run. To beg.
Except… you don’t.
You don’t even flinch when he stops right in front of you, towering, blood still dripping from his gloved fingers onto the concrete near your shoes. He raises his gun slightly, angled toward your head, ready to end it quick.
That’s when it happens.
Your gaze drops.
Straight down his chest, over the blood spattered vest, and locks onto the thick, heavy print of his cock on the front of his pants. Your lips part. Your breath hitches. And something in your eyes… shifts. Goes dark and heated, pupils blowing wide with want instead of fear.
Ghost freezes.
The gun lowers an inch. He tilts his head, staring down at you like you’re some glitch in reality. He’s covered in other men’s blood, fresh kill still warm on his hands, and you’re looking at his dick like you want it down your throat right here in the slaughterhouse.
It throws him completely. Throws off the soldier part of him that is cold and clinical. His cock twitches hard at the realization, thickening further under your stare, and he knows you see it. You don’t look away. If anything, your thighs press tighter together, cheeks flushing despite the corpses behind him.
A beat of silence stretches.
“Bloody hell,” he rumbles, stepping closer until his boot nudges your leg. One massive hand reaches down, gripping your chin roughly with blood smeared gloves, forcing your head up. “Did’t expect a filthy lil’ thing like you t’cream your knickers watching me work. Got a death wish, have ya? Or’ve you just got a thing for monsters?”
You’re still staring. Still heated. Ghost’s thumb drags across your lower lip, smearing a faint streak of red, considering the dilemma.
I don’t care how disgusting or fucked up a fic is. NO writer should EVER be harassed for writing taboo fics, especially when the warnings are properly tagged and you choose to go ahead and read them on your own free will.
you’re not morally superior for harassing real people for the sake of fictional characters and fictional stories. you’re just a bully.
boyfriend gaz who sort of has a thing for making you cry.
not in a mean way- he’s the sweetest and most perfect man you could ask for. He gives you “just because” flowers, he insists you never touch a door, and hell would freeze over before he lets you leave home without a kiss.
but he loves to kiss you fat tears away as he bullies his cock inside of you, his chin and lips glistening with your sweet arousal.
“I know, baby, I know, I know. Poor thing must be so sensitive.”
to which you nod and let out the cutest sniffle that makes his cock just jerk with excitement.
You’re still at your desk at 7:30 because Price hasn’t sent you home yet.
That’s the truth of it, no matter what you say to yourself about emails or the brief. The door to his office is open enough that you can see the yellow light from the lamp inside across the linoleum. You can hear the rasp of his voice coming through when he leans back in his chair — low and rough, the rumble of it cutting off at intervals when whoever’s on the other end speaks. You’ve long since stopped pretending to type anything.
He’s been in there for hours. You brought him coffee at six and his hand brushed yours when he took the cup, and he didn’t say thank you like he usually does, just held your gaze over the rim until you turned around and walked out with hot ears.
You haven’t been able to focus since.
The phone hits the receiver, and his chair creaks. It’s followed by the tread of his heavy boots and then he’s leaning in the doorway with his sleeves shoved up his forearms and your eyes dart back to the computer screen because if you look you’ll surely get yourself into trouble.
“You can go home, love,” he says.
“Just finishing something,” you lie.
“S’that so?”
“Mhm,” you nod once.
He doesn’t move but you can feel his eyes, see the breadth of him in your peripheral.
“What’re you finishing, then?”
“The brief,” you answer surely.
“Brief’s been done. Went out this afternoon.”
Your eyes flick to him as your hands go clammy over your keyboard. He’s watching you with his arms folded, the corner of his mouth pulled up enough to notice, his tongue pushes briefly against the inside of his cheek.
“I’m makin’ sure it was done properly.”
“Right.” He pushes off the frame and nods his chin toward his desk. “Come into my office a minute.”
You push your chair back and stand up with a small wobble at your knees.
His office is warmer than the corridor outside it. Probably something to do with the heating in this wing, or maybe just with him — the size of him, the bulk of his shoulders, the heat that rolls off his hands.
He shuts the door behind you with a click and you hear it, the small mechanical sound of it, and your stomach drops an inch. You turn to look at him.
“Desk,” he gestures.
You walk over. The lamp on it puts a circle of yellow light on the leather blotter and the open file framing a stack of paperwork. You reach for the papers, finger trailing over the text, trying to catch a keyword to clue you in.
“What am I looking at?”
“This bit.” He comes up behind you and reaches around. His chest is ghosting your back, his arm reaching out along yours. He taps a paragraph halfway down the page with his index and you cannot read a single word of it. “Tell me what’s wrong with it.”
The warm scent of his day-long body and sweet cigar smoke rush your lungs and all the words on the page start to blur together. “I—,”
“Take your time,” he murmurs before his hand settles on your hip and his chest is no longer a ghost.
You stop breathing.
He just lets it rest there, heavy, the heat of his palm soaking through the cheap polyester of your skirt, his thumb just barely tracing the seam at your waistband. You stare at the page but the words won’t stop swimming.
“Well?” he presses gently.
“I— there’s a— the wording in paragraph four…”
“Mm.” His thumb slides up, up, under the hem of your blouse, finding the strip of skin above your skirt, pressing into the soft of you. “What about it?”
“It—,” you try and give up before you get any lie sorted. “Captain,” you sigh.
“Hm?”
Your whole body is going languid. His mouth is at the side of your throat, not kissing, just there, lips sliding softly, his breath at the hinge of your jaw. You make a sound that you didn’t mean to make and feel him huff a laugh into your skin.
“Look at you,” he says, low. “You’ve been wound up for hours.”
“I haven’t—”
“Coming in here with that mouth on you,” he continues over you. “This little skirt.” His hand at your hip slides around, splays flat against the front of your stomach, presses you back into him so you can feel exactly what he is, the hard line of his cock against your lower back, hot through his trousers. “Did you wear it for me, love?”
“No—”
He tisks. “Liar.”
He says it warm, almost fondly. And then his hand comes up under your jaw and turns your face over your shoulder and his mouth is on yours.
The angle is awkward, but it doesn’t stop him. Or you. His mouth is open and heated from the start, his tongue in your mouth, his hand on your throat, his thumb at the hinge of your jaw, keeping your face turned where he wants it. You moan into him and feel his other hand drag up the back of your thigh, your skirt riding with it, his palm rough against your skin.
they're all such assholes. you always thought before entering the military that maybe some military men arent as bad as people made them out to be. i can change him, right?
the men around you—complete assholes.
brainless brutes, hungry to kill and eager to die, scared to live. bratty and entitled, yet aloof and insanely nonchalant to the point of offending.
captain price, mustache men would die for, balding at the top of his head so hes known for constantly wearing his hat 24/7. you would think because of his mature and edged personality that he would maybe be different—wise, respectful.
that was until you went up to him, asking him questions on a future assignment and he suddenly gave you a low smirk mid conversation and leaned back into his chair, like he was attempting to read you. before you could say anything, he speaks. "you should wear more skirts— makes your hips pop out, look breedable."
soap was even worse. he almost took it as some sort of game. sparring with him always ended up with one of his claws over your tits as he had you on your knees, forearm wrapped around your neck. he'd hold you there until you were near tears, 'cuz the lack of oxygen had your world spinning and his fingers pinching your nipples through your shirt was too much to handle.
you think gaz maybe would be different. yeah, wishful thinking. on the outside, he presents himself as cool, a protégée to price. but then he sends you a video via messages, of him beating his cock, asking pretty please to send him arch pics.
ghost, silent, and almost forgotten at times despite his large presence makes it known hes a fucking loser. you have to quit underwear after all of it goes missing. when you reach your breaking point with all of them, you ultimately take it out on ghost— yelling at him, calling him a pervert, telling him how hes like the rest of them, a loser. pathetic. you shouldve expected for ghost to throw you against the nearest surface and begin grinding his crotch against your ass so roughly it has you dragged up and down it.
Price genuinely chokes on his tea when he sees it, face red and heart thundering.
Because you, the young secretary the team works with, just sent price a photo he is sure you didn't mean to send.
What can only be described as a slutty pair of shorts, with mind-numbing white lace peaking over the waist, your hips and thighs the centre of the shot. Attached to the photo is a comment.
"I've been thinking of you, sir ;3"
For the longest moment, price doesn't do anything. Shocked, and a bit conflicted because certainly he wasn't meant to see this photo but...but the fat on your hips pinch in slightly and those shorts show more skin than he's ever seen–
Price clears his throat, adjusts his posture, and shakily types out "wrong number, kid?"
A pause, then a flurry of texts. All of them in capslock and extremely mortified. Price can practically taste the embarrassment through the screen.
Somewhere in some shitty apartment you are freaking out, price is sure, so he responds "don't worry about it, kid. Just check who you're texting next time..."
And that should be the end of it, right? Price should delete the photo and forget everything.
...he's been staring at it for twenty minutes now. With a defeated groan, he unzips his pants. No harm done if no one finds out he's jerking off to the secretary half his age...right?
John doesn't like to brag, but he considers himself a good lover, right?
He's had plenty of people fall apart under him, begging for more, gasping his name. then there's you....
"Bloody 'ell, kid–" price has been at it for about twenty minutes, not long by his standards, but by now he expects to have at least heard a moan from the pretty young thing under him.
You just...lie there. The tiniest furrow between your brows, breath even, not really moving. Price had thought you were shy, or just needed some extra care, but now? Now, he pulls back and sits on his heels "okay, kid, we're done."
"W–what?" You gasp, leaning up on you forearms. You grasp prices wrist where he soothes up your side "why? Did I do something?"
"Kid, yer obviously not enjoyin' yerself." Price sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face tiredly "it's fine, I'm not upset."
"No! No, what do you mean? I was so close! C'mon, sir, please–" you beg, sitting up as best you can with your shins still around price's waist. "It was so fucking good, please–"
You freeze when price looks back to you, expression confused "that...that was you enjoying it? Kid, it felt like I was fuckin' a corpse for Christ's sake."
You wrinkle your nose at the comparison, kicking prices side lightly "hey! It was! I'm just...quiet i guess." Then, more sincerely "...it was actually really good. You look hot when you're braced over me."
"Oh." Price replies, trying to ignore how his body reacts to such a blunt statement. Slowly, he leans back over you, nudging your thighs wider. "Okay. Just, so long as yer comfortable."
He goes back to it, paying closer attention this time. Now that he looks, he can see the way your eyes trace the lines of his body. Or how you clench around him on ever thrust. It's honestly kind of endearing.
When you cum, he hardly notices except for the way your thighs tighten around him slightly and your lashes flutter, "mmhhh...John..."
That one sigh of his name is enough to have price following close behind.
Sorry to all the younger folk but ghost is absolutely bullying anyone under the age of thirty five...
The first time he meets you, the secretary who's obviously respected and trusted enough to work with the 141, he asks deadpan "aren't you supposed to be in college?"
Every opportunity, he is pointing out how young you are. Grabbing your apple to cut it into slices, opening snacks for you as if you can't do it yourself. One of his favorite jokes is refusing to give you a sip of his drink because "ahm' not gettin' in trouble for giving a kid alcohol."
He makes all this fuss about your age...and yet it's him cornering you against the door of a supply closet and murmuring "c'mon, kid, I know you want me too. Yer not subtle."
He guides you to your knees, scoffing when you complain about the cold concrete and unzipping his pants. He's not wrong, about you that is, truthfully all the teasing has gotten you worked up in a way you've decided not to examine.
Which is how you and ghost end up falling together in his bed at least twice a week when he's on base. You're sure everyone knows, but no one dares comment on it when he's patting your shoulder in public and tossing his jacket at your face with a "bundle up, kid. Yer too young to die of a cold."
Yeah...whatever you two have going on, no one is touching with a ten foot pole.
pasta is so comforting. pasta is my best friend. pasta my beloved. pasta is my boyfriend pasta is a god pasta is the breeze in my hair in the weekend pasta is a relaxing thought!!!
girl who struggles with chronic always-the-cutiepie-never-the-hot one syndrome 🤝 guy who suffers from rampant cuteness aggression as he presses her through the mattress
[About]: He sent you a white rose, but it's not a peace treaty.
[Wc]: 1.6k
[cw]: Stalking (sorta), toxic-dynamic, no ending (this was just a ramble) gangleader!simon
───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────
It swirled like a spiral, the words of the headlines typed, printed and published without so much of a wince or even a differing proposition.
Was it wise to have said the things you had said about him? No; you knew it when when you felt your gut constrict as you pressed 'send' on the email you'd sent to your boss, you knew it when you saw a black car outside your office in the wake of your decision, and you knew it when a small card and a single rose was left on your desk.
A white rose, and a note that was amused.
I appreciate the coverage; you're a lot nicer than the others who've covered me in the past - so I'm choosing to be nice to you. There will be a car waiting for you outside at 8pm.
Don't take my kindness for granted, birdie.
S.R.
Yes, it was a threat cloaked in the kindness of the gesture of the white rose.
A peace treaty, you'd supposed. Something to tell you to keep your mouth shut and quit prying into things you had no business sticking your nose into. Unfortunately, it was in your nature to be curious, and while some would have been inclined to take the warning and throw the rose in the bin, you'd rushed to the staff room, poured down the remnants of your morning coffee down the drain.
You filled your cup with cold water, and for the rest of the day sheepishly smiled and waved off any speculation of a possible new man whenever your co-workers would motion towards the flower in the makeshift vase.
The noise around the peculiar gesture swelled like an orchestral climax, striking the chords in your heart, ignorant to the blinking line on the empty word document as your hands hovered above the keyboard of your laptop.
Instead, your attention was split between two things: the rose, and the clock.
A blessing and a curse.
An hour felt like a decade, and life was reduced to a purgatory; you were needlessly suspended in your own self-indulgent pondering of what the interaction between the pair of you would be. You'd been a clumsy shot for a while at that point, aiming at the target, only ever managing to skim it until the article you'd published a couple of days prior.
Confirmation of your success was withheld, and for a short while you'd been under the belief that, once again, you had missed despite your coverage being the most personal anyone had managed to provide to the public.
So, when the clock struck eight, you hadn't even had the dismay of clumsily shoving everything into your bag because, for the entirety of the day, anything you pulled out was placed right back in once it had served its purpose.
You hoped he was more caring than you were.
Leaving your office, your breath clouded in the air, the lights of the entrance revealing the body of a sleek, black car parked right in front of the building.
Outside it stood an older gentleman with a thick moustache and a dark glint in his eye. Dressed in a black blazer, and dress pants. They hugged the curve of his muscles, and when he shifted, the fabric of his white shirt creased. His hand held his wrist, resting just over the crotch of his pants.
He cocked his head slightly as you approached him. Letting go of his wrist, he extended his hand out and stepped to the side, pulling the car door open. You looked between him and the black leather interior of the car, tongue heavy in your mouth.
"I advise," he said, his tone as rough as acid-washed jeans, "you comply. It'd be the best thing for both of us."
The concept of blood on his hands seemed, not to be a stranger, no, rather, to be an inconvenience to the man. Not that you'd been left with much a choice, you'd not considered running. In fact, you crouched over and got into the car.
The journey was uneventful, driven through city streets you'd scoured since you were an undergraduate journalist, surviving on a diet of cup noodles and speculation with no appetite for dishonesty.
It worked stunningly, although, not good enough to keep you from streets filled with litter, and it had only been when you blinked and took a breath as the car came to a sudden stop that you'd realised that the city you called home was more than a stranger than you'd considered it to be.
"Stay," said the man at the front of the car, addressing you like you were his loyal mutt.
Shamefully, you didn't dare bark back a response, no did you dare to grab hold of the handle of the door. No, instead, you settled with obeying him, watching him through the window as he left the car.
He opened the door for you, motioning for you to get out with a polite hand. Like the loyal mutt you’d proven yourself to be, you did as you were told, head panning the surrounding street you’d ended up on. It was somewhere in the expensive part of the city; you knew that from the lack of track lining the curb side, and the dim lights of the restaurant windows. Above the entrance of the one you’d parked outside of were the words ‘The White Rose.’
Oh, you’d thought, so the rose wasn’t a peace treaty.
Your heart skipped a beat, lips curling to form a smile. A man of metaphor was a man for you most definitely. You were ushered into the restraint by the brown haired man, and while he took you, you attempted to squeeze even a semblance of information out of him, but he refused to let a word pass his thin lips, and only spoke to address the masked devil tucked away in one of the corners of the restaurant.
Placed on the table was a vase of white roses, and sitting before him was a glass of what you’d believed to be whiskey. His mask shifted upwards at the sight of you, extending his hand out to clasp the top of his glass, the tendons of his hand nudging against the bulging vein in the centre. He tongued at the inners of his mouth, tongue poking against the side of his cheek, pertruding past the fabric of his mask as his eyes skimmed your body. Had you known what was waiting for you that morning, you would have opted to wear something over than your greying white shirt and office slacks.
“Thank you, Price,” breathed the man, “You’re dismissed.”
The man offered him a prompt nod, turning quickly on his heel, leaving you with the man. Much to your surprise, he rose from where he was sitting, rounding you like hunter would its prey. His aftershave hit the back of your throat like a shot of alcohol as he moved around you. Close enough to feel the heat of his body, far away enough to leave you wanting more.
He pulled your chair out. “Take a seat, birdie.”
No words made their way to your mouth, and so you nodded, taking a seat. You heard him let out a breathy chuckle. Your hands braced the bottom of the chair as he pushed it in. Resting your hands against the top of the table, he rounded the table and took a seat.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
“It’s not like I would have had much of a choice if I didn’t want to be here,” you said, digging your nails in the tablecloth. “I have a feeling I would’ve been sitting here whether I liked it or not.”
“Smart girl,” answered the man with a nod, grinning, “I like that.”
“The rose wasn’t a peace treaty.”
“I’d put a bullet in my head before I considered doing something like that – but, from what I’ve seen of your coverage, I think you already know that.”
“I do,” you said, watching as he pushed a glass of red wine across to you. “My favourite,” you said, pressing your back against the chair, “You’ve been watching me longer than you’ve let on.”
“Since the first piece you wrote on me.” He answered you with the same tone someone would use to tell you what they’d had for dinner the day earlier. “You’ve got a talent. Anyone would think I was paying you to flatter me.”
Taking hold of the glass, you pressed it against your bottom lip, “Hm. How odd.”
“You’ve been trying to get my attention.”
“And what if I have been?” you asked. “How would that make you feel?”
His eyes narrowed, opting to steal a lick of the night sky’s darkness, containing it in his pupils. A sucked a breath up through his mouth, broad chest swelling, his hand forming a fist around the glass in it, obscuring it from your view. With a grunted sigh, he confessed, “Intrigued.”
“Why?”
“Because the only people who actively seek me are the police. Everyone else knows to keep their heads down and to look the other way… but not you, sweetheart. No; you’ve been writing me love letters for the whole world to see.”
“Is that an issue?”
“No,” he said, shifting in his seat, hand slipping off the table, covered by the table cloth. He grunted when he added, “not at all." There was a brief silence between the two of you, and he spent that time simply staring at you before saying. "Quite the opposite, really."
