I know that you just gave us an incredible update on your Viking Steven series, but I had a thought 😅
It don’t know how it fits into their timeline, but it got me thinking about the first time that she seeks him out 😌
Somewhere down the line, when they’re comfortable together but she, especially, is uncertain about any brewing feelings 🥺
Maybe there’s a horny shift; she’s ovulating or something and just wants her husband now, so a polite “May I have a moment alone with my husband, please?” takes a real nice turn? 🤭 Maybe he fucks her over his strategy table?
Maybe not 🤷🏼♀️ Nevertheless, I am thinking very hard about all the possibilities 🥺💀😌❤️
You gifted me this little idea just over a year ago, and I scribbled it away into their storyline, but there were a few more pieces of the story I knew I needed to tell until we got to the potential for this...
The Inevitable, Ruinous Ache [For the King & Conqueror]
Characters/Pairings: Viking King Steven x curvy Female Queen!Reader
Word Count: 4.8k
Content/Warnings: DARK established relationship - kidnapped wife; explicit smut: vaginal fingering, clit play, unprotected vaginal and anal intercourse, insemination; breeding; use of pet name (little wife)
Previous Part | Series
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Things are different in the weeks that follow the visit from your guests from the south. You sense it in the way Steven moves through the halls—with more watchfulness than before, less the heedless animal force that once hurled him at everything in reach and more the measured, circumspect tread of a man who has recognized, possibly for the first time, the possibility of losing some part of his world.
He wakes you each morning with the same relentless heat, the same demanding hands and cock, but sometimes in the small moments after—when his breath has slowed and your bodies are still tied together by what he’s poured into you—he watches you as though trying to decipher a language only you two share, and that he’s afraid to find his own words missing.
He fills his days with a new kind of purpose, stalking the battlements at dusk, making careful inventory of the armory, drilling the younger men himself, relentless and all-consuming. He is building something, you think; you are watching him fortify what he loves, even if he cannot say so aloud.
It changes things between the two of you, this awareness—a tension not of violence or even sex, but of something almost—fragile. It surfaces in the way he sometimes laces his fingers with yours, as if idly, but never breaks the hold first. Or in the way his hand will pause at your back, hovering as though it wants to support you, but cannot quite allow itself the indulgence of tenderness outright. You feel it when he watches you from across the hall during mealtimes, and in how he discusses matters of the court with you, less dismissive, more—what is it, respect?—than before.
You’d imagined, once, that the longer you stayed here, the more invisible you might become. That a queen, even one captured and bartered for as you were, would eventually be more statue than person, a vessel for tradition and dynasty, not for selfhood. But the opposite has happened. Your days are full—helping Ursa plan the planting festivals, overseeing repairs to the winter-damaged barns, learning which of Helga’s cryptic warnings to heed and which to ignore. Even the village children know you now, trailing after your skirt-hems, bringing you bits of amber and sea glass as trophies.
You do not yet know all your position will be nor what your marriage is, but it has grown in ways you did not expect.
Today the itch comes before the noon hour but you try to ignore it—try to keep occupied, try to let your hands and mind be so full of tasks that they might crowd out the throb in your thighs, the heat curling low in your belly. You visit the kitchens, where the steam and spitting fat makes you lightheaded; you walk the length of the halls. Nothing works. The ache is stubborn, eager, and it turns every thought toward Steven and the way he sometimes bends you over the windowsill, or pins you against the wall, or drags you across the floor, or—most especially, most humiliatingly—the way he simply looks at you from across the room and makes you want to drop to your knees and beg for him.
It’s the wanting that undoes you.
So you go to him.
You find Steven in the council room, hunched over a parchment at the long pine table. Two of his advisors—Lorens with his pinched mouth and restless fingers, and Samuel with his strong jaw—lean in, voices serious as the men confer. The fire is banked low, providing warmth in the chill of late winter, some light still making itself available at the end of the afternoon.
Steven glances up before the others notice you, as if summoned by the heat of your gaze. His eyes meet yours and for a fraction of a second the animal in him flares out from behind his eyes—hungry, sharp, but now tempered by something that almost looks like pride. Then his face flickers back to impassiveness, the steel mask that serves him so well.
You linger at the edge of the room, weighing whether to approach, and Steven’s head tips a fraction—an order: come here.
You cross the stone flags, your steps soft in the hush, and though both advisors shoot glances your way, neither wavers in their discourse with their king. Steven’s attention swings fully your way. “What is your need?” he asks, tone flat, but his eyes flick down your body in a way that indicates he has a suspicion.
You feel the heat rise up your neck, but you meet his gaze with steadiness. “May I have a moment alone with my husband?” you ask, glancing at the two counselors, but then back to Steven, who holds the power to determine.
Steven doesn’t bother with the pretense of courtesy or debate. “You are both dismissed,” he says, without looking away from you.
Lorens rises first, shuffling his papers together, darting you a glance that slides away as soon as it lands. Samuel lingers a moment, still watching Steven, then bows and retreats. The door closes and the hush in the room is absolute.
He shifts his weight back, squares his shoulders and leans into the chair in a way that makes you aware, acutely, of the span of his thighs and the space he commands even at rest.
You cross the distance with measured dignity, careful not to let your pace betray the heat burning in the marrow of your bones, and stand just close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, like a sun behind a cloud. He is silent, letting you name your need, or your shame, whichever will come first.
Steven watches you for a long moment, eyes keenly narrowed, the muscle in his jaw tight. He says nothing.
For a moment, you don’t know where to begin. Everything seems both urgent and trivial in the presence of his attention, so you choose the truth. “There are things I want,” you say, boldness tripping up over the lump in your throat.
He lets the silence hang there, sharp as a blade, before allowing himself the faintest lift of a brow. “Then take them.” He speaks with the same ruthless clarity he brings to every command, but there’s no mockery in it. He means it, means for you to have whatever you dare to name.
You do. The table is long, but you are bold; you slide one knee onto the bench beside Steven, the movement deliberate, and then sit on his lap, straddling him there in the firelit hush.
His hands go immediately to your hips, holding you hard but not to control—just to steady you. You feel the heat of him, not just between your thighs, but burning clean through the linen of his shirt, through the wool of your own bodice. He stares up at you, face hungry.
You stare at him, daring him to make the next move. He doesn’t. His hands rest at your hips, heavy and expectant. The fire at your back, the muscle and heat of him before you—everything about Steven in this instant screams that he is ready to be the instrument of whatever you wish, but will not move first. Not on this.
“Is that an order, my king?” you ask, your voice breathier than you wish it to be.
He tilts his head, considering you with that odd, deep tenderness that you’ve begun to learn is not softness, not in the way you once recognized, but a fiercer kind of loyalty. “If you want it to be,” he says. “If you find that easier.”
You shake your head slowly, hands coming up to splay over the breadth of his chest, flattening your palms against him. Your center rocks forward, brushing over the bulge beneath his breeches, his cock hard and already straining, and your knees nearly give out at the contact.
You move your hips again, slow at first, feeling the thick heat of him grow even harder through the layers of cloth. His hands tighten at your waist, fingers digging in, but he still does not guide, does not take—just lets you rut against him, lets you chase the friction, lets you lose yourself in the animal want while the firelight flickers on his jaw and shadow.
You know what you want. You want to make him want, want to crack this composure, want to see him desperate and raw for you in the way that matches the heat that drove you here, the appetite he’s shown so consistently for you night and day. You grind down, seeking the angle that brings his cock flush against your throbbing center. Steven’s hands tighten with every pass, and his breathing grows shallow, the tips of his ears red with the effort it costs him to hold back.
You slide your hands to his face—beard rough against your palms—and force him to look at you, really look. “I want you to fuck me,” you say, and the baldness of the word makes you pulse with shame and thrill both. “Here. Now.” The echo of that word clings in the air, lurid, and the last filter between you and your want is gone.
Steven’s mouth doesn’t twitch with a smirk, but his eyes—blue, hungry and dark—crinkle at the corners in a way that says everything. His hand moves, slow as a glacier but infinitely more dangerous, sliding beneath the folds of your skirt, up the naked curve of your thigh. The callused pads of his fingers ignite a trail of prickling heat as he climbs, relentless. He finds you already slick, sodden with want, and his thumb strokes the seam of your cunt with a firm, approving press.
“Good,” he murmurs, voice soft but thick with command, “you’re already soaked for me.” There is no pretense, no veneer of gentleness—he takes pride in your need. He sinks the tip of his finger into you, just a knuckle, then deeper, testing your readiness, your greed.
He pulls out, coats his thumb in your arousal, and draws lazy, humiliating circles over your clit. Every nerve is strung to that spot, never letting you retreat from the pleasure he wrings from you. You clutch at his shoulders as the world narrows to the relentless, masterful pressure of his hand, the delicious grind of your hips against his, and the raw, unslakable need that’s driven you across half the castle to tremble on his lap like a supplicant at an altar.
He toys with you like this until you’re panting, biting your own lip to keep from sobbing with how close you are, how much you need more—him, inside you, every inch. Steven keeps you there, strung out on the edge, until you think you’ll break apart from the wanting. He waits, and he watches, the blue eyes locked on yours as if daring you to beg.
You do, in the end. “Please,” you whisper, and the word is so thin and desperate it hardly sounds like your voice, but it gets the reaction you want. He withdraws his hand entirely, leaving you gasping and empty, eager.
His voice is a rough thread as he says, “Up. Bend.”
Your legs shake as you climb off him, but you obey instantly, turning to face the table and propping yourself on your elbows, the rough grain cool beneath your cheek. You hear him behind you, the scrape of his chair across the stone as he moves to stand. The weight of his hand at your back is both warning and anchor as he flips your skirts up and over your waist and exposing your bare flesh to the chill of the council room. The air is cold, but his hands are a brand, searing every inch they touch.
He grinds up behind you, the heavy, swollen head of his cock lining up with your slick, clenching entrance, and you are so hungry that you try to wriggle back to catch him, but his other hand clamps to your hip, holding you in place.
Steven bends low, beard scratch and all, and growls into your ear, “You want to be claimed, little queen? You want to prove who you belong to?” The timber of his voice, the brutal edge of the words, makes your knees go to water. The answer is obvious. The answer is him. Always, always, always him.
You nod, but it isn’t enough for Steven. He wants words, he wants confession, he wants you to submit to this truth with clarity. “Say it,” he snarls, and the hand at your hip shifts to wrap around your throat, not hard, but with promise of force.
“I belong to you,” you say, the words the admission to usher in the next movement. You feel the hot slide of the broad head of Steven’s cock dragging slow and deliberate through your folds—soaking it in the mess he’s just made of you, teasing as though there is any possibility you would not take him instantly and whole. He rubs the slick head up and down, slow, then lingers at your entrance, not yet breaching, just savoring the helpless flex and pulse of your body trying to draw him in, refusing you the fullness you crave.
“You’re so desperate, you will let me fuck you right here on the war table,” he mutters, voice raw. The hand at your throat tightens slightly, making you shiver. “Would you let the entire kingdom see their queen bred by her king?”
You whimper, the shameful thrill of his words tightening every muscle in your core. “Yes. I would.” The fibers in your throat burn with the confession, but Steven’s hand at your nape releases just enough to let you gasp in relief. He’s proud of you—can feel it in the pulse of his cock, straining now, that he has made you need him so absolutely in this place and in this way.
Then there’s the sharp, deliberate press of his body crowding your ass, the hard and heavy heat of his cock settling between your cheeks, threatening the softest, tightest part of you. He bends down, mouth at your ear, and you feel the scrape of his beard and the thrum of his voice as he says, “Hold still.”
You do.
You pulse with anticipation, with nerves, with a need that borders on terror. Steven spits into his hand—loud, crude, and the sound goes straight to your clit—and then he smears the spit over the head of his cock, and over you, and then the push comes, blunt and inexorable, at the forbidden ring of muscle. It is too much, always, but you want it, you want the proof of his hunger, the rawness of being taken where only he has ever claimed.
The stretch is a fire in your bones. You dig your fingers into the edge of the table, desperate to ground yourself as Steven pushes past every last shred of resistance. It is agony and rapture, the full width of him splitting you, and for a moment you go blind, dizzy from the stretch and the heat and the sheer, obscene fullness of him forcing its way inside you.
He doesn’t take you all at once. He works you open, withdrawing and then pressing back in, a little deeper with every rut until you shake beneath him, gasping for air, sobbing around the thickness of him. Sweat beads along your spine, and you are aware only of the way the rough grain of the table digs into your cheek and the way his voice is a rasp of praise washing over you as he speaks.
“You take it,” he says, a kind of awe in the echoing hollowness of the council chamber. “You take me so well, little wife.”
Once fully sheathed, he holds you there, impaled, the hand on your neck now a bracing anchor, his hips flush to your ass. His other hand splays over your lower back, holding you steady and open, thumbs digging in just above the curve of your hips. You feel the tremble in his thighs, the fight he wages to keep from just rutting you through the table; you feel, too, the seething pride in how willing—how eager—you are to take whatever he gives, no matter how intense.
Slowly, Steven withdraws, the drag of his cock raw against the tight, trembling ring. He spits another mouthful into his palm, adds more lube to your now-aching hole, and sets a rhythm that is measured, deliberate. The sound of it—his hips meeting your flesh, the wet suction, the low, rough praise in his voice—is a percussion that underlines every brutal stroke. You crave the violence of it, the way he fucks you open with single-minded focus, and still, still, you want more.
“Steven,” you gasp, not knowing what you’re begging for, only that you want every inch, every ounce of him, even in the places that ache and pulse and maybe cannot take more. He answers with a groan, a hand moving from your hip to your clit, grinding over the little bundle of nerves with all the wicked skill he’s refined over months of your fucking.
The overwhelming friction, the fullness, the throb—is unbearable, and you come, hard, so hard it borders on violence. Your body clamps around him, the spasm nearly paralyzing you as your limbs weaken, every muscle in your core pulsing and throbbing around the invasive, overwhelming width of your king. The edges of your vision blur and the sound you make is animal, wordless, but Steven answers, driving you through the crest of your climax, sinking into you with a force that obliterates all thought.
He fucks you through it, relentless and victorious, hands huge and hard at your hips, jerking you back to claim every last inch until you’re sobbing with how full, how impossibly stuffed you are. Each thrust pushes you flat to the table, and you are only vaguely aware of the smears of spit and slick and sweat pooling at the join of your bodies, the way it soaks through your thighs, leaving you wrecked and open for him.
He’s not finished with you, not by a long shot. Steven’s cock withdraws from your ass with a slow, wrenching drag, leaving you shuddering and empty, all your muscles fluttering and your face hot against the cold grain of the table. You sob, a little, at the loss, and you can feel the slick mess of your own juices and his spit running down your thighs, the burn at your rim pulsing in time with your heartbeat.
But then his hands are gentler—one at your hip, one braced at your shoulder as he lines himself up again, this time pressing the heavy, hot tip of his cock between your thighs, seeking the place you are already swollen and desperate for him. You whimper, still spent and oversensitive from your first climax, but even so, you arch your hips, eager for the fullness only he gives.
He slides in, not slow but not cruel, just driving every inch into your aching, greedy cunt. You keen, desperate, not even caring that your voice is a needy, broken thing in the echoing hush of the council chamber.
Steven’s mouth finds your ear, “Every man at court, every lord, every advisor—every last one knows you are mine, but I want it ringing in their ears forever as I breed you.”
With every stroke, Steven’s cock brushes the most sensitive part inside you, your battered and wet cunt spasming around him, milking him for all he can give. You feel every vein, every ridge, every pulse of his cock as it spears you open, and it’s so much, so good, you come again, harder this time, a rush that’s almost terror but made only of pleasure, pure and shattering.
Your cunt pulses around him, hungry and slick, wringing him, wringing you, until there is nothing left in your head but the need to come again—and the way Steven makes you do it, every time, with just a fuck and a promise and the weight of his whole body pressing you down. You arch your back, desperate to take him deeper, and the hand at your shoulder pins you flat to the table, holding you still as he braces and thrusts, making you quiver and moan, making you mindless for him.
The pace now is punishing, but you crave it. Each time your hips threaten to buck off the wood he keeps you pinned down, rutting into you as if you’re a thing made only for his taking. The itch in your belly blooms to wildfire, sharp and wild, and the overstimulation is edged with a pleasure so beautiful you could scream for it, could cry for the way it rips you open and fills in every last corner of your wanting, and so you do.
He fucks you through the aftershocks, fucking every last spasm of pleasure from your body, fucking you until you’re hoarse and sobbing and barely conscious with the white-hot pleasure and the raw bruise of being so completely, so thoroughly used. You know you will wear the marks of this for days—on your throat, on your hips, at the tight, spent holes still drooling spit and slick and sweat down your thighs.
Steven comes at last with a roar, hips slamming into you so hard the edge of the table cuts the breath from your lungs, and the twitch and pulse of his cock fills you, flooding you in one final, conquering pulse. The heat of him, the quantity of him, is unspeakable—you feel it sear a path to your womb, a brutal, claiming flood that fills you so full the excess is forced out around his cock, further slicking your thighs, sticking your skin to the wood.
The hand at your nape strokes the ridge of your spine, his breath crashing against your back, and you realize he is fighting himself, struggling to corral the violent tenderness now threatening to shatter him from the inside out.
For a long while, neither of you move. The only sound is the ragged thrum of your breaths and the wild, feral stammer of his heart as it tries to slow. Your legs are boneless, splayed wide, and he keeps you pressed to the table, still impaled, as if even a breath’s space could risk losing what he’s just staked his soul on.
Finally, Steven eases back, hands gentle as he scoops you from the table—your limbs limp, trembling, useless in the aftermath—and cradles your whole body against his chest. He gathers your legs up as he moves back and reclaims his earlier seat, settling you in his lap, bundled and shattered against the heat of his skin. He strokes your hair, your back, mauling you close as if afraid you might dissolve into the air if not caged to him. His cock softens inside you, but he cannot let you go, not yet; he just clutches you tighter, your spent body rocked gently soothed, a motion at odds with the violence of minutes before.
When you can finally catch your breath, you turn slightly more into him and you press your cheek to the hollow of his throat. You listen to the tide of his pulse, the desperate hunt of his lungs for air. Somewhere outside, the world carries on—voices, firewood splitting, kids shrieking down the corridor—but here, in this carved-out moment, you are the only two who exist.
Steven is the one to speak first, rough and low in your ear. “I want—” He breaks off, his voice rough and strangely weak, so unlike the man who just ruined you over a council table you hardly know how to answer it. The man who has ruined you so many times. You lift your head to meet his gaze. The fires in his eyes are guttering now, but not cold—they burn with a different fuel, something almost like desperation.
“I want you to want it,” he says, the words torn from some engine deeper than pride, deeper than need. “Not just because I am your king. Not because it is owed. I want it because you choose it.”
The statement lands in the hollow between your ribs like a fist. You don’t know how to answer except to touch your lips to his, gentle, a whisper of a kiss where violent need reigned just minutes before. You press your mouth to the corner of his, then to the sharp line of his jaw, then the hollow beneath. “I do,” you say, and it’s a word so small it could barely crack a window in the cold stone of the Kongsgård, but you see the effect it has. His grip on you shifts, softer now, and he lets his forehead fall to yours, breaking into a long, shaky exhale. In this way you know that you have power, too—a different kind than you ever imagined, but no less absolute.
You stay like this, bodies twined, until the fire in the hearth burns low and the sweat on your skin cools to a chill. Every inch of you aches in the most delicious, dangerous ways. Your cunt is tender, the ring of your ass still pulsing with the memory of how he split you open and left you gaping. You ought to feel shame, but all you feel is a molten pride that you can take everything Steven gives and still want more.
You let him hold you until your breathing matches his, until your own hands find the strength to fist in the linen at his collar. His sweat cools in the hollow between your bodies, and you let your head rest heavy against his chest, the salt of his skin mixing with your own. Neither of you moves for a long while. When you finally slide off his lap, legs watery as river clay, Steven follows you, only a half-step behind, as if the gravity between your bodies is too constant to fully break.
You should return to your duties. Somewhere you are most certainly needed. But when Steven cups your chin and tilts your face up, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth, every reason to leave the room vanishes. His lips devour you, slow and thorough, as if he wants to memorize this, encode it in every cell, until no part of you is untouched by the taste of this moment.
You break apart only when the need for air forces you to, but the hunger in it lingers. His hand cups the nape of your neck, thumb stroking slow over the vein that jumps there, and he rests his forehead to yours like a man newly landed from a voyage half the world wide. “You have unmade me,” he says, and it is a confession, not a complaint.
You laugh, shaky and soft, pressing your nose to his. “You did all the unmaking yourself.” The words are true, and you let them settle between you. He grins, the wolfish flash of his teeth just visible, and with it the tension diffuses, neither of you quite knowing what to do with so much tenderness made raw.
You gather yourself, smoothing your wrinkled skirt down over sticky thighs, but Steven is not finished. He crosses to the door, and opens it to speak with the attendant there. He instructs that a meal to be sent up to the royal chamber, and for a bath to be drawn, hot as the hearth can offer. The servant, catching the devastation in your overall appearance and the almost drunken glaze to Steven’s eyes, bows with a speed rarely seen and disappears before the king can clarify any further.
Steven’s attention returns to you. “I do not believe we are fit for anything but to retire for the rest of the day.”
For a moment, you feel like a maiden caught in mischief, but then Steven’s eyes drop to your mouth and you remember you are not a maiden, you are a queen, his queen, and whatever want burns in your blood is not merely allowed, but expected, demanded, starved for. His. Deeply his. And you feel anchored in that surety now.
Are we in a happily ever after yet? No. But things are certainly changing.
Please reblog if you enjoyed this/enjoy this series. My blog got marked as explicit permanently by dumblr, which means that my posts no longer show up in the public tags, so people honestly won't find it unless it's gets passed along by your reblogs now. 🥺 I'm wavering on how much longer it may or may not be worth it to post here if the point is being able to share it with others.
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WARNINGS: Dub-Con/Non-Con, blood, murder, power imbalance, exhibitionism
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summary: You expected to sign away a piece of your soul when you were hired on to serve the Danforth family, but Titus Danforth wouldn't be satisfied until he owned you in mind, body, and spirit.
⛧⃝
When you were hired on to serve the Danforth family—or the Danforth Clan as many liked to call them—you knew that you were stepping foot into the devil’s lair the moment a huge stack of papers were placed before you to read and sign. You knew there’d no doubt be things you’d witness and be privy to that you’d be legally barred from ever speaking about. You hadn’t known then just how depraved and differently the top 1% of the world behaved, but you’d known that you were signing a piece of your soul away in a sense.
…but when you impressively scrawled your name in cursive on that dotted line, you hadn't known you’d be signing your body away too.
Titus Danforth was a gentle brute, if such a thing ever existed. He was one half of the Danforth legacy, a title and inheritance he shared with his twin sister Ursula. He was gruff and crass and possessed a child’s demanding nature despite not having been one for decades. With all of the money in the world in his pocket—and an army of people ready to answer his every beck and call and request at the drop of a hat—he could behave however he pleased without fear of consequence.
An unfortunate fact he took great advantage of.
“This one’s new.”
That was how you were formally introduced, the older man eyeing you in a way that felt extremely distrusting. It didn’t necessarily offend you, understanding the protective nature of some rich asshole to guard his assets and livelihood. Still, the screening process to get hired onto the Danforth estate was a tedious and rigorous one, hardly a walk in the park, so he should’ve known that no one passed through these doors without the utmost confidence they could be trusted.
Your superior, Pernilla, had taken on the task of showing you the ropes, and she’d stopped any and all focus on anything else to give the grey-haired man her undivided attention. It was your first example as to how to act around the immediate family members, and you’d followed her lead, straightening and focusing on nothing else but him.
Such a small act had his full attention.
“Yes, Mr. Danforth,” the other woman confirmed despite the fact that it wasn’t a question. “She’s one of two new editions to the staff, fully screened and hired on only a week ago.”
You hadn’t moved a muscle as he eyed you, looking down his nose at you in a way that had you reminding yourself what you’d signed up for. The money you were getting just to wait on some privileged jerks had you ignoring the glint that passed through his gaze as he ran his eyes over you, slowly as if not to miss a thing.
Mr. Danforth only hummed, a low and deep sound from within his chest.
“Let’s hope you last.”
He was gone without another word, completely dismissive of your presence, and that was the last time you saw him for a while. Two months, in fact. The job didn’t require much more out of you than you expected, and that wasn’t to say that it was easy, but you’d been prepared for the demanding nature of your new employers. Two months. That's how long the wool stayed over your eyes, how long you’d been under the impression you were working for normal rich assholes.
…but then Ursula announced her engagement and then the wedding seemed to happen only a month later and then the wedding night changed everything.
The screams that rang throughout the estate gave you nightmares for months, assaulted by the visions and memories of mopping up fresh blood off of the hard wood floors. You hadn’t been able to stop shaking, a heavy weight settling in your chest as the reality of your new employer crept in. The mountain of papers you’d been forced to sign made more sense than ever in that moment, and you’d only been able to ask yourself one question.
What had you gotten yourself into?
You’d had no way to guess that cleaning up crime scenes would be the least of your problems. Your bloodstained hands took up all of your attention as you slowly and dazedly walked back to the servants’ quarters, cheeks damp from your tears and wondering if there was any way to get out of this. The contract was legally binding, legally preventing you from saying a thing, so surely you could just…leave, right?
So distracted by the physical evidence of your part in all this, you almost ran into one of the few people who could decide your fate in this household. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from gasping in shock, stopping in your tracks and lifting your gaze to his face. The first time you ever met him felt like a whole other life ago, the events of Ursula’s wedding night serving as some paradigm shift.
There was only before and after, now.
Titus Danforth stood before you in all of his intimidating glory, made doubly so by the bloodstained shirt he was still wearing, and you forced yourself not to linger your gaze on it. He seemed to notice your discomfort—your fear—and if you hadn’t known better, you’d say he relished in it. When he took a step towards you, it took everything in you not to take one back.
“What’s your name?”
You forced your mind to work, blinking as you started to mumble the throw away name you’d been told to choose. However, before you could fully get it out, the older man was interrupting you with a bark of a tone. He sounded upset.
“Your real name.”
At that, you frowned, uncertainty tainting your chest. You furiously wracked your brain, accepting that you had never been trained on such a situation before. No one in the family was supposed to even care to know your real name and anything pertaining to your personhood outside of your role as their staff, let alone go out of their way to ask for it.
You nervously swallowed.
“Pernilla said…”
Your quiet words died in the air as Titus Danforth slowly shook his head, stepping towards you with an unyieldingly stern look on his features. You tried and failed to ignore the way your heart raced, keenly aware of the blood on his person and the confirmation of a violent disposition. The terrifying man before you clasped his hands behind his back, and you were forced to stare into his eyes as he held you hostage in this dimly lit corridor.
“What’s my name?” he asked you, that gruff tone of his making the question sound like a growl.
“Titus Danforth,” you answered without hesitation.
“Exactly, and that means this is my estate you’re working on, my money that employs you, and my person that your boss answers to. Do you know what that makes me?”
He didn’t give you a chance to answer.
“That makes me your boss. That means that anything Pernilla or any one of these other disposable staff members ask of you is irrelevant as far as I’m concerned. If she tells you to go left and I tell you to go right, you fucking go right,” he said to you, and you nodded. “Do you understand? Say you understand.”
“I understand,” you forced out, finding it hard to breathe.
Your shaky breath was noticed, and you didn’t like the way he straightened, eyeing you differently now. There was the faintest twitch to his pink lips, and something resembling a faint yet cruel smile lingered.
“Now…what’s your name?” he repeated, his voice softer now.
You quietly told him without hesitation, and he mimicked it.
“Y/N,” he said again with a nod, voice louder now. “Go get yourself cleaned up, and bring a bottle of brandy and a fresh set of towels to my room.”
“Yes, Mr. Danforth.”
At that, he finally moved again, hand coming up between you and you weren’t able to stop yourself from flinching. He only held it there, and when he stepped towards you again, this was the closest he’d ever been. The silence was suffocating as he merely looked at you, a thoughtful look behind those hazel eyes.
“Sir. I want you to call me sir, Y/N.”
You really hated the way he said your name, and you regretted ever telling it to him.
“Yes, sir,” you whispered, and he slowly nodded, a satisfied look washing over his features.
With a simple nod, he dismissed you, and in a short time, you found yourself increasingly more worried about Titus Danforth than the bodies piling up on this estate.
“What about this one?”
You hesitated for only a moment before answering.
“That one’s nice.”
Mr. Danforth threw you a look at that to which you glanced away, and his deep laugh had a shiver crawling up your back.
“You said that two shirts ago,” he distractedly replied, reaching behind his head to slide it off.
“They’re all very nice, sir,” you told him, an honest response.
You avoided looking at him as he searched for another expensive shirt that looked like any other regular shirt, wondering if you would ever stop feeling so…afraid around him.
You didn’t know how nor why, but some kind of way, Titus Danforth decided that it would be you who would see to his every beck and call no matter how small it seemed. It felt like so long since you were even able to fulfill any other kind of household duty, recalling that every time you had a broom or a duster or a load of laundry in your hand, you were being summoned by the older man.
He needed a drink or he wanted a caddie as he golfed or he needed someone to lay out an outfit for him while he showered. You were hired on to answer to the every whim and need of the Danforths, but somehow it was only Titus who consumed most of your time. It was a strange position to be in, having to constantly be around this man who frightened you, but in a way…sometimes you felt like his friend. Or something like it.
The man grew up with the shiniest of silver spoons in his mouth sure, but all of the money and expensive education and best nannies the world had to offer just couldn’t refine the man. They couldn’t make him…fit. The expensive clothes and the handsome face could not hide how rough he was around the edges, how much he seemed to struggle with…behaving.
You, a seemingly nameless staff member, barely counted as a person in their eyes, and so…Mr. Danforth talked. He talked about any and everything to you, some of it interesting and some of it disturbing, but forced to be his confidant regardless. You were a nobody with no one of consequence to repeat it to, and he treated you like your sole purpose was to amuse and humor him.
When you heard him approaching you again, his voice pulled you from your thoughts.
“...and this one?”
He was just barely pulling it on when you looked up, and you ignored his watchful gaze as he moved closer. Sometimes Mr. Danforth watched you like he was looking for something from you—expecting something—and you really wish you knew what it was at times so that you could give it to him and end that observant little stare he liked to fix you with.
“That one’s my favorite,” you honestly told him, and he liked that.
You could tell by the way he tilted his head at you, a secretive smirk on his pink lips.
“Then I’ll wear this one.”
You nodded at that, just wanting this to be over.
You were sure the other staff members thought you got it so easy being forced to spend so much of your time sucking up to and answering to Titus Danforth, but it was worse than scrubbing the kitchen floors to you. The man terrified you beyond belief, even more than Chester Danforth who you’d met only on occasion, the elderly man confined to a bed most days.
Mr. Danforth was quick to react—quick to anger—and in the time you were forced to spend with him, it became clear that the man couldn’t be controlled. Ursula tried, oh she tried, but even you knew that she only had as much control over her brother as he allowed her to. Her hold over him wasn’t real, very easily broken, and you tried not to linger on the things you’d seen in your time here.
“What will you do while I’m gone?”
His gravelly voice had you giving him your attention, and you wracked your brain.
“Your father wants the main garden replanted, and it’s something I’ve been assisting with in between other duties.”
Mr. Danforth had a look on his features like he didn’t like that, lips turned up ever so slightly as he turned his back to you, arms spread out. You rushed to grab his suit jacket from a nearby chair, helping him slide his arms through the sleeves. You didn’t like the low hum that reached your ears, and when he abruptly turned around to face you, you flinched. He was so close, and his gaze slowly dropped, and you took the silent hint.
It was scary how much you grew to know him.
“I want you to wait here…until I get back,” he slowly said as you buttoned the piece of clothing.
His words gave you pause, and he noticed.
“I don’t like these stupid gatherings, and I don’t want to have to hunt you down when I finally return.”
When his jacket was buttoned properly, you took a few steps back, forcing yourself to nod. You regretted it almost immediately, briefly squeezing your eyes shut.
“You know I hate that…”
“Sorry, sir.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I understand,” you said to him. “I’ll be here.”
He fixed you with a look that you couldn't name, and then he was gone, and you let out the breath you’d been holding.
It wasn’t the first time Mr. Danforth demanded you basically die of boredom in his bedroom while you waited for him to come back. Sometimes you had to when he was meeting with his father or having a drink with a friend in one of the studies or even when he went out for the night and brought some strange woman back to one of the many guest rooms. He’d offhandedly mentioned once that he didn’t like bringing women back to his bedroom.
You only guessed why when you had the unfortunate task of cleaning that previously occupied guest bedroom one day, disturbed by the alarming amount of blood on the sheets.
Too many times did you find yourself fetching him a fresh towel or something to drink or even eat in the middle of the night, doing your best to ignore his state of undress while some other staffer handled the task of escorting his woman of the night off the property. You felt like a mere object with the sole purpose of serving him in some way, like a letter opener patiently waiting in his desk drawer until it needed to be used.
You told yourself that you could be spending this time doing worse things, acknowledging that at least his bedroom was five times the size of every apartment you’d ever had. During moments like this you mostly sat around in a chair, occasionally poking around in something innocent. Even rarer, you sometimes nodded off, hard to fight sleep when Mr. Danforth had you waiting around like some dog.
…and it didn’t help that he required so much of you.
You sometimes thought that it was fortunate you didn’t get to accomplish many other household tasks because waiting after the older gentleman took so much out of you itself. It never sank in just how much you’d been running around until it was time for bed and your body felt weighed down by sand. This being one of those times.
Approaching his bookshelf, you pulled one at random and plopped yourself into a chair.
You were at the estate for a year when Mr. Danforth made you cry for the first time.
It was a miracle really that you lasted a year before he ‘broke’ you, but the circumstances didn’t call for any other reaction. A year of doting on him and validating his every choice and fetching him his every desire no matter how ridiculous ultimately amounted to nothing. Well…it wasn’t nothing, but more so the complete opposite of anything you’d ever expected.
Titus Danforth was a protective and selfish bastard when it came to anything he deemed as his. His fortune, his house, his car. Resource guarding is the term you often heard used for animals, and Mr. Danforth—not all that removed from an animal—was very guilty of such. You were a frequent witness to the way he snapped and growled and protectively curled over anything he thought someone was trying to take from him. That description didn’t seem like an exaggeration in your mind, thinking to yourself that that’s exactly how he came off.
It didn’t scare you until the thing he was viciously guarding was you.
A year of answering his every beck and call had certainly garnered you the unofficial title of Titus Danforth’s servant amongst your coworkers. His food was always handed to you, his rooms were left alone by anyone but you, and it was only you who handled his every need and request. So much so that when he needed to travel, he wouldn’t hear of taking anyone but you to accompany him.
You’d gotten sick once, and hearing that it wouldn’t be you fetching his towels, he hadn’t wanted assistance from anyone else. Of course, he’d made that known at the time in a way that was less than polite, but the message had gotten across loud and clear. You thought he just saw your labor and your time on the clock as his—his right, you supposed—but you hadn’t realized that he saw you the person, not the employee, the same way.
You made a mistake by getting distracted.
Mr. Danforth’s food wasn’t quite ready when you went to retrieve it, and so you’d occupied the wait time by exchanging silly bullshit with one of the cooks you saw often. He was younger than you, but still handsome nonetheless in that boyish charm sort of way. You two weren’t best friends or anything, but you were no strangers to each other. A soft laugh had been on your lips when the kitchen grew so silent so quickly, it couldn’t help but to be noticed. The young man in front of you had swallowed the rest of what he was saying, looking over your shoulder now with a back so straight that you knew who was back there before you even turned around.
Titus Danforth wasn’t looking at anyone but you when you faced him, and you swallowed at a look in his eyes you weren’t used to being on the receiving end of. His hands were behind his back and his legs were spread just enough to firmly plant his feet, looking more like a strict military man than some spoiled heir. The relaxed slouch of your frame dissipated, and the older man before you took notice.
You could hear a pin drop.
“Is this how you choose to spend your time when you’re supposed to be waiting on me?” he slowly asked, a sarcastic lilt to his tone.
“No, sir,” you hurried to answer. “Your food isn’t ready yet–.”
“So you come back to me and tell me that,” he sternly interrupted with a nod. “...and then you come back down here and get it when it is ready.”
You swallowed, starting to nod before thinking better of it.
“Yes, sir.”
Those hazel eyes of his eyed you for what felt like a long time, and you’d gotten better at not squirming beneath his gaze. You couldn’t tell what he was thinking at this moment, but you knew that you didn’t like it, and you didn’t relax at all when he turned his attention to the man behind you instead.
“What’s your name?”
He accepted your friend’s response, slowly nodding.
“When my food is ready, you bring it to me,” Mr. Danforth pointed at him, and you fought to keep the frown off of your face.
The grey-haired man sharply cut his gaze back to you, jerking his head, and you moved quickly, not wanting to upset him further.
His footsteps were heavy behind you as you exited the kitchen, and the walk back to his room was silent. For the most part. You could hear his breathing, that's how close he was, and you could feel the heavy and heated weight of his gaze on you. You mentally scolded yourself, torn between wanting to call yourself all kinds of idiotic names and giving yourself grace for arguably the smallest fuck up you could make.
…and it was your first offense too.
“I want to apologize again, sir,” you said to him once the door was closed behind you both. “I didn’t think it would take more than a few minutes.”
He didn’t respond right away, merely looking at you as he moved about his room.
“Ursula has taken it upon herself to be a gracious host to some friends tomorrow night,” he finally said, completely ignoring your apology. “Find me something…nice to wear.”
You felt somewhat relieved at the direction of the conversation, a soft ‘of course’ leaving you as you made your way to his closet. You knew what he liked and what colors suited him best, so you were completely immersed in your thoughts when he followed you. You hadn't even heard him approach, normally so careless about the sound of his footfalls.
“Do you like him?”
His voice surprised you, and you jumped slightly before turning to face him.
Mr. Danforth was staring at you with an expectant look on his face, brows furrowed just the slightest. He was closer than he normally stood, head tilting just a tad as you processed his words.
“I’m sorry?”
“Do you like him?” he repeated, saying your friend’s name.
Understanding washed over you, and you blinked.
“He’s my friend,” you answered with a shrug. “I see him a lot whenever I have to go down to the kitchen.”
Mr. Danforth’s only response was a low hum, seemingly satisfied with that answer, and he took a step back just as a knock sounded on his door. You had no doubt that was the food that he’d just made such a fuss over, proven right moments later, and as you tilted your head to gaze into the bedroom, you watched the way the older man eyed the younger one. Mr. Danforth stood close to him as he watched him set down his food, thick arms crossed over his chest, and when those hazel eyes rose to meet yours, you quickly looked away.
You found it odd that he both asked for your friend’s name and asked him to bring him his food. It was unlike him, and while Mr. Danforth could be unpredictable on occasion, he was a pretty consistent man who liked his routine. That’s why no one was more surprised than you to be woken out of your sleep by Pernilla, the other woman telling you that Mr. Danforth—your Mr. Danforth—was requesting the presence of you both.
“It’s probably some poor woman he’s brought back to the estate,” she’d mumbled as you both hurried through the corridors. “He must need a clean up.”
Her wording gave you pause, and you recalled the blood you saw on occasion after he spent a night in a guest room. You had naively assumed things got a little rough, perhaps a nose bleed or some kink gone wrong, but it hadn’t occurred to you that anyone in this family could be killing people outside of a wedding night gone wrong. Your stomach churned at the thought, but you frowned as you thought to yourself that you never knew Mr. Danforth to bring women back to his room.
Your uneasy feeling only increased when you made it through his threshold.
The older man stood there in a bloodstained shirt, reminiscent of that night of Ursula’s wedding, and his hands weren’t too much cleaner. He looked so calm, like he wasn’t standing before you as some bloody mess, and you found yourself shaking much like you had that night. As you moved closer, your vision was drawn to shiny black work shoes just barely peeking out past the foot of the bed.
“Pernilla, give that to Y/N so she can start wiping this up. Go bring us a mop too.”
He said the words so nonchalantly as you slowly moved further into the room, the frown on your face dropping completely.
The scream that left you sounded like something out of a horror movie, and you couldn't stop yourself from stumbling back against a nearby chair. Your hysteric reaction had Pernilla following you before listening to him, and you even heard her gasp. If she was just as shocked and horrified as you, she didn’t show it, and you could feel her eyes on you as you stared at the body—the familiar body—through tearful wide eyes.
“Pernilla,” Mr. Danforth snapped, and she didn’t hesitate any longer…leaving you alone with him.
He tossed the towel at you, and it bounced off of your chest and onto the floor.
“Clean this up,” he spat, but you couldn’t move.
The body of your friend was facing away from you, facedown but the way his head was turned on his cheek allowed your eyes to connect with his empty lifeless ones. There wasn’t much blood beneath him, most of it on Mr. Danforth’s shirt, and you couldn’t stop yourself from shaking. You could hear him speaking, but barely so, the sound muffled to your ears.
When he was in your line of sight again, you just stared at him in a mixture of horror and disbelief. Your body kept going back and forth from hot to cold, growing more lightheaded by the minute as the room started to sway. You hadn’t even realized that your legs had begun to shake until you reached out for the chair to steady yourself.
“Y/N,” he finally said your name, voice gruff and bordering on angry. “Clean. This. Up.”
You just stared at him, unable to move and asking yourself why, using your eyes to ask him why.
Pernilla returned before you could move, and you could feel her looking between you both. Logically you knew that you needed to listen to him unless you wanted to lose your job or worse, but you physically couldn’t move. He was giving you a demand, and you couldn’t bring yourself to obey. A sob climbed out of your throat, and you tried to blink the tears away.
“Mr. Danforth, I’d be more than happy to–.”
“No, Pernilla,” he barked, keeping his eyes on you. “She will clean this up.”
Your gaze turned pleading as you looked at him, slowly shaking your head.
“No?” Mr. Danforth wondered, leaning in. “Are you telling me no?”
Your breath was coming out in chops, now, and you were finding it so hard to breathe.
“Please…please,” you softly said. “I…”
You felt like you were going to be sick, but before you could be, Mr. Danforth lunged for you. The shriek you let out was loud, a pained whine escaping you at the harsh grip he had on your arms. He was sadly just as strong as he looked, and you couldn’t swallow down your cries as he all but threw you to the ground…right next to his body.
You were an inconsolable mess as you attempted to stand, but the older man was right there, harsh hands on your shoulders as he forced you back down to your knees. He forced the towel into your hands, his own hands wrapping around your wrists as he physically made you move yours back and forth along the bloody floor.
“Pernilla, get it out of here,” he told her, and your sobs grew louder as she did just that, dragging the body of your friend towards the door. “Y/N will clean up this mess.”
You could barely see through your tears, crying out every time more blood got on your hands. Mr. Danforth knelt over you the whole time, fingers harshly pressing into your skin and nose gently at your ear as he forced you to do what he demanded. When the towel had served its purpose, he repeated the actions with the mop, harshly yanking you to your feet.
Mopping up the rest of the blood felt like an out of body experience, his hands over yours and his chest at your back as he forced you to participate in the disposal of your friend. When the floor was spotless, Pernilla returned to retrieve the cleaning supplies, and again you could feel her eyes on you.
You knew what she was thinking.
What did you do? How had you offended Titus Danforth to deserve this? And how had you dragged your coworker into it? The man had so much as never laid a finger on you, and in one hour he’d yanked you around and threw you to the floor into a pool of blood. You were covered in it.
With her gone, and with the floor clean, Mr. Danforth kept a firm hold on you as he forced you into the bathroom. The bright lights had you blinking and squinting, looking down as you stumbled forward. His firm chest was still at your back, and you couldn’t even linger on the oddness of that, too distracted by the blood on your hands.
When he turned on the sink, it felt almost…romantic as he put both of your hands under the water. The hot liquid and soap broke up the bodily fluid, and you could only tearfully watch the pink water swirl down the drain. Mr. Danforth meticulously washed both of your hands together, his even breathing in your ear such a contrast from your own. You absentmindedly noted how warm he felt against you, the smell of cigar smoke and cologne filling your nose.
When he was satisfied, he turned off the water, and he took half a second to grab a towel and push it into your hands. He held it there, and you slowly lifted your tearful gaze to meet his evenly cold one, pink lips pressed together. The grey stubble around them moved slightly as they twitched, and he eyed you with a look that made your blood run cold.
“I hope that now nothing else will distract you from me.”
An unintelligible sound left your throat at his words, and for the first time ever, you shrank away from him in unbridled fear.
Mr. Danforth watched you keenly as you wiped down his desk, and you pretended not to notice.
You’d always been a little terrified of him, but it was different now. Seeing the aftermath of his brutality or watching him manhandle some other staffer hadn’t prepared you for being on the receiving end of it yourself. Especially not in the manner you had that night, and you swallowed at the thought.
The memory of blood and a body haunted you for months, plaguing your mind with nightmares night after night. It made it hard to find sleep, and many days you might as well have been dead on your feet. Your friend had been killed because of you, that much you knew whether Mr. Danforth came outright and said it or not. He never did even try to give some half assed excuse that explained how an employee ended up dead in his bedroom, but this was the Danforth Clan—a family that practically controlled the world—and what was one body of some insignificant employee?
Your friend’s fate often brought tears to your eyes.
Sometimes you wondered if you’d be next should you piss him off enough, but there was a part of you that vehemently denied that. Mr. Danforth seemed very…intent on you—intent to watch you, intent to have you near him, intent to keep you. Funnily enough, that knowledge scared you more than anything, keenly aware of the way he studied you any time he so much as told you to get him a drink.
Tonight, it was several drinks.
“I’ll be back late, but I want two glasses brought to my room,” he said to you.
“Yes, sir.”
The greying man simply eyed you at that, so close and so silent as he ran his hazel eyes over your face, drinking you in. That air of distrust he’d first expressed when you first met was long gone, the older man more than sure that he’d scared you into submission, scared you so much that you would never even dream of crossing him.
You hated that he was right.
When he was around, the hours seemed to drag on for ages, but when he was gone, time seemed to fly by. Between cleaning duties and fetching a thing or two for Ursula, the hours passed swiftly, and you were informed when he was back at the estate well into the night. You were alone as you fixed the drinks—always alone these days—and you tried not to linger on the aftermath of that night.
None of your coworkers wanted to get too close to you, the rumors spreading amongst the staff, a mix of speculation and the truth swirling around you. Pernilla often sent you a sympathetic look when no one was looking, she being the only other witness to that horrible night and Mr. Danforth’s treatment of you. Only she had witnessed the second defining night of your time here, and as you made your way upstairs, you were unaware that a third was in the making.
So focused on pleasing him and not wanting to be on the receiving end of some other traumatic treatment, you hadn’t realized what you’d walked into until you were right in front of it. You almost dropped the tray of drinks, a full bottle of some expensive Cognac in the other hand. You were quick to steady your grip, squeezing your eyes shut and turning your head away.
“I apologize, sir Danforth, I had not realized…”
Your words died in the air as you completely turned away from the scene before you.
You weren’t currently looking at them, but the sight of his taught form brutally pushing into the woman beneath him was at the forefront of your mind. You could still hear her soft moans and his heavy breathing, and you briefly looked towards the ceiling, wondering if this could get any worse.
“Set it down,” you heard him say, voice strained and tone thick with an unsatisfied appetite.
You did as he said, placing everything just as he liked it, fully prepared to leave.
“Did I say you could go?”
His question had you halting your steps, and your lips parted as you stared at the wall in front of you. The woman he was with made a slight noise filled with frustration and confusion, and you noted that you didn’t hear the soft movement of the bed anymore. A chill passed through you as you internally wondered if this was actually happening, and you felt you should’ve known this night was going to be off when he brought a woman back to his bedroom.
You knew Mr. Danforth was entirely serious, and your shoulders sank.
“Turn around.”
The huskiness of his tone has you shuddering, and you hesitated for half a second before doing just that.
You stared at the wall behind them, forcing yourself not to cry at the trajectory of your night. The room was filled with silence, and you could feel his gaze on you, watching you and watching your reaction. You didn’t understand why he was doing this, but then he told you to look at him, and your frown deepened.
When you did, he held your gaze for a few seconds before he started moving again. Your brows twitched as he fucked some woman you’d never seen before, her tan skin contrasting against his pale hue. She didn’t seem to mind, at all that you were an unwilling voyeur to this, and when the older man looked down at the woman beneath him, you looked away.
That lasted for all of four seconds.
You heard her gasp in shock and when you looked over he was up and coming towards you. You couldn’t stop your eyes from widening, keeping your gaze on his face as Mr. Danforth approached you in all of his naked glory. The muscles in his arms and chest moved with every step, and your employer didn’t stop until he was right in front of you.
His bare chest heaved as he stared you down, nostrils flaring.
“What did I say?”
Your face was on fire, but your eyes were anything but, looking at him pleadingly.
“Sir–.”
Your words were cut off as he roughly grabbed your chin, holding it in his hand as his gaze passed between your own. You glanced behind him briefly, noting the way the woman was propped on the bed, an impatient look resting on her face. When you looked at him again, his thumb brushed along your skin, and you were sickenly aware of his state of undress and his close proximity.
“You will look at me, and if I catch you looking away, I’m going to be very unhappy,” he gruffly told you.
When you gave him the response you wanted, a tear skipping down your cheek, he turned his back on you.
Forced to watch this, you couldn’t do anything but wring your hands together, flinching every time his palm sharply came down against her skin. She seemed to like it, and you wished you could disassociate on command, but alas you were acutely aware of everything. Every groan he made, every curse that fell from his lips, and every animalistic noise that climbed out of this throat. You were even aware of the way his tongue touched his lip as he watched himself disappear into her and the way his stomach tightened with every push of his hips.
You felt yourself shudder every time his gaze lifted to you, and you knew that Mr. Danforth had no doubt you wouldn’t disobey him. He just wanted to watch you watch him fuck this woman. Those hazel eyes of his wanted to watch you squirm with discomfort, wanted to look at you as you observed him in his most bestial—yet vulnerable—moments.
Your skin was warm and your head was spinning and to your great dismay, there was tightening that had begun in your lower stomach. You hated this, and you’d only been more miserable one other time in your life, but even still the sight before you had you squeezing your thighs together, wholly ashamed of what was happening.
…and when he came inside of her with a brutish grunt, pinning her beneath him and a thin layer of sweat coating his frame, you couldn't have run away faster, consequences be damned.
The trajectory of your relationship with Mr. Danforth—with Titus—shouldn’t have surprised you.
…and yet it did.
It seemed that he didn't want to deal with the hassle of a body every time he wanted to break you a little more, so his new favorite pastime was getting his rocks off with you as a witness. Nameless woman after nameless woman was brought onto the estate, and night after night, you were forced to stand there and watch as he fucked every single one. You wondered if this was your punishment after running out that first night, or if this was inevitable and staying put wouldn’t have changed a thing.
Every time he finished inside of them, he crudely sent them on their way, promising that someone would see to it that they get home. They would leave while still struggling to get their dress zipped up or their underwear completely on, and Mr. Danforth would stride around you as naked as the day he was born, telling you to turn his shower on while he nursed his drink.
This psychosexual torture he liked to engage in was messing with your head, and he knew it, and you often wondered what the end goal was. Maybe he took pleasure in just messing with the staff, with you, or maybe this was all part of some drawn out punishment for offending him months ago. You often wondered when it would end, when he would grow bored of tormenting you or bored of even just having you around.
It had never occurred to you that he was purposely fighting against something that was inevitable.
Titus Danforth wanted you, and not just in the way that a spoiled child wants his favorite toy all to himself. He wanted every part of you in his hands and beneath his lips. He wanted all of you in every way he could get you, and the countless women he fucked underneath your terrified gaze served a purpose of satisfying the twisted sexual craving he had for the very same woman he was forcing to be a witness to his depravity.
You didn’t know any of that though.
Not until he was gruffly telling you to sit on his bed one day.
You’d hesitated, glancing at the untouched dinner you brought him, and you could tell by the darkening look in his eye that he didn’t want to have to tell you twice. Your heart was in your stomach as you slowly walked towards the impressive piece of furniture, legs shaking with every step. You didn’t want to believe what your mind was lingering on, but something in the back of your mind scolded you, calling you a fool for never considering this is where you’d end up.
Any man that could kill without so much as a blink or ounce of remorse was a deviant, and any man that could force you to watch him have sex with countless women with no care to how uncomfortable it made you was a sexual deviant. It made sense in the moment that he wouldn’t just stop there, and still you hoped. His eyes never strayed from you once, and giving him one last glance—looking for anything that might ease your worries—you leaned your hands and backside against the mattress.
You didn’t miss his slow exhale as you pressed down, sliding back.
“Right there is just fine,” he said, forcing you to stop, just seated on the edge.
The silence surrounding you was deafening, and Mr. Danforth only stared at you for a moment or two before slowly walking towards you. You couldn’t stop yourself from swallowing at his approach, and you had no doubt that he noticed. You didn’t take your eyes off of him as he stood this close to you—too afraid to—and you only had a few seconds to mentally prepare yourself for whatever was about to happen.
He was slow to kneel in front of you, and your fearful confusion morphed into just plain old fear when his hands found a home on your knees, slowly pushing. You couldn’t stop your lips from trembling as he parted them slightly, hands sliding up your thighs to meet at the button in the center.
“I don’t want you wearing these pants anymore,” he quietly said to you from in between your legs as he unbuttoned them. “A skirt. You’ll look nice in a skirt.”
Your gaze slowly lifted to the ceiling as he curled his fingers over the top of your slacks, yanking and jerking them until he was sliding them off of your legs. If he noticed the tears in your eyes, tears that eventually fell, he didn’t say anything. He likely didn’t care.
When he leaned in, you could feel his breath on your clothed skin, your legs trembling when he slowly parted your thighs further. His rough fingers gently brushed along your flesh, and you heard him deeply inhale the closer he got. His fingers were getting dangerously close to your underwear, and you could only close your eyes as he hooked a finger into them.
The tip of his tongue touched you as he held the fabric to the side, stretching it to give him access. It was a featherlight touch, and yet you jerked all the same. Your nails dug into his bed as a means to cope, wishing that you could just push him away and run off of this estate without fear of consequence, never looking back. As it were though, all you could think about was bloodstained shirts and dead bodies and a family with enough money to make you disappear a thousand times over.
Mr. Danforth gently touched you with his tongue again…and again, and when he did something unexpected, pressing an open mouthed kiss to your mound, you couldn’t hold in your gasp. It seemed to trigger something in him, a switch turning on as he practically growled against you before leaning back and roughly ripping the thin scrap of fabric past your thighs and off your ankles.
When the older man fully pressed his mouth to your cunt, you tried to control yourself. One of your hands slid to behind your back, struggling to remain sitting up as his stubble scratched against your thighs in a way that had you squirming. His hold was tight on you as he ate at you, tongue sliding between your folds so slowly and in a gentle way you didn’t expect. When he yanked you just a little more towards the edge, your arms faltered, and you desperately wanted to remain as unfazed as you could.
…but Titus Danforth was good at what he was doing.
When he sucked at your flesh in time with pressing his tongue to your walls, you let out a shuddering breath against your will. The longer he moved his tongue inside of you, the harder it was to remain sitting up, lashes fluttering as you desperately pressed a hand to his head. He didn’t budge, and you sank your teeth into your lip.
You wanted him off of you.
No such thing was going to happen though, you knew that, and you whined in frustration. When he spread your thighs further, your arms finally caved, failing you and you stared at the intricate designs on the ceiling when you fell back. Your thighs were trembling, and steady moans started to crawl out of your throat, each one louder than the last.
You could hear yourself pleading, sometimes pleading for more, sometimes pleading for him to stop. His fingers dug into your thighs painfully as he held you open for him, and your head slowly moved from side to side in time with the heaving of your chest. When you dared to look down, all you saw was a vision of silver in between your thighs, and you threw your head back once again.
When you came, it was with an embarrassing whimper, eyes squeezed shut and thighs pressing against his head. You came so hard it almost hurt, and Mr. Danforth didn’t pull away until he felt like it, mouth completely pressed to you as you fell apart onto his tongue. When you tried to crawl away, he just held you in place, lazily curling his tongue into you and making your toes flex.
When he finally pulled away, letting you go and allowing your legs to drop, the tears finally spilled over. You laid there on his bed with tears running past your ears as he stood over you, and you didn’t know where to go from here. You didn’t want to look at him, just waiting for him to dismiss you so you could be free to lose your mind in peace.
When he eventually did, you couldn’t get away from him fast enough, grabbing your underwear and your pants with a quickness that surprised you. Your speedy exit however was stopped by a harsh grip on your arm, and when that harsh grip became outright painful, you were forced to meet his gaze, shrinking away at his close proximity.
You didn’t know what he was thinking as he intensely eyed you, and you flinched when he jerked his head.
“My food is cold,” was all he said, making you deflate.
When he let you go, you took a few shaky steps away from him, struggling to organize your thoughts.
“Yes, sir,” you forced out with a nod. “I’ll get you a new plate, right away.”
You felt nauseous as you grabbed the tray, legs unsteady as you walked towards the door. He didn’t stop looking at you once, and you felt deeply uncomfortable with every step you took, cringing at the wet feeling between your thighs as you made your way back down to the kitchen.
Titus Danforth was an insatiable man.
That one evening in his bedroom triggered a chain reaction of events that weren’t surprising to you, just disappointing and terrifying. The number of women he brought back to the estate decreased until he eventually brought none back at all. Why would he now? That was what you were for—a ‘willing’ and bought body that couldn’t fight back or refuse him.
You didn’t know if you’d ever get used to the sound of his heavy breathing washing over you, a rough and tight grip in your hair as your lips covered his cock. That was mostly what you did at first, suck him off during just about every visit, and that seemed to be all he wanted for a time. That and spending the occasional afternoon with his face between your legs, making you fall apart again and again when you were supposed to be steaming his clothes or dusting his furniture.
It almost seemed like he was holding himself back from crossing another line—the final line—but you knew that it would be crossed eventually. He was never going to be satisfied with just the feel of his cock in your mouth, inevitably giving into that hunger for more. It was an every day thing, his hands on or in you, curling his fingers into you and massaging your walls, whatever task you’d been in the middle of long forgotten.
It went unnoticed. After all, it wasn’t unusual for Titus Danforth to take up so much of your time, and it’s not like the sexual abuse was taking place anywhere outside of his bedroom. For the time being anyway. The toll it was taking on you, however, did go noticed, and Ursula merely pursed her lips at the third piece of china you broke this week.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Danforth,” you hurried to say, looking for something to clean it up with.
You didn’t even bother giving some excuse, only struggling to avoid her thoughtful gaze as she looked down at you. A soft hum left her throat, and her heels slowly clicked against the floor as she circled you.
“My brother isn’t working you too hard, is he?”
You almost laughed at the loaded question, schooling your features and looking up at her with a tight smile.
“No, Ms. Danfoth,” you lied. “I just haven’t been sleeping very well.”
That part wasn’t a lie, and the half truth seemed to satisfy her although it did nothing to lessen the frown on her face. Ursula was by no means a good woman, but you knew that she didn’t appreciate her brother’s brutal nature. Especially when it came to women, and she only watched you for a moment more before telling you to be swift in cleaning up the mess.
Ursula was smart, and you knew that she didn’t fully believe you, but clearly she didn’t feel unnerved or worried enough to press it further. Her brother’s attachment to you was no secret, and truthfully, she’d probably long seen where this would inevitably lead before you had. Even if you did tell her the truth, you knew that she couldn't stop him, Ursula having no real control over Titus.
She wouldn't have been able to stop him from killing your friend just to scare you into submission nor stop him from forcing you to be a witness to whatever depravity he was up to at night nor keep his hands off of you. She especially wouldn’t have been able to stop him from fucking you.
There was nothing special about the day he first pushed his cock into you.
The sun was shining and the food you brought him was only half eaten and he’d only taken a few sips of the brown drink you brought him before he was roughly reaching for your face. He’d never kissed you before, and the action took you by surprise, a noise of shock escaping you. His hands were tight on your face, holding you so fiercely that you couldn’t even think about getting away.
Your hands against his chest meant nothing as they became pinned between you, and as he pressed himself against you, you could feel him. You could feel his arousal, feel how hard he was, and you knew then that he had no intention of stopping. He had no intention of letting you walk out of that door without knowing what it felt like to be stretched around him—to be dominated in the way that mattered most.
You hadn’t been prepared for all the biting.
Titus liked to leave little nips along your neck and shoulder and even breasts, hands painfully tight on your skin as he drove himself into you again and again. The bands of muscle that were his arms rippled with every movement, and you hadn't been able to swallow down a single noise as he fucked you into his bed, his bare skin slapping against yours.
However brutish you thought he was during the day was nothing compared to what he was like when he had you wrapped around his cock. He was borderline feral, noises leaving his lips that sounded a lot like the growl of some predatory animal enjoying the taste of its prey. Every movement from you resulted in him tightening his hold on you like some constrictor, satisfied at the way you could barely move beneath him, serving your only purpose of taking the length of him with ease.
Titus fucked you well into the evening, coming into you with loud groans before catching his breath in the crook of your neck. You laid beneath him shaking like a leaf, chest heaving and skin glistening with sweat. When he eventually pulled out of you, any thoughts you had of leaving were shut down as he gruffly told you to get his shower going for him.
You hadn’t expected him to pull you inside with him, feeling wholly out of place as he showered with his back to you. You’d glanced at the exit through the glass shower door, turning back only to find his intense gaze on you. He said nothing—his eyes saying it all—and you’d swallowed as he moved closer, handing you a bar of soap and turning back around.
“My back,” was all he mumbled, and you listened to the unsaid request.
When you were done in the shower, you hadn’t been prepared for him to force you to your knees, a harsh grip in your hair as he pulled you closer.
Titus loved the sight of your lips wrapped around him, sometimes more than satisfied with just that, sending you on your way for the time being with the taste of him lingering on your tongue. But he didn’t love it more than being inside of you, looking the most at peace you’d ever seen him when he was watching his cock disappear into you.
Every chance he was presented with, he was fucking you with a vigor that always left you so worn out. When he summoned you to his room at night or when he bent you over his desk and even when he had you on his bathroom counter, your lips parted and head forced back as he yanked on the hair at the nape of your neck.
“Look at me, Y/N,” he breathed, thighs pressing against yours. “Look at me.”
There was an edge creeping into his voice when he repeated himself, and you obeyed him, tearful eyes on him as he pounded into you. Your uniform was haphazardly thrown somewhere, and one of your hands was pressed against the hard wood of his desk, the other pressing into his defined chest. Your breathing was choppy and your eyes were fluttering, the weight of unfinished tasks and all that came with Titus’ demanding appetite catching up to you.
“Keep them on me,” he told you. “I want you to look at me when I fuck you.”
The desk shook beneath the force of his thrusts.
“I want those pretty eyes on me when I take you apart.”
His nose brushed against yours with every movement, and you fought to hold his gaze, recalling the last time you disobeyed him. Your backside had been sore for days, shuddering at the memory of his hand coming down again and again onto the sensitive skin of your ass cheeks.
Titus always talked to you during like a normal couple—telling you what felt good, telling you what he wanted you to do, praising you. It was an interesting position to be in because hours later, he’d be treating you like the servant you were, but somewhere in his twisted mind, this whole arrangement was…nice. To him, this was wholesome.
So much so…that when Chester Danforth demanded a marriage and an heir under threat of revoking the fortune, Titus Danforth would not consider anyone but you.
…what…?” you breathed, frowning at Ursula, tears collecting in your eyes.
She looked just as distraught as you though she did a much better job of hiding it.
When she requested your presence in her study one morning, you’d had no way of guessing what this could possibly be about. All sorts of possibilities ran through your mind, your unconventional dynamic with her brother being at the top of the list. You’d been wracked with nerves the whole way there, and the words she said to you were the absolute last thing you'd ever expected.
“It’s…not going to happen,” she slowly told you, leaning against her desk and gazing down at you. “Titus is no better than a child with his favorite toy of the week.”
You took no offense to her analogy, often repeating something similar yourself.
“Although I shouldn’t be surprised at the true nature of your…rapport.”
She made a slight face at her choice of word, and you swallowed. The blonde woman didn't miss that, and she pursed her lips, something akin to a look of sympathy on her beautiful features.
“My brother has never had any qualms about getting what he wants, no matter how frowned upon or uncouth it may be. I can’t imagine what you’ve endured.”
You blinked back tears, looking away and shaking your head in disbelief.
“Father’s putting his foot down and giving us an ultimatum and Titus is lashing out,” she assured you. “That’s all this is.”
That's what she said, but somehow you still found yourself standing before Chester Danforth in all of his sickly glory, having a discussion with him you never thought you’d have.
“What is the nature of your relationship with my son?”
You said nothing to the ailing man, pressing your lips together as you fought the urge to tell him that his son was a depraved rapist, fully aware that the man in question was just outside of that door. When your lips quivered and you looked away, the older man made a noise.
“Ah.” he quietly said. “I feared that was the truth of it.”
You weren’t some gold digging whore after the Danforth fortune, and you weren’t some wanton maneater looking to get your claws into Titus Danforth. You were a woman who realized too late that she signed every single part of her away on that fateful day, and that was the gist of what you said to him.
“I’m sure you can find some other woman—any woman—willing to be his bride who he will be satisfied with.”
The other man coughed, an awful hacking sound, and you flinched.
“He demands no one but you,” he finally breathed. “He is entirely willing not to fight me on this…so long as it is you.”
You looked down at that.
“That is the only satisfaction he seeks.”
You wracked your brain, fully prepared to come up with some other argument when he spoke again, completely quieting your fears.
“It will not happen,” he said with so much conviction that it should’ve offended you, but you were only glad to be in agreement with the dying oligarch. “I will not give into his childish whims.”
The old man told you that, and you certainly believed it, but even he hadn’t been able to predict the ruthlessness Titus could possess when he felt like he was being controlled.
Chester Danforth died peacefully in his sleep, and for a long time, that's what mostly everyone believed, but only you and a few others had been privy to the screams that night. Only an unlucky few heard the sound of Ursula’s panicked voice bouncing throughout the corridor walls, asking Titus what he’d done. Only you had the luxury of stripping the old man’s former bed, shaky gaze locked onto the small spots of blood on his pillowcase.
It wasn’t long before Ursula was singing a different tune, and you didn’t know what Titus said to her, but she’d only watched in perfect silence and an unspoken disapproval as her brother presented you with a ring. You’d stared at it in horror, stomach churning to a painful degree, and you made the mistake of looking to the blonde woman for help.
“Don’t fucking look at her,” Titus snapped, and he forced your gaze back to him. “What are you looking at her for?”
He tilted his head at you, that hazel stare of his so intense, and you could feel your legs shaking.
“Titus,” you breathed, a few tears finally spilling over.
You could tell he was getting angry, his chest starting to heave, and when he pressed his chest to yours, all you could do was squeeze your eyes shut. The ring carried the weight of the world as he slid it onto your trembling finger.
The wedding was a small intimate affair, only close family in attendance, many of whom you’d met before but under completely different circumstances. On one hand, you felt like you should’ve counted yourself lucky to be marrying into the Danforth family, but you knew you held absolutely no power even though you carried the name.
The ring, the dress, the ceremony…none of it was proof of your transition from a nobody to someone with a hand in the biggest influence over the world. It was not a ceremony that propped you up as an equal, worthy of walking side by side with Titus Danforth as he controlled the seat in tandem with his sister.
You were official property now.
The ring may as well have been a collar, the dress a noose, and the name a brand placed upon your skin. You were not Titus Danforth’s wife now, but his property with nothing to your name that wasn’t acquired through him. He owned you with pride, and as you said ‘I do’ and allowed him to fiercely press his lips to yours, there was no escaping him.
Your only hope was the wedding night.
The fucked up tradition was no secret to you, and as the defining moment drew closer, you could only hope that you’d pull the one bad card. You practically prayed for it, knowing that you’d only escape your new husband through death, and some part of you wondered if he would have what it took to do it should fate have other plans for you that didn’t involve a married life with Titus.
You begged and begged and begged for it, desiring death over this.
You considered it an act of mercy, one you hoped you were granted, and as you all sat around the table, no one was more nervous than you as that old intricate card dispenser was passed from hand to hand and then finally you. Your left hand felt weighed down by the ring you didn’t want, and as you turned the box in your grasp, you briefly glanced up at Ursula.
You knew if it came down to it, she’d have no trouble killing you.
The thought almost made you smile, but you didn’t, glancing over at Titus as he leaned back in his chair…waiting. You looked around at your other new in-laws too, your veil grazing your cheek as your heart raced. You could tell by the sound of him shifting that Titus was growing impatient—anxious to see how this night would progress—and you flinched a bit when the box clicked, the sound of your fate ringing in the quiet room.
You felt yourself go stiff when the card was finally in your hand.
You could hear a pin drop, that’s how quiet it was, and the longer you stared at the card, the more your heart started to race. Your lips trembled, and you couldn’t stop yourself from collecting tears in your eyes, wanting a hole to swallow you up.
“What does it say?” Titus impatiently asked, and when you didn’t answer he took it from you.
The tears finally spilled over just as you looked up at Ursula, a familiar deep laugh reaching your ears.
“She got Old Maid,” he huskily said, flipping the card around to show everybody
Light laughs reached your ears, and you tried to hide just how upset you were, but when your gaze met that of your husband’s…he saw. He saw the sadness and fear and even disappointment, disappointment that you wouldn’t be killed tonight, and his jaw clenched.
You paid for it later when it was just the two of you, consummating your marriage in true traditional fashion. Your dress was a bundle of white on the floor, and Titus had your legs wrapped around his waist. His strokes were slow and torturous, his heavy breathing mixing in with yours—his excited and yours pained.
His hand was tightly curled around your throat, thick fingers harshly pressing into your skin as he leisurely fucked you. He didn’t take his eyes off of you once, wanting to witness every part of you tonight, basking in the spoils of his victory.
Titus had you, officially and legally and bloodbound and all. The heaviness of your vows still rang throughout your mind, and you’d wanted to faint as you agreed to ‘the possession of each other’. Maybe in some sick twisted way you’d never understand, Titus did belong to you, but all that mattered was that you belonged to him. The ring on your hand was proof of such.
His other hand pressed into the mattress as he curled his hips unto yours, basking in the feel of you clenching around the length of him, moving inside of you with ease. It still embarrassed you how wet you could get when he was fucking you, desperately wishing that your body could be as repulsed by him as your mind.
His facial hair gently grazed your skin, almost like a kiss, when he leaned closer. He didn’t look away from you once, and you winced when he tightened his hold on your neck.
“I know you wanted to die tonight,” he whispered to you, and you bit your lip. “I know you wanted to pull that card and just wait for one of us to kill you…to take you away from me.”
A particularly hard thrust had you gasping, and Titus hummed.
“...but Mr. Le Bail wouldn’t do that to me. I’ve always followed the rules, always played the game well, and you’re my reward.”
You sniffed at that, struggling to breathe under his grip.
“You are my pretty little prize, Mrs. Danforth, and you are never getting away from me.”
I can't wait to finally be done with the exam, just so I have time for writing 😮💨
Which babe I should jump onto first, once I'm done studying?
chef!Andy
next apex Alpha
dark mafia Johnny
Which babe should I celebrate with?
chef Andy
Apex Alpha
mafia Johnny
Remaining time: 1 day 12 hours
I purposely didn't include the story of mated to a pack of Alphas, because Ari is in it and you hoes are always voting for him no matter who else is in the poll 😜
Remember when joining fandom as a younger person meant lurking for a bit and figuring out the vibe and etiquette instead of coming in on day one and calling people weirdos for liking weirdo shit in the weirdo factory.
Tags/Warning: MDNI 18+, biker Bucky, curvy reader, insecure reader, beefy Bucky because we all need him, coworkers are shitheads, drinking, angst if you squint, smut in part 2 (oral!fem receiving, missionary, hair pulling, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Buckys got a filthy mouth, fingering, he literally eats you out on the bike alright)
Summary: After a shit night out with coworkers, you catch the eye of a mysterious biker who looks every part of a dirty fantasy.
Note: full disclosure- I blacked out. I’m not sure how the hell I wrote almost 3k words of filth but I do know I hunted my husband down after. Thank you for the love on part 1. You all fueled my praise kink. Do it again, please? Like, reblog, and comment! All the love to you!
Dividers by @uzmacchiato
You’ve never held on to something so tight before.
Not even when you were younger and held your mamas hand.
Not when you tripped and reach out to grab the nearest person.
Not even your phone when the wind almost blew it away.
But Bucky, your fingers are cramping from the force of your grip on his jacket.
The bike bobs and weaves between cars, his chest rumbling from laughter when you squeak and lock your arms harder. His left hand moves to rest on your thigh, fingers drumming softly along the curve of your knee.
Your mouth is dry from panting, and your insides feel like goo. Vibrations from the bike are making it really hard for you not to moan into Bucky’s helmet and press yourself harder against his back.
This is checking off every box on your dirty biker fantasy, and dear Gods above – if he doesn’t bend you over the second the bike stops, you might fall to your knees and beg for every sin available for purchase. Dignity doesn’t exist in your vocabulary when a wall of a man like Bucky has you draped along his back. Let alone on his damn bike.
So, when he leans the bike to follow out of downtown and to the suburbs, you can only hope he’s not a murderer. Honestly, he could choke you out and you’d say thank you.
The other two had given him a thumbs up and stayed on the path in the city. Red Bike had leaned over and fist bumped Bucky, and wiggled his fingers at you before speeding to catch up to Star Spangle Banner Biker.
You take in your surroundings as the bike start to slow.
It’s a relatively quiet sub, most homes are dark – porch lights on, but all windows dark. Save for a few with soft lights in the living room from a TV playing.
The home Bucky pulls into is modest, a sweet brownstone with an already open garage awaiting your arrival.
You slowly flex your fingers, releasing your hold on him when he kicks the stand down.
Bucky gracefully stands, running a hand through his hair, “Hope you don’t mind, but I brought you to mine. I kind of forgot to ask where you wanted to go.” A sheepish grin blooms on his face.
Taking a deep breath, you slide the helmet off, “It’s okay. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with my roommate anyways.” You hand him his gear.
He places it on a shelf besides the bike, taking a moment to remove his protective gloves.
And you take that moment to very openly ogle at him.
His shoulders are wide – you literally had your face between the blades – but theres something comforting about the size of him. Wide. Tall. Arms that look they could crush watermelons. Thighs that look solid enough to hold you there for hours.
A back so muscular the muscles are seen through the thick leather jacket. His hair is on the longer side. Long enough to grab fistfuls of and curl at the nap of his neck.
You’re practically drooling when Bucky looks over his shoulder at you.
“You like what you see, sweetheart?” The fucker smirks.
Licking your bottom lip, “I’m not complaining about the view.”
He faces you fully, one hand going to rest on bike behind your seat, the other on your cheek. “You know, I’m trying very hard to be a gentleman –“
“And how’s that working out for you?” You lean into his touch.
You watch in real time as his pupils dilate, “You’re making it rather hard.”
You let your eyes wander over him. Down his torso to his jeans, “You talking about your restraint or that?”
There, as clear as the moon in the sky, is a bulged in his pants. Your thighs twitch, your fingers raising to find purchase on his waist. When he doesn’t answer, you meet his gaze.
Blue eyes nearly swallowed by black. The hand on your face slowly slides to the back of your head, fingers slightly twisting to grab your hair. Your breath hitches at a soft tug, “Both.”
His eyes track your tongue when it flicks out to lick your lower lip again, “I had a shit night, Bucky. I don’t want restraint.”
Famous last words before his mouth is on yours.
The kiss isn’t soft. It’s not sweet. And it sure has hell is not slow.
Bucky kisses like a man starved. Parched. Lost in the desert and you are the first lick of water he’s tasted in days.
It’s complete of teeth grazing lips, tongues fighting for dominance, and fingers gripping for dear life.
Bucky’s hand from the bike moves to your thigh, finger tips digging into the meaty flesh of you. A groan leaves his mouth and into yours. Your own hands unzip his jacket and shove it off him while still keeping your lips locked. Jacket makes a soft thud when it hits the floor.
His hands go back to you after shaking the gear off, turning your body to sit sideways on the bike. For a moment, you think about jumping off the bike, but then he’s shoving your thighs apart and stepping between them.
He towers over you like this, and your neck starts to hurt from how far back your head is leaning to keep kissing him. You break apart to breathe, but his lips just descend to your neck. You grip the bike for support with one hand — the other finding his hair.
You yank when his teeth find that spot below your ear. And the sound that leaves his throat is enough to send slick drooling out of you.
It’s like you unlocked Bucky because then he drops to his knee, fingers curling into your leggings and pulling them down so fast, you almost fly off the bike. You gasp, “Bucky—”
The look on his face will forever be etched into your frontal lobe. Eyes blown wide, mouth pretty pink and wet, and hair falling on his forehead. He just stares at your bare pussy for a moment before looking up at you with a lopsided grin, “Oh sweetheart. Louder for the neighbors to hear.”
The words barely reach your ears when his mouth meets your wetness. Your hand dashes to his hair as a breathy moan leaves you. And Bucky eats pussy like he’s tasty the sweet nectar of a plum.
It’s loud— his tongue against your clit, flicking and lick quick swipes. His right fingers tracing the opening of you, his left hand holding open your trembling thigh.
You watch him watch you. Your mouth hangs open, brows drawn together, and filth falling from your lips. “Bu-Bucky!” You gasp loudly when a finger sinks in, “The garage is— “, another loud moan, thighs twitching, “Open!”
Bucky has the audacity to roll his eyes and then press another finger in just to curl them.
Your back arches, head thrown back, moaning to the ceiling and praying to God someone doesn’t hear—let alone fucking see—what Bucky is doing to you.
You clench when he curls his fingers harder, pressing that soft spot he seems to have found ungodly fast. His chooses that second to also suck on your clit, harshly.
Stars burst in your eyes, the sound between you legs is sloppy, and all you can do is cry out his name as you come. On his bike.
Your biker fantasy list is headed to being completely filled if he keeps this up.
Bucky doesn’t slow his fingers, only moves his mouth to give kisses to your thighs, “Good girl. Such a good girl for me.”
Heat blooms on your face, you pussy crying around his digits, “Please.”
He licks his lips, “Please what, sweetheart?”
Your eyes start to cross as another orgasm builds embarrassingly fast. You’re not even sure what you’re begging for. Mercy? More? His cock? His mouth again?
His free hand grips yours still holding onto the bike, “Come one, sweet girl. Give me one more and I’ll give you my cock. Think you can do that for me? For yourself?” And then he slips a third in, all the way down and twists them.
For a brief moment, you think you break his hand holding yours and maybe yank a couple strands out of his head. You come again. A high cry echoes in the garage. Clenching so tight around him, he just leaves his fingers buried deep within you. Wiggling the tips to draw out your orgasm.
Tears fall form your eyes when you realize he’s lowering his mouth back down to you. “Bucky, please.” You hiccup, “You – you said – “, and his lips are making out with your clit again.
You sob loudly. Fat tears spill from your face, sweat dripping down your back, and you can’t seem to catch your breath. His mouth feels like sin and heaven and his fingers just keep playing that spot deep inside you. You pussy cries with you. Two orgasms in, a third approaching, and your poor thighs cant close around his big body.
Bucky’s shoulders keep you spread, and his eyes stay locked on your wet face. The evil bastard looks smug. Looks like he could die there and be so thankful.
“I know, sweetheart.” He pulls away, lips wet and smirking, “I promise. One more. Give me one more and I’ll fuck you right.” He licks your shaking thigh, “You look so fucking beautiful on my bike. Letting me eat your pussy.” Bites the juggle of your inner thigh, “I could do this all fucking night. You taste so good. One more, there you go.” And he wraps his lips back around your clit.
You might pass out, you’re not sure, when your third hits. It’s so wet and loud and Bucky just drinks you up. You push on his head, your feet kick at his sides, too overstimulated. Your poor pussy weeps when he pulls away and withdrawals his fingers. Not without keeping them curled the whole way out.
Your lungs aren’t filling with enough air, but your chest feels light and heart feels full. And pussy feels fucking recked and its just from his mouth and hands.
Bucky lifts you off the bike, holding you open and carrying you as if you weigh a sack of potatoes. You cant even find your brain to care, to fight him to put your down. That you’re heavy.
You just get wetter at the idea of him holding you against a wall and fucking you until the wall gives way.
When your mind catches up, he’s dropping you on his bed and his clothes are shedding. Bucky’s mouth finds yours as he climbs over you, hooking your thighs over his.
You cant help put looks down and nearly pass the fuck out because what do you mean he’s hung like a goddamn horse?
You must make a choked sound because Bucky laughs softly, hands moving to remove your shirt and snap your bra off. “It’ll fit, sweet girl. Youre a good girl, right? You can take it.”
You nod along, wide eyes watching the way his cock glides between your wet folds. You whine as the shaft slides over your clit. “I can take it.”
Bucky moans, “Fuck – “, and sinks his cock halfway in you.
You both gasp out, your hands gripping his biceps as his grip the sheets beside your shoulders. “Oh – Bucky – fuck me!” Back arches off the bed as he thrust the rest in.
“Shit, I knew you’d be perfect. Taking me so fucking good. Look at how pretty you’re taking me.” Bucky shoves a hand into your hair and angles your head down.
Your lower lip wobbles at the sight.
Your pussy stretched wide to take his girth, thighs wet from your three orgasms, and your legs spread so fucking wide you can feel a mild pinch in your hips.
Wet eyes meet piercing blue, and you clench around him “Please.” You beg again. And this time, you know what you’re begging for, “Fuck me, Bucky. I can take it.”
Bucky slowly leans back; gaze still locked with yours. He takes one hand and presses it to your thigh, lifting it up to spread you wider. You gasp when he somehow slides in deeper. His other hand moves from your hair to your right breast. “Hold on, sweetheart.”
Your hands grip his arm above your chest just as he drawls out, and slams back in.
The pace he sets is punishing. Headboard shakes against the wall, the bed creaking with each thrust of his hips. His heavy balls smack against you and the squelching between your legs is almost as loud as your sobs.
“Oh my god!” His cock drags along spots inside you never even knew where there. The head hits deep, your walls keep quivering, “Please, Bucky – don’t stop – I can – “, you blabber.
Bucky groans, hips snapping fast and harder, “Jesus Christ,” his eyes watch your breast bounce, the softness of your body jiggling with each pound, “Ima keep you tied here. Keep you all to myself and fuck you whenever you want. That sound good, sweet girl, huh?” He tilts his hips, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl.
You nod because there’s no way you’ll say no to that, “Whenever you want.” You’re crying again.
He licks his lips before lowering himself nose to nose with you. His hips not once faltering, “Yeah, sweetheart? Whenever I want?” You just nod. “Good girl, such a good. Fucking. Girl.”
Each word punctuated with a thrust harder than the last. And that’s what sends you over the edge.
You clench down, hard, and come harder than you’ve ever before. You fly off the bed, wrapping your arms around his neck as you sob his name over and over.
Bucky lets out a deep growl, drilling one last deep thrust in before releasing inside and painting your fluttering walls.
It takes a long moment of gasping, twitching, and sharp sobs before either one of you lets the other go. Bucky slowly lowers your legs onto the bed as he pulls out.
Your eyes slip shut, his cum dribbling out, “Bucky – “, you start.
“Im right here, sweets.” A warm hand finds your cheek, “Ill be right back. Don’t worry.”
You lay there, feeling boneless and thoroughly stretched out. In all parts of your body and soul.
A deep feeling washes over you as you hear him down the hall running water. Is this when he calls you an uber to send you home? Is he just going to come back to clean you up and then go take the couch?
Your spiral pauses when he walks back in, “I hope it’s not too hot.” Bucky’s voice washes over you and he’s gently wiping you clean.
You sigh, keeping your eyes closed. Its stupid. Just met like a few hours ago and he fucked you so good now you’re going to compare everyone after him to him. But you don’t want to go. His bed is warm, his hands are gentle and soft, and he smells like comfort and desire.
Bucky must notice. Of course he does.
“You’re staying.”
Two simple words that cause your eyes to open and widen. Had you said those things out loud? Did he fuck the filter right out of you? Is your brain still on the bike?
“I’d like to take you for breakfast. Maybe get your number and see you again, if you’ll have me.” Bucky looks so open and kind and your eyes start to swell.
“I’d like to stay. And breakfast. And you can have my address and social too if you ask nice enough.”
Bucky laughs, wrapping his big arms around you and pulling you to him. A blanket joins his arms, locking in all warmth.
“Rest, my beautiful girl. I’m nowhere near finished with you yet.”
Warnings: this fic contains arranged marriage and suggestions of dubcon and noncon, as well as adultery. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.
18+ only, explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.
You voted, I wrote it. This is June 9th’s fic!
Curtis Everett + “You really thought you could leave me?”
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Callouses graze along your throat as teeth sink into the muscle along your shoulder. You whimper as another hand tickles along your hip and grips tightly. Curtis growls into your hair and snaps his teeth.
You shiver and clasp his wrist as he squeezes your neck. He inhales your scent and nuzzles your ear, teething the tender brim. You close your eyes as your muscles knot.
Fear courses coldly beneath the tide of heat flowing from your core. His hand slips down your pelvis and toys with the curly hair there. You tense even tighter as he inches closer and closer to his need.
His roughened fingers dip between your folds and you gasp past the vice of his other hand. He rubs you, lightly at first, then presses firmly and drags across your clit. You whine and bite down.
“Shhh,” he hushes you as his naked torso grazes your back.
He plays with you, deliberate and determined. He swirls and twirls his fingers, changing his motion each time you make a noise or twitch. Your insides clench over and over as you fight the rising pressure deep inside.
You squeeze his forearm and bite your tongue as you drone. Your body shakes and spasms as your voice flows out of you with the tension, the release trembling in your thighs. You gulp and gasp as your orgasm storms through you.
He doesn’t stop. Not even as you beg. His fingers are so certain, so adept, that it isn’t long before you're cumming again, thighs pressing against his large hand.
His fingers glide back and he delves inside you. One finger, into its limit, then out. A second, down to the knuckles, several thrusts of his hand as you whimper. Then a third, forced past the tight resistance until you wail.
He hushes you again, sniffing the back of your neck, his nose tickling you. He extends his tongue and licks the drop of sweat as it trickles down your nape. You roll your head over his locked hand and let it hang forward.
He slides his fingers out of you and smears the wetness up your cunt and pelvis. He snarls and shifts behind you. He pushes his fingers between your folds again and spreads them. You twitch as he angles you up.
His tip flicks down your cunt and he catches himself in the crooked of two fingers. He guides his dick to your entrance and wiggles, teasing you as he growls. He pushes his tip into you with his fingers as you groan.
He holds himself there, just inside you, as you squirm. He pushes his nose into your hair as he slowly enters you. You tighten around him and writhe. He stills you with a squeeze on your throat and rubs your clit.
You heave and dangle from his embrace as he bottoms out. You squeal as your insides tremble. Your arms fall straight and you clutch at the barren mattress. He rears back, slipping out inch by inch, then thrusts back in with a single sharp thrust.
You wail and slap the sides of his thighs. “Please, ow–”
He shushes you a third time. He picks up his pace with each delve inside of you until he’s in full rut. The friction and impact of your flesh echoes through and around you. You hang weakly as he fucks you without relent.
He falls on you with his full weight as his voice rumbles in his chest. His head hangs down next to yours and a roar breaks free like thunder. His hips pump relentlessly as he shakes the creaky metal frame.
He cums as he smothers his voice in the crook of your neck. You can feel it inside, spilling out around him as he keeps thrusting through his climax. When he finally stops, the world seems to as well. He pants heavily beside your ear as his weight crushes you.
You don’t move. Not even as he slides out of you. He kneels over you and plays with the cum leaking out of you. He pushes it back in with a hum, spreading his fingers wide as he stretches you, then pulls out gruffly.
He shoves off and the bed lurches. His footsteps slap away. You bury your face in the bed as your heartbeat steadies. You wait.
He doesn’t return. Slowly, you roll over. It takes some time to find the strength to sit up. You look down at the gush that spills out between your legs. You quiver.
A hand claps down on your shoulder and pushes you to your back. Curtis is behind you, snarling down as his dick bobs above your head. He bares his teeth.
“You really thought you could leave me?” He grits.
“No, I was–”
“You don’t move unless I move you.” He smacks your cheek lightly. “That’s a warning.”
I love you, crowsfeet; I love you, gray hairs; I love you, sun spots; I love you, smile lines; I love you, crinkle between my eyebrows; I love you, crooked smile; I love you, visible signs of a life lived
summary. congressman barnes comes home to you with another woman’s perfume still clung to him. but what can you say? he’s not yours.
word count. 5.4k
warnings. fwb to lovers, smut, 18+, MDNI, oral (f receiving), unprotected pnv, feelings, lowk insecure reader, no use of y/n.
notes. the ending might be a little rushed, bc i just didn’t know how to end it sorry 😭 i nearly died twice posting this shit. i hate tumblr
read it on ao3 !
it's been three months. three months since this arrangement started. three months since you housesat for your parents and met their ridiculously hot neighbour. three months since congressman barnes has been making you cum.
it doesn't at all help that he's not like other men. he makes you cum at least three times by the time he even thinks about himself. he never makes you feel like a hookup, even though it technically is.
friends with benefits is the term. which does not fit you and him, especially him, because all he does is look at you like he isn't your friend. you're scared one of these days you're gonna blurt out that you love him. his eyes has that effect. that insanely sincere look of his works like a truth serum sometimes.
glancing at the clock, you realise he's late. later than what he'd promised. but you should'nt let promises get to your head. those mean nothing when you're not exclusive.
the doorbell rings, bringing you out of your haze and into the reality. the reality in which your congressman boyf—
oh fucking shut up.
your heart picks up a little as you walk over, that familiar mix of excitement and something heavier, like nerves you can't quite shake. when you open the door, his suit looks looks a little wrinkled from the flight, tie already pulled loose around his neck like he couldn't stand it one more minute.
his eyes light up when he sees you, that tired smile breaking through, the one that always makes him look less like some polished dc guy and more like bucky, the neighbour who stumbled into your life with a grin and a bad joke about borrowing sugar.
"hey, sorry about the wait," he steps inside as you move back to let him in, his voice carrying that rough edge from a long day.
leaning down, he places a quick but warm kiss to your cheek making your stomach flip. how gentlemanly of him to kiss your cheek. but soon as that thought forms, the smell hits you. it's not his usual clean, woodsy cologne that you've come to associate with tangled sheets and lazy mornings, but something else entirely.
floral, thick, almost too sweet, like cheap lilies or whatever they spray in those duty-free shops, but it's strong, clinging to his collar and the fabric of his shirt. it has to be from a woman, rubbed off from a hug or something closer, and the realization sinks in your gut like a stone, making everything feel like hell right from the start.
was it someone at the airport? a colleague pressing too close during a goodbye? or worse, someone he spent time with before heading here, leaving her mark on him without a care. was she beautiful? is she like you? or nothing like you? does he love her?
your mind only knows how to wander when it comes to him. his fault entirely, looking like he's dropped out of a magazine spread.
he doesn't seem to notice anything wrong, or if he does, he pushes through it, dropping his bag by the door with a soft thud and shrugging off his jacket, hanging it up on the hook like he's done it a hundred times before. "traffic was a mess. took forever to clear. you been waiting long?"
you close the door behind him, the click of the lock sounding louder in your ears than it should, and force a smile, trying to keep your voice steady even as that scent lingers in the air between you, making the space feel smaller somehow. "nah, not really. just flipping through tv. how was the trip anyway? anything interesting happen in those meetings?"
he toes off his shoes, lining them up neatly by the door out of habit. he's always been like that, organized in these small ways that make him seem reliable, the kind of guy who remembers birthdays and follows through on promises, even if this whole thing between you is built on not making too many of those.
"same as always. a lot of talking, not much getting done. had this one senator going on about budget cuts like it's the end of the world, but you know how it is." at the end of the sentence, he turns to you and pulls you closer by the waist, his hands warm through your shirt, thumbs rubbing small circles like he's trying to ease out whatever tension he senses.
the perfume is stronger up close, wrapping around you both, and it twists something inside, this unwelcome reminder that he's got a whole life out there, full of people who get pieces of him you don't. but his touch is familiar, grounding in a way that almost makes you forget, almost.
"missed you though," he adds, voice dropping a little lower, leaning in to kiss you properly this time, lips soft against yours at first, then pressing deeper, his tongue slipping in with that easy confidence he has.
you kiss him back, hands coming up to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the fabric, but even as heat starts to build, that damn smell intrudes, making you wonder if his lips tasted like this for someone else earlier today.
he pulls back slightly, breath mingling with yours, and murmurs, "you taste like that herbal tea you always drink. chamomile, is it? it's calming. i could use some of that after today."
you manage a small laugh, even though your mind is racing, picturing him on the plane, maybe chatting with whoever wore that perfume, letting her lean in too close while he smiled that same way. "yeah, well, you're do look like you need to unwind. want a drink? i still have that scotch in the cabinet, the one you brought last time." offering scotch for someone who just asked tea, your tea to be specific. but in your defense, all you can think about right now, is that smell and your brain is not in the right place.
shaking his head, his hands slide under your shirt now, fingers tracing the curve of your back, sending little shivers up your spine despite everything. "maybe later. right now, i just want this… just you."
his mouth finds your neck, kissing along the pulse point there, light at first, then a bit of teeth, just enough to make you tilt your head back. it's the attentive way he does it, like he's mapping out what makes you react, and it always works, pulling you in even when your brain is screaming to ask about the scent, to get it out in the open before it festers. but you don't, not yet at least, because part of you doesn't want to hear the answer, doesn't want to shatter whatever this is with reality.
as he guides you toward the bedroom, you feel the weight of the day on him. there's the slight slump in his shoulders, the way he rolls his neck like it's stiff from sitting in meetings or on that plane.
he's not the type to complain much, but you see it in the small things, like how he sighs when he finally sits on the edge of the bed, pulling you to stand between his legs. "help me with this shirt? buttons are being a pain," he says, fingers already fumbling with the top one, but he looks up at you with that boyish grin, making him seem much younger than he is.
you step closer, hands taking over, undoing the buttons slowly, feeling the warmth of his skin as the shirt opens up, revealing the undershirt beneath, damp a little from sweat or the humidity outside.
that perfume hits you again, stronger here, probably soaked into the collar from whatever contact it was, and it makes your fingers pause for a second, mind flashing to images of him hugging someone goodbye at the airport, her arms around his neck, laughing at some inside joke.
is she someone from work, all professional on the surface but lingering touches when no one's looking? or just a random encounter, the kind he brushes off but you can't? the jealousy bubbles up, because this was supposed to be easy, no strings, but three months in and it's not, not when he looks at you like you're the only thing that matters after a crappy week.
he notices the pause — because he's good at reading people, comes with the job you think —and his hands come up to cover yours, stopping you. "okay, spill it. you've been quiet since i walked in. did i do something? or is it work stuff?"
his voice is gentle and concerned, not pushy, and it makes it harder to brush off, because that's just him. the one that's always checking in, making sure things are okay, even when he's the one who's exhausted. you shake your head, finishing the last button and pushing the shirt off his shoulders, trying to distract with touch. "no, it's... nothing big. just one of those days, you know? overthinking crap."
he lets the shirt fall to the floor, pulling you onto his lap now, your knees straddling his thighs, and his hands settle on your hips, squeezing lightly.
"overthinking what? come on, talk to me, sweetie. i'm not great at guessing games after twelve hours of travel." there's a hint of humor in his tone, but his eyes are serious, searching yours, and it pulls at you, this way he cares without making it a big deal.
but the words stick in your throat, because saying it out loud— you smell like another woman —sounds petty, like you're making this into something it's not supposed to be. instead, you lean in, kissing him harder, hands in his hair, tugging a little to angle his head back. he responds immediately, groaning softly into your mouth, his grip tightening on your hips as he pulls you closer, the hardness in his pants pressing against you through the fabric.
it's distracting, the way his body reacts to you, like it's automatic, and for a moment the scent fades into the background, overpowered by the taste of him, the salt of his skin when you kiss down his jaw.
"alright, if that's how we're playing it," he mutters, flipping you onto your back on the bed with surprising ease, hovering over you now, elbows bracketing your head.
he kisses you again, slower this time, tongue exploring like he's relearning you, and his hand slides up your shirt, palm flat against your stomach, inching higher. when he reaches your bra, he pauses, fingers tracing the edge, and looks down at you. "off? or you want to keep it slow?"
"slow's fine," you say, but your body betrays you, arching up into his touch, wanting more despite the mess in your head. he pushes your shirt up and over your head without another word, and unhooks the bra with one hand, tossing it aside. his eyes drop to your chest, and he just stares for a second, like he's appreciating, before leaning down to kiss between your breasts, a warm and wet kiss at the center of your chest.
the first touch of his lips there makes you sigh, tension easing a bit as he moves to one nipple, tongue flicking out to circle it slowly, making it harden under the attention. he sucks gently at first, then harder, pulling it into his mouth with a rhythm that has you shifting beneath him, the sensation shooting straight down between your legs.
his hand cups the other breast, thumb rubbing over the nipple in time with his mouth, pinching just enough to draw a gasp from you. the slight scrape of his stubble against your skinmakes it tingle as his mouth latches onto the other nipple now, giving it the same treatment.
and god, does it feel good, the way he focuses, like nothing else exists, but even as pleasure builds, that perfume scent drifts up again when he nuzzles closer, reminding you he's fresh off a plane, carrying traces of whatever world he left behind. it stings more than it should. he's not yours, not really, but the way he murmurs against your skin, "mm, you always respond like this… gets me every time," makes it feel like he is, at least in these moments.
you thread your fingers through his hair, holding him there, and he groans, the vibration traveling through you, making your core clench. "harder?" he asks, voice muffled, lifting his head just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded with want but still checking in, always that caring streak showing through.
"yeah— um, a little," you breathe, and he dives back in, teeth grazing the nipple lightly before sucking firmly, his hand kneading the other breast, fingers rolling the peak between them until it's almost too much, bordering on ache but the good kind. your back arches, pressing closer, and he takes the cue, mouth working relentlessly, alternating pressure and gentleness in a way that's so him, thoughtful and tuned in to every small sound you make.
but as the heat pools lower, making you wet and restless, the doubt creeps back in waves, mixing with the pleasure until it's all tangled. what if this attention is just his style, the politician charm applied to bedroom skills, making every woman feel special? the perfume makes it real, a tangible proof that his life doesn't stop at your door, and it hurts, this growing attachment you didn't plan on, turning casual into something that keeps you up at night wondering.
he must feel you tense or something, because he pulls back, kissing the valley between your breasts softly before looking up. "you went somewhere just now. in your head. want to stop?"
no, absolutely not. because stopping would mean facing it, and you're not ready, not when his weight on you feels like the only thing holding the pieces together. "don't stop. please. just... keep going."
he searches your face for a beat, then nods, kissing down your stomach now, hands hooking into your pants, tugging them down along with your underwear in one slow motion. you lift your hips to help, and he slides them off, eyes raking over you as he settles between your leg. his shoulders are broad and strong, pushing your thighs apart gently. his fingers trace the inside of your thigh first, light touches that make you shiver, then higher, parting you open with care, like he's taking his time to look.
"damn," he whispers, more to himself, thumb brushing over your folds, feeling how wet you are already, and it draws a low groan from him. "all this from a little kissing? or have you been thinking about this too?"
you have, haven't you? because all you ever think about lately is him. the question hangs there, and you nod, because yeah, you have, even with the doubts. you have been picturing him like this during the week he's gone, the way he touches you like no one else has. he smiles at that, leaning in, breath hot against you before his tongue flicks out, tasting you in a long, slow lick that has your hips bucking up involuntarily.
he holds you down with one hand on your hip, and does it again, tongue flat and broad, lapping up from entrance to clit in a way that's thorough and entirely unhurried. the wetness spreads, his saliva mixing with you, making everything slick. "taste so fucking good," he mutters, pausing to kiss your inner thigh, then back to it, tongue circling your clit now, slow circles that build pressure without rushing.
his eyes flick up to watch your face, adjusting when you moan louder, learning what works every time. his tongue dips lower, pushing inside you a bit, fucking shallowly before pulling back to suck on your clit gently, lips closing around it. there are lewd sounds filling the room, wet smacks and his breaths coming faster, like he's getting off on this as much as you are.
oh, he is. you can tell by the way he grinds subtly against the mattress, seeking some relief, but he doesn't push for more, focused on you, fingers joining now, one slipping in easy, curling up to hit that spot inside that makes your toes curl. "right there?" he pulls off just enough to speak, lips shiny with you.
"yes— oh god, keep doing that," your voice breaks a little. he adds a second finger, pumping steady while his tongue flicks faster on your clit. the stretch is perfect, filling you just right, and he twists his wrist slightly, finding angles that make stars burst behind your eyelids.
pleasure coils tight, but so does the emotion, the way he's so giving, so intent on making you feel good, clashing with the fear that this intimacy is one-sided, that the perfume means he's got this with others too. oh, shut up, shut up, shut up.
his fingers slow but doesn't stop. "breathe for me, baby. you're tensing up. too much?"
"no, it's good, i promise," you whisper, hand reaching down to tangle in his hair, urging him back, because if he stops, the thoughts will take over completely. he hesitates but goes back in, mouth more insistent now, sucking your clit while his fingers thrust deeper, curling harder, the rhythm building you up relentlessly.
that’s when it hits you, the orgasm crashing through, your body clenching around his fingers, thighs shaking as waves roll over you. and he works you through it, tongue gentle but persistent, drawing out every last shudder until you're gasping at how oversensitive you are.
he pulls back slowly, kissing your thigh again, fingers slipping out with a wet sound, and he licks them clean right there, eyes on yours, like it's the most natural thing.
"that was... intense," he says, crawling up to lie beside you, arm draping over your waist, pulling you close. his hardness presses against your hip, but he doesn't push, just holds you as your breathing evens out. the perfume is faint now, mixed with sweat and you, but it's still there, a reminder that lingers even in the afterglow.
you turn into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling his skin, and he rubs your back slowly. "okay, now that you're a little more relaxed, what's really going on? and don't say nothing, because i know you better than that by now."
the words hang between you both, and you feel the weight of them, the moment where you could let it out. but it's scary to let it out. what if he says that this is nothing but a convenience? what if you are just another warm body to him?
so you kiss him, in hopes of buying time or that he lets this go. you taste yourself on his lips, something primal stirring low in your guy as he kisses you back with the same vigor. but to your disappointment, he pulls away after a minute. "nice try. but we're talking. come on."
fuck this attentive guy. there's no way you can postpone this conversation. it's now. if his answer to you is 'no' this might be the last time you ever have him. your brain begs you to commit this moment to memory.
the way he looks at you, with something soft in his eyes, a look you've neveer seen him give the others. the stubble that grazes your skin everytime, and how he doesn't shave fully because of your one off handed comment about liking the scrape of it. oh god, this might be the last time. the last fucking time.
but he's looking at you expecting you to say something, so you will yourself to speak. "it's stupid," you finally say. "you... smell like perfume. not yours. like a woman's." you can't help but let a self depracating laugh out because since when is your voice this small?
at first, he just blinks like he doesn't get it, making you wonder if something like this bothering you has not ever crossed his mind. then, he laughs a little, is he mocking you? rubbing his neck though, he looks genuinely surprised and you cannot blame him, you did just sprung this whole thing on him right as he's off from a flight.
"oh, that? yeah, theere was this lady next to me on the plane. she was chatty as hell, kept leaning over to show me pictures of her grandkids on her phone, and i guess her perfume transferred? it was kinda annoying, honestly. i couldn't wait to get off that flight."
that's it? were you beating yourself up over some grandma? this is a little embarrassing now, even for you. but the relief floods in, even though it's mixed with embarrassment for jumping to conclusions, and deeper, the realization that even if it's nothing, the jealousy means you're in too deep. he sees it on your face and pulls you closer. "hey, you thought... what, i was with someone else?"
"maybe. i don't know. it's not like we have rules or anything," you mumble, but he shakes his head.
"we don't, but i'd tell you if there was. this— us—it's good, right? i don't want to mess it up." his voice is sincere, thumb stroking your cheek, and it eases something inside, making you believe him.
but he's not done. kissing your forehead, "now, you good? because i could go for making you cum again, if you're up for it."
relief settles over you making everything feel a bit lighter, even if there's still that undercurrent of vulnerability from spilling your guts like that. he's watching you with that soft intensity, the kind that makes your chest tighten because it's so him. patient, waiting for you to catch up, never rushing even when his body's clearly screaming for attention, the hard line of him still pressing against your thigh like a promise.
"yeah, i'm good," you murmur, voice a little steadier now, and you reach up to trace his jaw, feeling the rough prickle of stubble under your fingers, the one he keeps just for you.
you realise how these little things add up, turning what should be casual into something that feels dangerously real, and part of you wonders if he's noticed too, or if it's all in your head.
he grins, the tired edges of it softening into something playful, and shifts his weight, starting to kiss down your chest again, lips brushing over the swell of your breast like he's picking up right where he left off.
"i've been thinking about this all flight, getting you all worked up again, hearing those sounds you make." he nips at your skin lightly, making you squirm as his mouth trails lower, over your ribs, your stomach, hands sliding down to part your thighs once more.
but something shifts in you, a need that's not just about letting him take care of everything like he always does, and you tug at his hair gently, pulling him back up before he can settle in. "wait—bucky, no. i want you. like, now."
he looks up at you with a raised eyebrow, surprise flickering across his face before it melts into a slow smile, the kind that crinkles his eyes and makes him look even more approachable, less like the guy who argues policy on tv and more like the one who texts you dumb memes at midnight.
"yeah? i was just getting started down there." there's a tease in his tone, but he moves up anyway, body aligning with yours, the heat of him pressing down in a way that makes your breath catch. his hands brace on either side of your head, and he leans in to kiss you, tongue tangling with yours like he's savoring the shift, the way you're taking the lead for once.
you nod against his lips, hands already fumbling with his belt, the metal buckle cool under your fingers as you work it open with a soft clink. "positive. been thinking about this too… you inside me, all of it." your words come out a little breathless, and he chuckles softly, helping you shove his slacks down his hips, kicking them off with a bit of awkward maneuvering that has you both laughing quietly, the sound breaking the tension in the room.
you hook your fingers into his boxers next, feeling the damp spot where precum has soaked through, sticky against your knuckles, sending a thrill through you, knowing you're the reason for that, even after everything.
he lets you slide them down, and when his cock springs free, it's flushed a deep red, veins standing out along the length, the tip glistening with precum that beads up. he's thick, always has been, curving just slightly in a way that hits all the right spots inside you, and seeing him like this, hard and ready because of you, makes that familiar ache build again, wiping out the last remnants of doubt. his eyes are on your face, watching your reaction as you wrap your hand around him loosely, stroking once, feeling the heat and the way he twitches in your grip.
"been hard since i walked in the door," he admits with a laugh, leaning down to kiss your shoulder, his breath hot against your skin. "that jealous look you had? kinda adorable, you know. never seen you like that before. makes me feel... i don't know, wanted in a way that's more than just this." his words catch you off guard, slipping in casual like he's commenting on the weather, but there's a sincerity underneath that warms you from the inside out, making the jealousy seem silly now, even if it stung like hell earlier. adorable? really? but coming from him, it doesn't feel patronizing; it feels like he's letting you in on something, showing a crack in that composed exterior he wears for the world.
you stroke him a few more times, thumb circling the tip to spread the precum, and he hisses softly, hips pushing into your hand. "keep that up and this'll be over too quick," he warns, but he also doesn't pull away. he just watches you with that intense gaze, like he's memorizing the way your fingers look around him.
then he takes over, wrapping his hand over yours to guide it away, positioning himself between your legs, the head of his cock brushing against your folds, slick from before and still sensitive. he strokes himself there slowly, up and down, coating himself in your wetness, the sound wet and obscene in the quiet room, each pass teasing your clit just enough to make you whine.
"bucky—come on," you breathe, hips lifting to meet him, and he smirks a little, though it's soft and affectionate, like he loves seeing you needy like this. "patience, sweetheart. want to feel every bit of you taking me."
he pushes in, slow at first, the thick head stretching you open inch by inch, and he watches the whole time, eyes locked where you're joined, breath coming out in a shaky exhale like he's holding back. it's overwhelming, the fullness, the way he fills you completely. you can see the awe on his face, the way his lips part slightly, "fuck, look at that… how you just... swallow me up. so perfect."
heat rushes to your cheeks at his words, the raw honesty in them making you shy even as pleasure spirals through you, because he's not just saying it to just say it; he's marveling, like every time is the first, and it makes you clench around him involuntarily, drawing a groan from deep in his chest.
"do that again and i'm done for," he laughs breathlessly, bottoming out finally, hips flush against yours. he stays there a moment, grinding slowly, letting you adjust. his hands come up to your breasts then, kneading them gently, palms warm and callused. the same hands that are shaking hands, signing papers, but right now they're all yours, thumbs rolling over your nipples, pinching lightly to make you arch.
"you know, that jealousy thing," he says between kisses he trails up your neck, voice muffled against your skin as he starts to move, slow thrusts that drag out every sensation, "it's cute. you care more than you're letting on. honestly? turns me on a little, knowing i'm not the only one feeling this way." his hips snap a bit harder like he's punctuating the words, and you gasp, nails digging into his back, feeling the muscles shift under your fingers. part of you wants to roll your eyes at him calling you cute, but the way he says it, makes it different, like he's admitting something too, peeling back layers in the middle of all this heat.
does that mean he's thought about this too? whatever this is between you two? or is he saying this because he's currently pussy drunk?
he picks up pace gradually, thrusts deepeach one hitting that spot inside that makes your vision blur, as his hands stay on your breasts, squeezing and teasing, like he can't get enough.
sweat beads on his forehead, dripping down, as he leans down to capture your mouth in a messy kiss, all teeth and tongue, breaking only to mutter, "feel so good around me… always do. like you were made for this." the words send a shiver through you, because god, what if it's true? what if this pull between you isn't just physical, but something more, and the fear of losing it earlier makes every touch feel amplified, desperate almost.
he buries his face in your neck, biting down gently as his rhythm falters, getting erratic. "close—fuck, i'm close," he groans, and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him deeper, whispering, "inside, please—want to feel you."
that is what brings him to finish, thrusting hard, he stills, cumming with a low moan, warmth flooding you as he pulses inside, staying buried deep even as he softens. he just holds you there like he doesn't want to let go, like pulling out is an option he hadn't yet considered.
when he collapses, the weight of him presses you into the mattress in a comforting way. after a minute, he lifts his head to kiss you softly, lips lingering on yours.
"hey," he whispers, "need to tell you something." your heart stutters at that, mind immediately jumping to the worst. he's going to say that all the stuff he said during sex was just that, meant to be said during sex however intimate it might have been. maybe this is where he says it's too much, that the jealousy spooked him, or that congress calls and this has to end. panic flares quickly, making your throat tight, because what if admitting your feelings ruined it all? you've ruined it all. that's it. this was a pity fuck, wasn't it?
but he cups your face, thumb brushing away a stray hair, and shakes his head like he can read your mind. "no, nothing bad— jesus, your face. don't do that. don't go there. listen, i've been in love with you. for a while now. like, stupidly long. i was just scared to say it, didn't want to mess up what we have, but after tonight... yeah, no more worrying about perfumes or whatever. i want to be yours, if you'll have me. all in." his eyes search yours, vulnerable in a way you've never seen him be.
it hits you like a wave, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes because it's everything you didn't dare hope for. this utterly amazing man being in love with you just as much you are in love with him, even if you're scared to admit that to yourself.
nothing comes to your lips, so you press them against his, hoping he'd understand. the kiss is soft and salty with the unshed tears. finally gathering the energy to whisper against his lips, "i love you too… have been in love with you for ages." he smiles into the kiss, pulling you closer, like this is just the start.
Summary: After a pediatric patient panics during an IV start, you end up in the ED with a dislocated shoulder, a lot of pain meds, and absolutely no filter. The day shift learns three things very quickly: Jack Abbot is your husband, you picked that one, and apparently, his forearms are medically relevant.
Warnings: established relationship, married Jack and reader, injury, shoulder dislocation, medical procedure/reduction, pain medication/loopy reader, swearing, suggestive humor, sexual jokes, Jack being hot as a clinical intervention, Robby being Robby, fluff, crack treated seriously, hospital setting, peds nurse reader, very unserious wedding lore
Author’s Note: This is very much the sister fic in spirit to Where Is My Husband? Same deeply married chaos, same loopy wife energy, same Jack Abbot being forced to endure public affection against his will. Except this time, Robby discovers that “sexy doctor husband” is not just a title — it is, unfortunately for Jack, a clinically useful intervention. This one is ridiculous, soft, unhinged, and honestly exactly the kind of nonsense I love putting these two through. Jack is trying so hard to be a serious, worried husband; Robby is having the best shift of his life; Dana is quietly enabling chaos under the guise of professionalism; and Reader is simply telling the truth. Loudly. On medication.
You’re welcome.
Xoxo, Del
The first rule of pediatrics was that fear moved faster than pain. You had learned that early.
Pain made kids cry. Fear made them bolt.
Eli Mereiter had been trying very hard not to do either for almost twenty minutes.
He sat in the center of the peds exam bed with his knees tucked under the thin blanket, his left wrist cradled against his chest, his cheeks blotchy from the effort of pretending he was fine. His mother stood near the head of the bed, one hand on his shoulder and the other twisting the strap of her purse so tightly her knuckles had gone white.
“You’re doing great,” you told him.
Eli looked at the IV tray and swallowed. “No, I’m not.”
You crouched beside the bed so you were closer to eye level.
“You are. Great doesn’t mean you aren’t scared. It means you’re still here with me even though you are.”
His eyes flicked to yours.
The honesty helped. It usually did. Kids could smell a lie faster than adults could dress one up.
“It’s gonna hurt,” he said.
You nodded.
“It’s going to pinch. I won’t call it nothing.” You rested one hand on the mattress, close but not touching him without warning. “But it’ll be fast, and you don’t have to watch.”
His mouth trembled once before he pressed it flat. “I don’t want it.”
“I know.” You gave him a serious nod. “That’s fair. We can hate it together.”
Eli looked at you like that was suspicious. “You hate it?”
“I hate it when kids have to do scary things,” you said. “But I like when they get through them and realize they were braver than they thought.”
His mom made a quiet sound behind him.
You glanced up at her and gave a small, reassuring smile before looking back at Eli.
“How about this,” you said. “You pick where you look. Mom’s face, the ceiling tile that kind of looks like a potato, or me.”
Eli’s brows pinched together. “The ceiling tile doesn’t look like a potato.”
You looked up. “It absolutely does.”
He glanced up despite himself. For one second, his attention shifted. Not enough to make him calm, but enough to give him somewhere else to put the fear.
“That one?” he asked.
You nodded. “Very potato.” His mom gave a wet little laugh.
The nurse beside you finished prepping the IV with practiced quiet. You saw Eli clock the movement anyway. His eyes cut to the tourniquet. Then the alcohol wipe. Then the catheter.
His breathing changed. You leaned in slightly. “Eli. Look at me.” His gaze snapped back to yours.
You kept your voice low and even. “Can you breathe in with me?”
He tried. His breath caught halfway.
“That’s okay,” you said. “Again. Smaller this time.”
The nurse reached for his arm. Eli saw the flash of the needle. Fear got there first.
“No,” he said.
His mother tightened her hand on his shoulder. “Eli—”
“No!” He jerked backward, fast and hard, trying to get away from the tray, from the nurse, from the whole room.
“Hey, hey.” You moved with him. “You’re okay.”
But he was already twisting. His sneaker slid against the paper sheet. His hip caught the edge of the mattress. The bed rail was down on your side because you had been sitting there with him, and his small body tipped toward the open space between the bed and the floor.
You moved before thought could catch up.
Your hand caught the back of his gown. Your other arm shot across his chest, bracing him before he could fall.
For half a second, you had him. Then his weight hit your shoulder wrong. Something shifted. Not cracked. Not snapped.
Slipped.
White-hot pain tore through your shoulder and down your arm so violently that the room went gray at the edges. You made a sound you did not recognize.
Someone grabbed Eli from the other side.
“I’ve got him,” the other nurse said. “I’ve got him.”
Good, you thought. That was good.
You went down hard on one knee, your right arm hanging wrong, breath gone from your chest.
Eli was crying now. Not the scared kind. The guilty kind.
“I hurt her,” he sobbed.
You tried to lift your head. Bad idea. Pain slammed up the side of your neck and behind your teeth.
“No,” you forced out. Your voice sounded thin. Far away. “No, honey. You didn’t.”
A hand touched your back. “Don’t move,” someone said.
You tried to breathe through your nose. “Is he okay?”
“He’s okay,” she repeated, firmer this time. “We have him.”
Eli’s mother had him against her now, both arms wrapped around his shaking body. His face was turned toward you, wet and horrified.
You managed to focus on him. “Eli.”
His crying hitched. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.” You swallowed down nausea. “I know you didn’t. You got scared. That’s different.”
His face crumpled harder. You looked at his mom. “Tell him I’m not mad.”
“We will,” she said quickly.
You closed your eyes for half a second. “Please tell him.”
“We will,” the nurse said beside you. “But right now, we need to get you downstairs.”
You opened your eyes. “No, he needs—”
“He has his mom,” she said gently. “And he has Megan. We’ve got him.”
You wanted to argue. Your shoulder pulsed once, deep and sickening, and the rest of the sentence disappeared. Someone called down to the ED before they moved you. You heard pieces of it through the pain and the blood rushing in your ears.
“Staff injury coming down from peds.”
“Likely right shoulder dislocation.”
“Caught a pediatric patient who panicked during IV prep.”
“Vitals stable.”
“Severe pain.”
Nobody said your name. Or maybe they did, and it got swallowed somewhere between the exam room and the elevator. Either way, by the time they got you into a wheelchair, your scrubs were damp at the collar, your vision kept narrowing at the corners, and your arm had become a separate, terrible country you refused to look at.
You hated being the patient.
You hated it so much you almost missed the part where you were terrified. Almost.
The elevator ride downstairs felt both too fast and too slow. Someone kept telling you to breathe. Someone else kept asking your pain number. You gave a number that was probably too low because saying the real one made it feel more real.
The ED doors opened.
The familiar noise hit first. Monitors. Shoes. Voices. The distant roll of a cart.
Robby was already at the mouth of a bay when they wheeled you in, tablet in hand, chief-of-the-ER face on. Dana stood beside him with gloves already pulled on, calm and unsmiling in the way that meant she had already cleared the room in her head. Santos hovered just behind her like she could smell a procedure from three bays away. Princess was at the computer, and Javadi stood near the supply cart, trying very hard to look like someone who was not internally rehearsing every step of a shoulder reduction.
“Peds called down,” Robby said. “Likely right shoulder disloca—”
Then he saw your face. The chief of the ER expression dropped clean off.
For one second, he was not chief of anything. He was just your friend. “What the fuck, dude?”
You tried to glare at him. “Great bedside manner.”
Robby was already moving. He came to your side, one hand bracing the wheelchair arm, his eyes sweeping over your face.
“Look at me,” he said. “You with me?”
You blinked at him through the pain. “No, Robby, I thought I’d dissociate recreationally.”
His jaw tightened. “Answer me like less of a pain in my ass.”
You sighed. “I’m with you.”
“Good.” He glanced at the peds nurse behind your chair. “They called down a peds nurse. They did not say it was you.”
“Would that have changed your medical plan?” you asked.
“No.” His eyes flicked to your shoulder, and the doctor came back into him all at once. “It would have given me thirty more seconds to emotionally prepare for both my friend being injured and Jack killing me.”
“Jack is not going to kill you,” you replied.
Dana made a quiet sound. Robby pointed at her without looking. “Do not contribute.”
Dana lifted both gloved hands. “I said nothing.”
“You thought loudly.”
Santos leaned slightly to see your arm better. “Is it anterior?”
You swallowed through the pain. “Is Eli okay?”
Robby’s attention snapped back to you. Then he looked to the peds nurse. “Eli is the kid?”
The peds nurse nodded quickly. “Eight-year-old. Wrist injury. He’s okay. Megan stayed with him and his mom.”
Your eyes closed. “Did someone tell him I’m not mad?”
Robby went still for half a beat. His expression changed again. Softer this time. Worried in a way he could not hide behind sarcasm fast enough.
“Yeah,” he said. “They told him.”
“He won’t believe them,” you murmured.
Robby looked at you. “He might.”
“He’s eight.” Your voice thinned around the pain. “Eight-year-olds think everything is their fault.”
Robby looked at you for one second too long. Then he nodded once, like he was putting that away for later. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to get you on the bed. Slow. Dana, support the arm. Javadi, do not look terrified.”
Javadi straightened. “I’m not terrified.” Robby looked at her.
You hated the careful hands and the count of three and the way pain still broke through your teeth when they moved you.
You hated that Robby’s face stayed calm. That meant it looked bad.
Once you were on the bed, Dana slid a pillow under your arm with the clean precision of a woman who did not waste motion. Princess clipped a monitor to your finger. Javadi asked about allergies, her voice only a little too bright. Santos hovered at the foot of the bed, watching your shoulder with open interest until Dana glanced at her.
Santos lifted her hands. “I’m not touching anything.”
“Correct,” Dana said.
Robby looked up from your shoulder. “Pain number.” You hesitated.
He gave you a look. “Do not make me ask like I don’t know you.” You told the truth.
Robby’s mouth tightened. “Thank you for not lying to me twice.”
“I lied once,” you admitted.
Robby shook his head. “You lied badly once.” Your breathing hitched. “Did someone tell Eli?”
The peds nurse, still lingering near the curtain, nodded. “Megan did. His mom did too.”
“But did he believe them?” you pushed.
Robby braced one hand lightly on the bed rail. “Do not try to sit up.”
You looked at him. “I wasn’t.”
“You thought about it,” Robby replied.
Your eyes narrowed. “You can’t prove that.”
“I’m chief of emergency medicine,” he said. “I can prove anything if I chart creatively.”
A laugh tried to escape you. It did not make it past the pain. Robby saw that too. His voice shifted.
“IV, x-ray, then pain meds before we reduce it,” he said. “Let’s get films and make sure we know exactly what we’re dealing with.”
“Love being discussed like a broken chair,” you muttered.
Robby leaned over you, penlight in hand. “I have never met a chair this mouthy.”
Princess found a vein in your good arm. You looked away while she taped the line down. That felt ridiculous, considering you had started hundreds of IVs yourself, but today your body had decided to be dramatic, and you were not giving it more material.
Robby watched your face. “You okay?”
“No,” you answered honestly.
Robby almost smiled. “Good answer.”
Princess glanced up from your IV. “Do you want us to call someone?”
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Robby’s eyes narrowed like he already knew where this was going.
Princess kept her hands near the computer. “Who should we call?”
“Jack Abbot.”
The room did not stop. Not yet. Princess typed, then paused.
Her eyes moved from the screen to you. “Dr. Abbot?”
You breathed through your teeth. “Yes.”
The room went a little too quiet. You opened one eye. “What?”
Santos looked from you to Robby. “Night-shift Abbot?”
“How many Jack Abbots do you know?” you asked.
Javadi made the mistake of whispering, “Dr. Abbot is her emergency contact?”
“He’s my husband,” you said, like that explained the entire universe.
It did, actually. Just not to the room. Santos stared.
Javadi looked like someone had changed the laws of physics in front of her.
Princess’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. Dana, somehow, did not move at all.
Then her eyes narrowed. “The sandwich.” You closed your eyes. “Dana.”
Santos looked at her. “What sandwich?”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “Shift change. Three weeks ago. Abbot was coming off nights. She was passing the desk with a stack of peds charts.”
Princess leaned around Javadi. “I remember that.”
“He had half a sandwich in his hand,” Dana said. “Tore the crust off without breaking conversation, held it up, and she took it on the way by.”
You breathed carefully through your teeth. “I was hungry.”
“You said thanks,” Dana added.
Santos blinked. “That’s it?” Dana finally looked up.
“That’s the point.” A beat passed.
Then Princess pointed toward you. “Wait. The parking lot.”
You opened one eye. “Please don’t.”
“I saw you two by the employee parking last month,” Princess said. “He switched sides with you near the cars.”
Javadi blinked. “Switched sides?” Princess looked at her like this was obvious. “The sidewalk rule.”
Javadi’s brows pulled together. “The what?”
“When the guy walks closer to the street,” Princess said. “Protective thing. Old-school. Very romantic if he’s hot.”
Santos made a face. “That sounds fake.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord. “It’s not fake.”
Princess pointed at Dana. “Thank you.”
You stared at the ceiling. “Can we not analyze my husband’s walking patterns while my shoulder is in another fucking zip code?”
“And he had your bag,” Princess added.
“It was heavy,” you said.
She looked at you. “It had little strawberries on it.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Jack carried a strawberry bag?”
You gave him the best glare you could manage while lying flat with your arm attempting secession. “You are supposed to be my doctor.”
Santos’s face changed. “Oh, my god. The fire alarm drill.”
“No,” you said.
“You had his jacket,” she said.
“It was cold.”
“No.” Santos pointed, too delighted to stop herself. “He put it around your shoulders before you asked.”
Dana’s gaze sharpened with recognition.
Santos nodded hard. “And took your clipboard so you could get your arms through the sleeves.”
Princess looked at Robby. “You knew?”
Robby held up one hand. “I was at the wedding.”
The room shifted again. Javadi whispered, “There was a wedding?”
You stared at the ceiling. “I’m starting to think day shift needs hobbies.”
Robby looked at you, and this time his humor was gentle around the edges. “You married a night-shift attending and then wandered around this hospital accepting crustless sandwich halves like that was normal.”
“It is normal,” you replied.
“For married people,” Dana said.
Santos looked personally offended. “I am usually very good at noticing things.”
You swallowed through another pulse of pain. “Sorry my marriage was inconvenient for your brand.”
Robby pointed at you. “Pain has not made her less mean. Excellent prognostic sign.”
Princess was still looking at you like she had discovered treasure. “So Dr. Abbot is your husband.”
“Yes.”
“And he brings you coffee,” Princess added.
You inhaled. “Yes.”
“And the sandwich,” she continued.
“Yes.”
Princess’s eyebrows rose. “And the parking lot.” You closed your eyes. “I would like drugs now.”
Robby’s smile faded enough for his concern to show again. “Soon,” he said. “We’re moving.”
Then he held out his hand toward Princess. “I’ll call him.”
You looked at him. “You don’t have to.”
“I do, actually,” Robby replied.
“Why?”
Robby’s face softened around the edges, just enough that your chest hurt for reasons that had nothing to do with your shoulder.
“Because he’s going to be worried,” he said. “And if a stranger calls him, he’s going to scare somebody.”
You sighed. “Jack doesn’t scare people.”
“No,” Robby said. “But when he’s worried about you, he gets very concise.”
Dana hummed. “That’s true.”
You closed your eyes. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby shook his head. “I’m not promising that.”
“Robby,” you said, trying to sound reasonable.
He sighed. “I’ll suggest moderation.”
Robby stepped a few feet away from the bed and tapped Jack’s contact. You watched him through the pain, sweat cooling at the back of your neck. He pointed at you without lowering the phone. “Try not to dislocate anything else while I’m gone.” The call rang once. Twice. Three times. On the fourth ring, Jack answered.
His voice came rough with sleep and irritation. “What, Robby?”
Robby glanced back at you. You were pale on the bed, jaw tight, your good hand fisted in the sheet while Dana adjusted the monitor.
“Your wife is in the ED,” Robby said. “She’s fine. I’ve got her.”
The line went silent. Then Jack’s voice came back low and awake. “What happened?”
“Right shoulder dislocation,” Robby said. “Peds incident. She caught a kid before he fell and took the force the wrong way. She’s conscious, stable, and pissed off, which I’m taking as a good sign.”
Another pause. Jack breathed out once, sharply. “Of course she caught the kid.”
“Yeah,” Robby said, softer. “That was my reaction too.”
You lifted your head an inch off the pillow. “Tell him not to speed.”
Robby looked over his shoulder. You stared back, sweaty and serious.
“She says not to speed.”
Jack was already moving. Robby could hear it through the phone: sheets, a drawer, something hitting the floor. “Tell her I’m coming.”
“Jack,” Robby said carefully.
“I heard her,” Jack said sharply.
Robby nodded once. “Good.”
“Thanks, brother. I’m on my way,” Jack replied.
Robby’s mouth softened. “Yeah,” he said.
He ended the call and came back to the side of the bed. “He’s coming.”
You let your head fall back against the pillow. “Good.” The word came out smaller than you meant it to. Robby heard that too. For a second, he was quiet.
Then he nodded to Princess. “Now give her the good stuff before she remembers she’s trying to be reasonable.”
Princess pushed medication into your IV. Warmth moved up your arm a few seconds later, strange and soft. The pain did not vanish, but the edges of the room began to loosen. The lights blurred a little. The monitor beep sounded farther away.
You blinked. “Wow.”
Santos leaned closer. “How’s that?”
You turned your head toward her slowly. “You have two faces.”
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Better?”
You inhaled. “I can still feel my skeleton making bad choices.”
“So, somewhat.” Robby grinned.
You looked toward the curtain. “Did someone tell Eli I’m not mad?”
Robby exhaled. “Yes.”
“I’m not mad,” you repeated.
“I know.”
You blinked hard. “No, but he needs to know.”
“He knows,” Robby replied gently.
You frowned. “You’re just saying that.”
“I am saying many things,” Robby said. “This one happens to be true.”
You tried to sit up. Every person in the room reacted.
Dana touched your good shoulder. “Nope. Stay back.”
“I should tell him,” you told her.
“You should keep your shoulder still,” Robby said.
You frowned at him. “You’re being bossy.” Robby shrugged. “It’s on the mug.”
“Jack has a mug that says World’s Sexiest Doctor,” you replied without thinking. The pain meds were softening things too much now. Words had started wandering into places you had not invited them.
Robby slowly turned his head. “I’m sorry. He has a what?”
You winced. “It was a joke. I got it for him when we were dating.”
Princess looked delighted. “And he kept it?”
You breathed through another pulse of pain. “He drinks out of it every morning.”
Santos stared. “Abbot drinks coffee out of a World’s Sexiest Doctor mug?”
Dana, dry as dust, added, “That explains more than I wanted it to.”
Robby pressed his fingers to his mouth like he was trying to hold in actual joy.
You glared at him. “You’re supposed to be my doctor.”
“I am,” Robby said. “And this is healing me.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. The ED lights drifted above you. Your body felt heavy against the bed, but your mind kept circling the same places. Eli crying. Your shoulder slipping. Jack coming. You blinked slowly. “Did someone tell Eli?”
Dana adjusted the blanket around your legs. “Yes.”
“Did someone tell Jack?” you asked.
Robby’s mouth twitched. “Yes.” You nodded, satisfied for exactly one second.
Then you frowned. “Which one is coming to see me?”
Robby stared at you. “What?”
“Eli or Jack?” you asked.
Princess turned toward the computer with suspicious speed. Santos looked openly delighted. Robby’s expression brightened with pure, terrible affection.
“Oh,” he said softly. “This is going to be a great drug for you.”
You frowned. “Don’t be weird.”
Robby patted the bed rail. “Try not to say anything incriminating before your husband gets here.”
Your eyes closed, but you could still hear the smile in his voice. “Jack already knows everything.”
Robby made a thoughtful sound. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s test that.”
Robby stayed beside the bed after Princess pushed the medication. One hand rested on the rail. His eyes moved from your face to the monitor, then to your shoulder, then back to your face again. He was not joking as much now.
You hated that. “Stop looking worried,” you said.
His mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile. “Stop giving me reasons.”
You blinked at him, the lights blurring softly around the edges. “Rude.”
“Consistent,” Robby said.
Dana adjusted the blanket over your legs, brisk yet careful. “That’s one word for it.”
The medication had made the room strange. Softer, but not kinder. The monitors sounded farther away, and the overhead lights had started to bloom at the edges. Your shoulder still hurts. Not as sharply as before, maybe, but it was there under everything, pulsing and wrong. You tried to shift away from it. Your body disagreed. “Bad,” you muttered.
Robby leaned in a fraction. “Pain?”
You shook your head. “Existence.”
He nodded once. “Fair.”
Dana checked the line of your IV, then glanced at him.
Robby’s eyes returned to yours, and something in his face softened. “Hey,” he said. “World’s Sexiest Doctor.”
You frowned. “What?”
“The mug,” Robby said, voice lighter on purpose. “You said he drinks out of it every morning.”
Your face softened before you could stop it. “He does.” Princess turned from the computer with immediate interest. Santos, who had been pretending not to hover near the foot of the bed, stopped pretending. Dana’s expression did not change, but her eyes flicked toward you.
Robby leaned one forearm against the rail. “Still can’t believe he committed to the bit.”
“It’s not a bit,” you said.
Robby’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”
You looked at him like he was missing the obvious. “It’s true.”
Santos’s mouth curved. Dana looked down at the monitor. Princess pressed her lips together like she was holding something very large behind her teeth. You blinked at the ceiling, dreamy and annoyed all at once. “He is the sexiest doctor.”
Robby drew back like you had slapped him. “Rude.”
You turned your head toward him slowly. “You’re right.”
His expression softened. “Thank you.”
“Ellis is pretty hot, too,” you murmured happily.
Robby froze. Princess made a sound and turned sharply toward the computer. Santos whispered, “Wow.”
Dana closed her eyes. Robby stared at you. “That was not the correction I was requesting.”
You considered him through the pleasant fog around your thoughts. “You have nice hair.”
Robby’s hand went to his chest. “That was devastatingly lukewarm.”
“It is nice.”
“Nice hair,” he repeated, wounded. “That’s what I get after years of friendship.”
“You’re my friend,” you said.
His expression shifted. For one second, the joke left his face. “I know.”
You watched him through the blur. “You’re a good doctor.”
Robby’s hand tightened slightly on the rail. “You’re on excellent medication.”
“I mean it.”
“I know,” he said, quieter.
Dana looked away first. Santos suddenly found the supply tray very interesting. Robby cleared his throat and straightened. “Okay,” he said, his voice returning to a steady tone. “Let’s get ready.”
The words landed wrong. Your smile faded. The room shifted back into medicine too quickly. Gloves. Positioning. Dana adjusting the bed. Santos watching Robby’s hands intently. Javadi standing too still by the supplies, trying to look prepared. Your stomach dropped through the medication. “Wait.” Robby looked back at you. “Yeah?”
Your good hand tightened in the sheet. “You’re doing it now?” His expression softened. “Soon.”
“No.”
Dana’s hand settled lightly near your good shoulder. Not holding you down. Just there.
Robby stepped closer. “I know.”
“No, Robby.” Your voice stayed even, but barely. “I don’t want to do it.”
Robby did not flinch. “I know you don’t.”
“I mean it.”
“I know you mean it.”
You swallowed hard, throat suddenly tight. “I don’t want it to hurt.”
Robby’s face changed again, not much, just enough to show you he hated this part too. “I’m going to be as gentle as I can.”
You frowned. “That’s what people say before they do stuff that sucks.” Santos muttered, “Accurate.”
Dana looked at her. Santos lifted both hands. “I’m validating.”
Robby ignored her and kept his eyes on you. “It is going to suck,” he said. “But the longer it stays out, the worse it’s going to feel. I want to get it back where it belongs.”
Your breathing went shallow. The medication had made everything loose except the fear. That stayed sharp. Clear. Mean. You looked toward the hallway. “Fine.” Robby waited. You glared at him, sweaty and medicated and angry enough to hide behind it. “I’ll do it if Jack is my doctor.”
The room paused. Dana looked at Robby. Princess looked at the hallway. Javadi looked like she had just realized this was not covered in any textbook.
Robby let out a slow breath. “Yeah,” he said carefully. “That’s not how this works.”
You frowned at him. “He’s a doctor.”
“He is.” Dana’s voice stayed calm beside you. “He’s also your husband.”
You looked at her like she had helped your case. “Exactly.” Robby’s mouth twitched despite himself.
Before he could answer, Jack’s voice cut through the department. “Where is she?”
Your head turned. Completely. All the thoughts in your brain scattered like startled birds. Jack was halfway down the hall, moving fast and trying not to look like he was moving fast, a hoodie under his unzipped jacket. His hair was sleep-rough on one side. His jaw was tight, his eyes already searching, already locked on the room. The second he saw you, his pace changed.
Your good hand lifted off the sheet. “That one.”
Robby followed your gaze. For the first time since the reduction tray came out, true humor broke through his worry. “Oh,” he said softly. “Okay.”
Jack stepped into the bay. You pointed at him, certain now. “I want that one.”
Jack froze for half a second. His eyes moved over you. Face. IV. Monitor. Shoulder. Robby. Dana. Back to your face.
Then he was at your side. “Baby.”
The word hit the room like a dropped instrument. Santos stared very hard at the floor. Princess pressed her lips together. Javadi’s eyes went wide, then wider, like she was watching hospital folklore become sentient.
You smiled up at him. “Hi.”
Jack took your good hand, his palm warm and familiar around yours. “Hi.”
His thumb moved once over your knuckles. You exhaled. You felt it happen before you could stop it. Your shoulders did not relax, not really, but your breathing changed. Your grip loosened from the sheet. The sharp edge of panic moved back by an inch.
Robby saw it. His eyes flicked to the monitor, then to Jack’s hand. “Interesting.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
“I’m observing.”
“You observe too loudly.”
Robby’s mouth curved. “I am her physician.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “You are enjoying being her physician too much.”
“I was worried,” Robby said.
The joke thinned for a second. Jack looked up. Robby held his gaze. “Still am.”
Jack’s face shifted.
You squeezed his hand. “Don’t do serious faces.”
Jack looked back down at you. His thumb moved again. “Sorry.”
You studied him, hazy and affectionate. “You came.”
“Of course I came.”
You turned your head toward Dana, solemn and proud. “I picked that one.”
Dana’s mouth twitched. “So I’m hearing.”
Jack closed his eyes. “What did you give her?”
“Pain control,” Robby said. “Not enough to explain all of this.”
You tugged lightly on Jack’s hand. “He’s being rude.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Stop being rude.”
Robby pointed at him. “You weren’t even here.”
“I believe my wife.”
Princess turned toward the computer again, but not fast enough to hide her smile.
Santos murmured, “That was hot.”
Dana said, “Santos.”
“What? It was,” Santos replied with a shrug.
Jack ignored all of them and leaned closer to you. “How bad?”
“Bad.”
His face softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, then regretted it. “Don’t let me do head stuff.”
“I won’t,” Jack promised.
You frowned. “Having a head is bad.”
“I’ll make a note,” Jack said with a soft smile.
Robby stepped closer to your injured side. “Okay,” he said. “We’re going to try Cunningham.”
“No.” Your response was immediate.
Jack’s hand tightened around yours. Robby did not react like the word surprised him. “I know.”
“No, I don’t want Cunningham. It sounds smug,” you told him.
Robby’s brow raised. “It’s a reduction technique, not a man at a country club.”
You frowned at him. “Still smug.”
Jack’s thumb brushed your knuckles. “Look at me.”
You turned your eyes back to him. “No.”
Jack’s eyes softened. “You’re already doing it.”
You glared. “That’s annoying.”
His mouth almost smiled. “I know.”
Robby looked between you and Jack. Then his eyes moved to the monitor again. A thought entered his face.
Jack saw it immediately. “No.”
Robby blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
Dana adjusted the bed so you were sitting up more, angled slightly back against the raised mattress. The movement sent a pain-sparking sensation down your arm. “Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “Fuck, this is worse than my fucking IUD insertion.”
The room went silent. Jack’s thumb stilled against your hand. “Okay,” he said carefully.
You opened your eyes and glared at the ceiling. “I thought I knew pain. I was wrong.”
Dana’s mouth twitched near the monitor. Princess turned very deliberately toward the computer.
Jack leaned closer. “Baby.”
“No.” You turned your glare on him. “This is your fault.”
His brows pulled together. “My fault?”
“Yes.”
Jack blinked once. “How is this my fault?”
“Because,” you said, furious and medicated, “if it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t know this was worse.”
Robby looked up. Jack did not move.
“I was doing fine,” you continued. “I was in my celibate phase. I was at peace.”
Jack’s face changed by exactly one dangerous millimeter. “You were not at peace.”
“I was close.” Your eyes narrowed. “Then you came along with your stupid handsome face and your stupid arms, and then I got the stupid IUD, and I thought that was pain. But no.”
Robby nodded slowly. “That is a clinically fascinating chain of blame.”
Jack did not look away from you. “So your shoulder hurts because I’m handsome.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.” Your face softened immediately.
Jack noticed. His eyes dropped back to yours, something warm cutting through the mortification. “What?”
You blinked up at him, drug-soft and suddenly pleased. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah, baby.”
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Robby looked from you to Dana. Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “What?”
“You’re enjoying this,” Robby said.
“I am maintaining room discipline.”
“You called her Mrs. Abbot.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “That is her name.” Your smile widened.
Jack looked at Dana, then back at you, and his face softened despite himself. Dana glanced at the monitor. “See? Therapeutic.” Robby’s eyes dropped to Jack’s sleeve.
Jack saw it happen. “No.”
Robby smiled. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “You looked at my sleeve.”
“Clinically,” Robby replied.
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
You blinked up at Jack, still angry, still hazy, still betrayed by the entire medical system. “He does have nice forearms.”
Jack stared at the ceiling. Robby nodded toward Jack’s arm. “Roll up your sleeve.”
Jack looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“She’s tensing.”
Jack gave Robby a look. “You want me to roll up my sleeves.”
“I want patient compliance,” Robby corrected.
Jack looked at Dana. Dana glanced at the monitor, then at you. “It would probably help.”
Jack’s face went flat. “Not you too.”
Dana shrugged. “I’m practical.”
Robby looked delighted. “See? Medicine.”
Jack exhaled through his nose, then dragged one sleeve of his hoodie up his forearm. Your eyes followed the movement immediately. You hated yourself a little. Not enough to look away. His forearm flexed as he pushed the fabric past his elbow, tendons shifting under skin, the veins at his wrist standing out when his fingers curled once around the bed rail. Your mouth went soft.
Robby pointed at you. “There.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “Do not point at my wife while she’s objectifying me.”
“I am pointing at a response to treatment,” Robby replied with glee.
You looked at Jack’s arm. “Treatment is good.”
Princess made a strangled sound. Javadi stared straight ahead like a resident determined to survive rounds with her soul intact.
Jack leaned closer to you. “You are making this very difficult.”
You blinked. “Me?”
“You.” His thumb brushed your cheek. “Very stubborn. Very pretty. Extremely bad at being a patient.”
The giggle came before you could stop it. Soft. Helpless. Embarrassing. Jack’s eyes warmed. Robby looked like he had just discovered a new antibiotic. “Oh, that’s excellent.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Ignore him.”
“You think I’m pretty,” you said.
“I married you,” Jack replied.
“That’s not an answer.”
His mouth curved. “Yes, baby. I think you’re pretty.”
You melted. Completely. It was humiliating. It was also his fault. Robby adjusted your injured arm, careful and slow, guiding your hand toward his shoulder. The position made pain spark hot and immediate. “No.” You tried to pull back. “No, fuck this.”
Jack’s face sharpened. Robby’s tone stayed calm. “I need thirty seconds.”
“I don’t want thirty seconds,” you said, frowning.
Robby’s expression softened, “I know.”
“No, I want that one to do it,” you said, looking from Robby to Jack.
Jack leaned closer. “You have that one.”
“I want that one to doctor me.” Your lower lip jutted out.
Robby, far too cheerful, said, “We’ve covered the conflict of interest.”
You frowned at him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked at Robby. “Fix her shoulder.”
Robby looked at Jack’s hoodie. Jack saw it. His whole body went still. “No.”
Robby lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.” Jack stared at him.
Robby smiled. “She responded well to forearm.”
“Forearm is not a drug,” Jack shot back.
Robby shrugged. “It is today.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Fuck me.”
You, who had been blinking hazily at the ceiling, turned your head with alarming speed. “Yes.”
The room stopped. Completely. Jack’s hand froze halfway down his face. “No.”
You frowned, offended. “Rude.”
Princess turned toward the computer with the focus of a woman fighting for her life. Santos stared at the floor, shoulders shaking.
Dana checked the monitor. “Heart rate response noted.”
Jack looked at her. “Dana.”
She did not look up. “I report data.”
Robby pressed his lips together. “For the record, that was the fastest she’s oriented to verbal stimulus since the medication.”
You reached weakly for Jack’s hand. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack looked down at you. Your eyes were glassy from medication and pain, your good hand tight around his, your face still trying so hard to stay mad because scared was too vulnerable, and both of you knew it. His irritation lost some of its shape. “Fine,” he muttered. Robby brightened. Jack glared at him. “Don’t look so happy.”
“I’m a scientist observing results,” Robby replied, delighted.
Jack stood beside the bed and reached back, fingers catching the sweatshirt at the back of his neck. Your eyes locked onto the movement. He pulled it over his head in one smooth drag, the hem catching for half a second on the white T-shirt underneath. The shirt stretched across his chest and shoulders when he lifted his arms. His biceps shifted under the fabric. His forearms flexed as he dragged the sweatshirt free.
The room went very quiet. You stared. Completely gone. Jack paused with the sweatshirt in one hand. Just for a second. Long enough to let you look. His mouth tilted, barely. “Better?”
You nodded slowly. “Wow.”
Robby made a sound that might have been spiritual.
Jack dropped back into the chair beside you and took your hand again. “Eyes on me.”
You obeyed immediately. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Robby looked at the monitor, then at Jack. “That was outstanding.”
Robby grinned. “You removed clothing, and her heart rate stabilized.”
“That is not what happened,” Jack replied with a sigh.
Dana glanced at the monitor. “It sort of is.” J
ack looked betrayed. “Dana.”
She shrugged. “I report data.”
Robby gestured toward you, far too pleased with the entire clinical situation. “Magic Mike: ED Edition.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “No.”
Robby’s grin spread slowly. “I don’t know, brother. You danced at your wedding. Pretty risky, if memory serves.”
Jack’s stare went flat. “Robby.”
“There was a certain Eminem song involved,” Robby continued.
Your head turned on the pillow. “Shake That.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Do not help him.”
Robby pointed at you, delighted. “That’s the one.”
Dana looked up from the monitor. “You danced to ‘Shake That’ at your wedding?”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
You turned toward him with surprising speed. “Jack.”
His eyes opened. “Baby.”
Your brow furrowed, “Don’t you dare deny that.”
Princess pressed both lips together and turned toward the computer as if it had suddenly become fascinating. Santos stared between you and Jack, openly thrilled. You lifted your good hand as much as the IV allowed and pointed at him. “That moment changed my brain chemistry.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling. “Good Lord.”
Robby nodded solemnly. “For the record, I was there. It changed several people’s brain chemistry.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “You cried during the father-daughter dance.”
“You and your wife offended decent people everywhere with that dance,” Robby said.
You nodded, glassy-eyed and completely unashamed. “Yep. My grandma left.”
Jack looked down at you, horror flickering across his face. “Your grandmother left?”
You blinked up at him. “You didn’t know that?”
“No,” Jack said. “I did not know that.”
“She came back for cake,” you added.
Jack looked at you. “That does not make it better.”
Robby’s grin widened. “I’m just saying. It was a lot of wedding.”
Jack’s eyes cut to him. “You ended that night with half your shirt unbuttoned because a bridesmaid took your tie off with her teeth.”
Santos’s head snapped up. “With her teeth?”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat wedding lore.”
Princess turned from the computer, delighted. “Did he go home with her?”
Robby pointed sharply at your shoulder. “We have a patient.”
Jack’s mouth curved, barely. “He did.”
Robby stared at him. “Betrayal.”
Jack shrugged. “You started this.”
“I started a medical discussion,” Robby defended.
Jack narrowed his eyes. “You called me Magic Mike.”
Robby frowned. “In a medical context.”
You looked between them, soft and dreamy now, the medication turning the memory warm around the edges. “It was perfect.”
Jack’s expression shifted. “Our wedding?”
You nodded. “You danced. I danced. Robby got slutty.”
Robby pointed at you. “For the record, ‘Robby got slutty’ is not medically relevant.”
Your eyes drifted back to Jack. You studied him for one long, medicated second. “You got slutty.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “I did not.”
You gave him a look. “Tell that to your hips.” You kept looking at Jack, still dreamy and deeply serious. “And hands.”
Jack closed his eyes again.
Santos made a tiny sound. “He got slutty.”
Dana did not look away from the monitor. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack noticed. Of course, he noticed. His thumb moved once over your hand. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
“I heard,” Jack said, quieter now.
A small smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.” Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it.
Robby looked from you to Dana. “You’re enjoying this.”
Dana adjusted the pulse ox cord with perfect neutrality. “I am maintaining room discipline.”
Jack looked at you slowly. He looked down at you, and something in his expression changed. Not embarrassed now. Worse. Amused. “You know, baby,” he said, voice low, “I didn’t hear you complaining that night.”
Your mouth parted. For one blessed second, the medication actually managed to quiet you.
Robby looked delighted. “Oh, that worked.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Don’t.”
You blinked up at Jack, soft and glassy-eyed and deeply sincere. “I was thoroughly enjoying it.”
Dana closed her eyes. Princess turned fully toward the computer.
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “That is a lot of marriage for a workplace.”
Jack’s jaw flexed, but his thumb moved over your hand again. “Trouble.”
You smiled faintly. “You started it.”
Robby pointed at Jack. “She’s right.”
Jack looked at him. “You started it.” Robby nodded. “Also true. Still worth it.”
Dana adjusted the bed, then looked at both of them. “Shoulder now. Wedding crimes later.”
You frowned. “They’re not crimes if everyone had fun.”
“Your grandmother left,” Jack said.
“She came back for cake.”
Robby nodded. “Strong recovery.”
Jack looked at him. “You are done.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, I have barely begun.”
Dana’s voice cut through, calm and final. “Robby.”
Robby lifted both hands. “Shoulder now.”
Jack leaned closer to you, resigned and soft all at once. “Eyes on me, trouble.”
You looked at his white T-shirt, then his face. “I am looking,” you said. “That’s the problem.”
For half a second, he looked like he might say something that would make the entire situation worse.
Robby must have seen it coming, because he clapped once, sharp and quiet. “Okay,” he said. “Shoulder.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You heard the man.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the man.”
Robby adjusted his gloves at your injured side. “The man is hurt by that.”
Dana moved closer to the bed, one hand resting near your good shoulder. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, calm and even. “We’re going to sit you up a little more.”
Your face softened immediately. Jack saw it again. His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “You like that.”
You blinked at him. “Like what?”
His voice went quieter. “Mrs. Abbot.”
A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth. “That’s me.”
Jack’s expression changed. Not enough for anyone else to call him out on it, maybe, but enough for you to feel warmer than the medication could explain. “Yeah, baby,” he said. “That’s you.”
Robby looked at Dana. Dana kept her face neutral. “Therapeutic,” she said.
Jack did not look away from you. “Do not note that.”
Robby shrugged. “I have a whole mental chart now.”
“Delete it,” Jack shot back.
Robby grinned. “HIPAA doesn’t apply to my thoughts.”
Dana raised the bed before Jack could answer. The motion sent your shoulder into a hot, mean pulse. Your good hand tightened around Jack’s. “Nope.”
Jack stepped in closer immediately. “I’ve got you.”
“Nope,” you said again, sharper this time. “I changed my mind.”
Robby’s voice stayed steady from your side. “You can hate it.”
“I do hate it. I hate the concept. I hate whoever invented Cunningham,” you groaned.
Robby nodded once. “Probably fair.” You went on, “I hate that his name is Cunningham.”
“It is a useful medical procedure,” Robby replied.
You turned your glare on him. “Don’t defend Cunningham to me right now.”
Jack leaned into your line of sight. “Look at me.”
You looked at him. Mostly because he was very close. Also, because the T-shirt was still doing hateful things across his chest. Jack’s eyes narrowed faintly, like he knew exactly where your attention had gone.
“My face,” he said.
You sighed. “Your face is also a problem.”
Robby glanced at the monitor. “Problem appears effective.” Jack turned his head a fraction. “Robby.”
“Data,” Dana said.
Jack gave her a betrayed look. Dana’s brows lifted. “I report it.”
Robby slid your injured hand carefully toward his shoulder. The second your arm shifted, pain sparked bright and fast down your side.
“Fuck.” Your eyes squeezed shut. “No, no, no, fuck that.”
Jack’s free hand came to your cheek. Warm palm. Steady fingers. No pressure, just contact. “Hey.”
You shook your head. “No, Jack, I really don’t—”
“I know.”
Robby paused, his hands still supporting your arm.
Jack’s thumb moved once beneath your cheekbone. “I know, sweetheart.”
You opened your eyes. His face was right there. Close enough to blur at the edges. Worried in that contained way that made your chest hurt. Soft in the places no one else knew to look.
“I don’t want it to hurt,” you whispered.
Jack’s expression gentled. “I know.” Your throat tightened. “I’m being so stupid.”
“No,” he said immediately.
Robby’s voice came from your side, quieter now. “You’re not.”
Dana’s hand stayed light near your shoulder. “You are allowed to be in pain, Mrs. Abbot.”
Your mouth trembled. That was rude of her, honestly. Using the name like that.
Jack watched your face, and something in him settled. “Be mad,” he said softly. “Swear at Robby. Insult Cunningham.”
Robby lifted one hand. “I would like to opt out of one third of that.”
Jack ignored him. “But keep looking at me.” You swallowed. “You’re bossy.”
“I know.” Jack smiled softly.
You narrowed your eyes. “You like being bossy.” His mouth curved, barely. “With you?”
Your eyes widened a little. Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek. “Yeah.”
The room went dangerously still. Robby’s face brightened. “Oh, that was good.”
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. “Do not grade me.”
“I’m not grading. I’m appreciating the technique.”
Dana looked at the monitor. “Heart rate improved.” Jack exhaled through his nose. “Good Lord.”
You stared at him, caught between pain and medication and the unfair fact of him. “Sexy doctor husband.”
His jaw flexed. “Apparently.” Robby moved your elbow another careful inch. You tensed immediately.
Jack’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your head, fingers threading gently into your hair. “Eyes on me.”
You tried. You really did. Your gaze dropped to his mouth first.
Jack noticed. His mouth twitched. “My eyes, trouble.”
“I’m trying,” you groaned.
He smirked. “You’re doing terrible.” You made a small, offended sound.
Jack’s thumb stroked lightly at the base of your skull. “But you’re very pretty while you do it.”
A giggle escaped you before you could stop it. It came out wet, shaky, and ridiculous.
Robby froze. Dana glanced at the monitor. Princess made a tiny sound near the computer.
Santos looked like she might need to sit down. Jack’s eyes softened. “There she is.”
You frowned at him. “You’re flirting medically again.”
“I am not,” Jack replied.
Robby adjusted his grip on your elbow. “You are.”
Jack kept his face angled toward you. “No one asked you.”
“I did,” you said.
Jack looked back at you. “You did not.”
“I spiritually asked,” you said with a sigh.
Robby pointed at you. “She gets me.”
Jack’s hand tightened carefully at the back of your head. “That is what worries me.”
The laugh that tried to leave you broke into a gasp when Robby began working at the muscles around your shoulder.
Pain rose again, deep and threatening. “No,” you said, voice thin now.
Jack’s teasing vanished. Just gone. His face steadied. “Breathe with me.”
“I don’t want to breathe.”
He raised a brow. “Do it anyway.” You frowned. “That’s mean.”
“I know,” Jack agreed.
“Fuck, Jack.”
His eyes held yours. “I’ve got you.”
Robby’s voice came low and focused. “Good. Just like that. Try not to fight me.”
You turned your eyes toward him in outrage. “Try not to fight you?”
Jack’s hand at the back of your head guided you back. “Me.”
You sucked in a breath. “Robby is saying stupid things.”
“I know.” Jack nodded.
“I can hear you,” Robby said.
Jack’s thumb swept once under your eye. “Ignore him.”
“He’s touching my shoulder,” you said, miserable.
Jack tilted his head closer to you. “Because he’s fixing it.”
“I don’t like him,” you said with a frown.
Jack smiled softly at you. “You love him.”
“Not right now,” you said, brows furrowed.
Robby nodded without looking up. “Temporary friendship suspension. Accepted.”
Dana looked at you. “Hold still, Mrs. Abbot.”
The name hit exactly where it had before. Your breathing hitched, but this time it hitched softer.
Jack saw it. Robby saw it. Dana absolutely saw it. Robby looked at Dana. “You’re good.”
Dana didn’t look away from the monitor. “I know.” Jack leaned closer. “You’re doing good.”
You stared at him. “I am?”
“Yeah,” he replied.
Your eyes burned. “I’m making this difficult.” Jack nodded once. “You’re scared.”
“I’m swearing,” you continued.
He shrugged a shoulder. “I’ve heard worse.”
“I told everyone about our wedding crimes.” Your lower lip wobbled.
His mouth moved like he was fighting a smile. “That one we’ll discuss later.”
“You got slutty.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Not now.” Robby’s shoulders shook once.
Jack’s eyes opened. “Do not laugh during my wife’s reduction.”
Robby’s expression snapped back into focus. “Guilty.”
Pain flared again, sharper this time, and your whole body tried to pull away.
Jack’s hand held steady at the back of your head. Not forcing you. Keeping you with him. “Look at me.”
You blinked away tears. “I am.”
“No.” His voice dropped. “Really look.”
You did.
His eyes were dark and close and worried. His thumb moved against your cheek, slow and sure.
“There you go,” he murmured. “Stay right there.”
Your breath shook. “This fucking sucks.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You went on. “Cunningham is a bad man.”
“Probably.” Jack nodded with a soft smile.
Robby glanced up. “Cunningham did not personally do this to you.”
You glared at him through tears. “He knows what he did.” Robby nodded. “I’ll allow it.”
Jack’s mouth brushed the edge of a smile.
You caught it. Even through pain. Even through fear. Even through the medication making the room swim around the edges. “You’re laughing.”
“I’m not,” Jack replied.
You glared at him. “You are.”
“Only because you’re mean on drugs,” he said, smiling softly at you.
You inhaled sharply. “I’m allowed to be mean right now.”
“Yeah,” Jack said, impossibly soft. “You are.”
Robby’s hands shifted. The pressure changed. Your body knew before your brain did.
You went rigid. “No.” Jack’s face sharpened. “Baby.”
“No, no, no, I don’t want—” You shook your head despite the pain.
His hand cupped your face more firmly. “Look at me.” Your eyes found his. “I am looking.”
“Good,” Jack said, his voice low and steady.
Your eyes burned as you stared up at him. “Jack.”
His hand stayed firm at the back of your head, fingers threaded carefully into your hair. “I’ve got you.”
You swallowed hard, trying not to pull away from Robby’s hands. “I hate this.”
“I know.” Jack’s thumb moved along your cheek.
Your breath hitched, half pain and half panic. “I hate your stupid face for helping.”
His mouth curved just enough to ruin you. “Use it.”
“What?”
“My stupid face.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “Look at it instead of your shoulder.”
You stared at him. “I hate that that works.”
“I know,” Jack murmured.
You glared at him. “Your face is medically annoying.” Robby murmured, “Groundbreaking terminology.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Not now.”
Robby’s hands shifted again. You felt the pressure build. Slow, careful, awful.
Jack saw you brace. Of course he did. His voice dropped. “Be good for me.”
Your face went soft immediately. “Oh, that’s unfair.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I know.”
“You’re cheating.” You tried to glare at him, but the medication and his hand in your hair made it a weak attempt.
His mouth curved, barely there and deeply unrepentant. “I know.”
Robby, without missing a beat, said, “Cheating is medically allowed right now.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Do it now.”
For one suspended second, there was only Jack’s face, his hand in your hair, his thumb on your cheek, and Robby’s steady pressure on your arm.
Then the joint shifted. Not violently. Not with a dramatic crack.
Just a deep, sickening slide, followed by sudden release. You gasped.
The wrongness vanished all at once. Your whole body folded toward Jack on a broken little sob.
He caught you carefully, one hand still cradling your head, the other braced at your good shoulder. “I’ve got you,” he said immediately. “I’ve got you.”
Robby exhaled. “Shoulder’s back.”
You breathed hard against Jack’s white T-shirt, your face pressed into the warmth of his chest, tears leaking more from relief than pain now. “Holy shit.”
Jack’s mouth brushed your hair before he seemed to remember there were witnesses. “Yeah.”
“That was awful,” you breathed, tears falling.
Jack kissed your head. “I know.” You turned your face enough to look up at him. “You were helpful.”
His expression softened. “Yeah?”
You nodded, still floating, still furious, still very much on drugs. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Robby pulled off his gloves with great satisfaction. “For the record, Cunningham with targeted husband exposure: wildly effective.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Document that and die.”
Robby smiled. “Brother, this is medicine now.”
You blinked up at Jack, wet-eyed and dazed. “I picked that one.”
The room went quiet around the softness in your voice. Jack’s thumb moved once along your cheek. “Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
You stared at him for another long, drug-soft second. “I picked good.”
His face changed. Not a lot. Enough. “Yeah, baby,” he said quietly. “You did.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. “I need everyone to know I am handling this with incredible maturity.”
Dana looked at him. “You are not.”
“No,” Robby agreed. “But I almost did.”
Jack’s hand stayed against the side of your face for another second before he seemed to remember the rest of the room existed.
“Post-reduction films?” he asked, glancing toward Robby.
Robby pulled his gloves off and dropped them into the trash. “Already ordered.” Jack nodded once.
Robby gave him a look as he stepped back to your injured side. “Neurovascular was intact before. Checking again now.”
“I know you are,” Jack said.
Robby lifted his brows. “Do you?” Jack’s mouth flattened. “I’m standing right here.”
“Great,” Robby said. “Then stand there husbandly and let me be her doctor.”
You turned your head slowly against Jack’s palm. “You’re both doctors.”
Robby leaned closer, careful as he checked your hand. “Only one of us is currently allowed to practice medicine on you.”
You looked at Jack. “I vote that one.” Jack closed his eyes. “Baby.”
Robby did not look up from your fingers. “Your vote has been received and rejected by the ethics committee.”
You frowned at him. “I don’t like the ethics committee.”
“The ethics committee is me,” Robby said.
You blinked at him. “That tracks.”
Santos made a tiny sound near the foot of the bed. Dana glanced at her. Santos pressed her lips together and looked at the floor.
Robby touched your fingers gently. “Can you wiggle these for me?” You wiggled them.
Robby nodded. “Good. Any numbness or tingling?”
You stared at him, still dazed. “Just in my dignity.”
“That is not innervated by the axillary nerve,” Robby said.
You blinked. “Show-off.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your cheek again. The motion was small. Your body noticed anyway.
Robby saw that too, because of course he did, but for once he did not comment.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray beside the bed. “We’ll get her immobilized once Robby’s done checking you,” she said. Jack’s attention shifted to the sling. His jaw tightened by a fraction.
You saw it even through the medication. “You’re doing the face.”
Jack looked back down at you. “What face?”
“The face,” you said.
Robby glanced over. “Oh, I know the face.” Jack did not look at him. “No one asked you.”
Robby’s voice stayed light, but not careless. “It’s the face he makes when he wishes he could make it easier for you.”
Jack went quiet. So did you. Your fingers tightened around his. “You did,” you said.
Jack looked down at you. “What?” Your smile was small and drug-soft. “You made it easier.”
His thumb moved once over your hand. “Yeah?”
You nodded, eyes glassy and sincere. “Yeah. Because you’re hot. And a doctor. And smart. And sexy. And my husband. And I love you.”
The room went very still. Jack’s face softened all at once.
Then you added, very seriously, “And you’re hot.”
Robby’s mouth opened. Dana looked at the monitor like it had become essential to her survival.
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “Is that all?”
You blinked up at him, exhausted and earnest. “No.” His mouth curved. “No?”
You shook your head once, barely. “But I’m tired and drugged.”
Jack’s expression warmed into something painfully fond. “Okay, baby.”
Robby pressed a hand to his chest. You swallowed, the edges of the room still warm and watery.
“And Eli?”
Robby’s expression gentled before the joke could get there.
“Megan called down while we were getting the films ordered. He’s okay.”
You stared at him. “She told him?”
“She told him,” Robby said. “His mom told him. He knows you’re not mad.”
You blinked hard. Jack’s hand tightened around yours.
Robby leaned a hip lightly against the counter, his voice quieter now. “He drew you a picture.”
Your throat closed. “He did?”
“Apparently it’s you with a cape,” Robby said.
Princess smiled from the computer. “And a very large arm.”
You made a sound that tried to be a laugh and almost became something else. “Is it anatomically correct?”
Robby looked at Princess. Princess shook her head. “Not even close.” You closed your eyes. “Good.”
Jack brushed his thumb over your knuckles.
Your eyes burned again, but softer this time. “He doesn’t think I’m mad?”
Robby shook his head. “He thinks you’re a superhero.”
You went very still. Jack felt your hand tighten around his. Then your face crumpled. “Oh, no.”
Jack leaned in immediately. “Baby?” Your eyes filled too fast for you to stop them. “I’m leaking.”
Jack’s expression softened all at once. “You’re crying.”
“I know.” Your mouth trembled. “I don’t want to.”
“That’s okay,” he murmured.
You shook your head. “It’s embarrassing.”
“No, it isn’t,” Jack replied, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead.
You sniffled. “It is in front of the day shift.”
Robby’s face softened from the counter. “Day shift can handle feelings.”
Santos looked suspiciously focused on the floor. Princess turned toward the computer, blinking too much.
Dana adjusted the sling on the tray without looking up. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said evenly, “day shift has seen worse.”
Your smile wobbled through the tears. “She called me Mrs. Abbot.”
Jack’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching a tear before it reached your cheek. “Yeah, baby.”
You looked up at him, wet-eyed and overwhelmed. “He thinks I’m a superhero.”
Jack’s face changed. Not a lot. Enough to make you cry harder. “He’s right.”
Your chin trembled. “Jack.”
“He is,” Jack said, voice low. “You protected him.”
A tear slipped hot down your cheek. “I scared him.”
“You helped him.”
The words landed so gently that they hurt. You made a broken little sound and tried to wipe your face with your good hand, but Jack caught your fingers before you could tug at the IV.
“I’ve got it.” He brushed another tear away with his thumb.
You sniffed. “I’m leaking a lot.”
His mouth softened. “I know.”
You exhaled. “I hate this drug.”
“No, you don’t.” He smiled gently.
You thought about it, tears still sliding down your cheeks. “I kind of love this drug.”
Robby nodded from the counter. “There she is.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Let her leak.”
Dana smiled gently. “Mrs. Abbot,” she said, crisp and even, “I’m going to help support your arm while we get this situated.”
Your eyes opened the rest of the way. A smile pulled at your mouth immediately, even through the tears.
Jack looked down at you. “There it is.” You blinked at him. “What?”
He brushed one knuckle lightly along your jaw. “That smile.”
You looked toward Dana, pleased and hazy. “She called me Mrs. Abbot again.”
Dana did not look up from the sling. “That is your name.”
Robby pointed at her. “You’re doing it on purpose.” Dana kept her hands steady. “I am doing my job.”
“You are weaponizing legal marriage,” Robby said.
Dana fitted the strap carefully behind your neck. “I am supporting patient cooperation.”
You sighed happily. “It is working.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Clearly.”
Dana adjusted the sling around your injured arm. “This may pull a little.” Your smile vanished.
Jack saw it instantly. “Hey.”
“Nope,” you said.
His hand found your good one again. “Look at me.”
You frowned. “I already did that.”
“Do it again.”
You looked at him.
His eyes stayed steady on yours while Dana adjusted the last strap. There was a brief tug, a hot little spark of discomfort, and then your arm was held against you, supported and still.
You exhaled shakily. Jack’s thumb brushed once over your hand. “There you go.”
You swallowed. “I swore a lot.”
Jack’s mouth softened. “You were allowed.”
You leaned and whispered poorly. “In front of Dana.”
Dana stepped back from the sling. “I’ve heard worse, Mrs. Abbot.” Your smile came back immediately.
Jack glanced at Dana. “Therapeutic.”
Dana picked up the chart. “Accurate.”
Robby checked the sling with a quick glance, then nodded to Dana. “Looks good.”
Dana stepped back. “It’ll do until ortho tells her the same thing in a more expensive voice.”
Princess laughed under her breath. Santos rocked back on her heels.
“So she’s going home?” Santos asked.
Jack looked at Robby before Robby could answer, the same question reflected in his eyes
Robby lifted his brows. “You asking as her husband or as the night attending who has forgotten he is not on shift?”
Jack stared at him. “Husband.”
Robby smiled. “Good choice.”
Jack’s jaw flexed. “Robby.”
“We’ll watch her a bit after the follow-up films, make sure pain is controlled, then yes,” Robby said. “Home. Ice. Sling. Ortho follow-up. No lifting. No heroic catching of children for a while.”
You frowned at him. “That feels targeted.”
“It is,” Robby confirmed.
Your frown deepened. “Eli was falling.”
“And you caught him,” Robby said. “And now your shoulder is in a sling.”
You looked away. Jack’s voice softened. “You did good.”
You looked back up at him. “I broke myself.”
Jack shook his head. “You protected him.”
You pressed your lips together. “That sounds like something you say when I broke myself.”
Jack held your gaze. “It can be both.”
You considered him through the medication. “You’re very pretty when you’re reasonable.”
Robby made a wounded sound. “Not this again.”
Jack did not look away from you. “Thank you.”
Your smile went soft. “Sexy doctor husband.”
Jack lowered his head for half a second like he was gathering strength.
Dana picked up the chart. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos closed her mouth so fast her teeth clicked.
Princess turned toward the computer, shoulders shaking. Robby looked between Dana and the monitor.
“Therapeutic and preventative.”
Dana’s eyes flicked to him. “Exactly.”
Jack gave her a long look. “I don’t know whether to thank you or be concerned.”
“Both is usually safest,” Dana said.
A little while later, after the films confirmed what Robby already knew, after Princess brought discharge paperwork, after Santos was banished from asking any more questions about the wedding, the room finally thinned out.
Dana left with one last check of your sling and one more calm, devastating, “Take it easy, Mrs. Abbot.”
You smiled so hard your eyes closed.
Jack watched Dana go, then looked down at you. “She did that on purpose.”
You leaned into the pillow. “She likes me.”
“She likes making me suffer,” Jack said.
You nodded solemnly. “People contain multitudes.” Jack huffed a quiet laugh.
Robby came back with the discharge papers and a pen. “Okay,” he said. “Because apparently I am the only person in this room still committed to medicine.”
Jack was sitting beside your bed now, his sweatshirt back on but unzipped, one hand wrapped around yours. “You loved every second of this.”
Robby held up the paperwork. “I loved several medically relevant seconds of this.”
“You called me Magic Mike,” Jack said.
Robby nodded. “In a medically relevant context.”
“You threatened to chart targeted husband exposure,” Jack added.
“I still might,” Robby said.
Jack stared at him. Robby smiled. “I won’t.”
“You better not,” Jack warned.
“I’ll save it for the group chat,” Robby said with a shrug.
Jack’s expression went blank. “There is no group chat.”
Robby looked at you. “He thinks there’s no group chat.”
You turned to Jack, horrified. “You think there’s no group chat?”
Jack looked between you and Robby. “I hate this family.”
Your smile went dreamy. “You said family.”
Robby’s expression softened before he covered it with a cough.
Jack looked down at your joined hands. “I did.”
The air warmed around that. For one second, nobody ruined it.
Then Robby clicked the pen. “Anyway,” he said. “Sling stays on. Ice twenty minutes at a time. Pain meds as prescribed, not as creatively interpreted by the patient. Ortho follow-up within the week. No work until cleared.”
You opened your eyes. “No work?” Jack’s hand tightened.
Robby looked at you. “No work.”
“But peds is short,” you replied.
“Peds will survive,” Robby said.
You frowned. “You don’t know that.”
Robby leaned closer, his sarcasm gone soft around the edges. “I know you cannot care for children with a freshly reduced shoulder.”
You looked at Jack for backup. Jack shook his head. “No.”
“You didn’t even let me ask,” you said, brows furrowed.
Jack just gave you a look. “I know where you were going.”
“You always know where I’m going,” you sighed.
Jack shrugged. “Usually because it’s somewhere you shouldn’t.” Robby nodded. “Marriage.”
You sighed again and let your head fall back against the pillow. “This is oppressive.”
“This is discharge planning,” Robby said.
“Oppressive discharge planning,” you mumbled.
Jack stood slowly, keeping hold of your hand. You looked up at him. “We’re leaving?”
He nodded. “Soon.”
“Are you taking me home?” you asked, hopefully.
His expression softened. “Yeah, baby.”
Your whole face relaxed. “Good. I want that one.”
Robby pressed the paperwork to his chest. “She’s still doing it.”
Jack took the papers from him. “She’s on medication.”
He folded the paperwork and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
Robby watched him for a moment, the humor easing out of his face. “You good to get her home?”
Jack looked at you. You were blinking slowly, exhausted now, the adrenaline finally draining out of your body.
His voice gentled. “Yeah.”
Robby nodded. “Call me if anything changes.”
Jack met his eyes. “I will.”
The two men looked at each other for half a second longer than the words required.
You noticed even through the fog. “You two are having feelings.”
Robby looked down at you. “We are absolutely not.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “No feelings.”
“Lies,” you murmured.
Robby pointed at you. “Pain meds have made her too powerful.”
Jack helped you sit up carefully. The room tilted as soon as you moved. You made a small sound and grabbed for him with your good hand.
He was already there. One arm came around your waist, careful not to jostle the sling, his body solid beside yours. “I’ve got you.”
You leaned into him. “I know.”
That seemed to hit him somewhere. His hand spread warm at your side. Robby stepped closer, but Jack had you steady.
“Slow,” Jack said.
“I am slow,” you grumbled.
The room tilted. You caught Jack’s shirt with your good hand, and his arm came around your waist before you could wobble any farther.
His mouth twitched. “That’s why I said go slow.”
You rolled your eyes. “Smartass.”
Robby nodded from beside the bed. “Fair assessment.” Jack shot him a look.
“Supportive environment,” Robby said.
Jack eased you carefully off the bed. Your knees felt uncertain, and the room stayed too bright, but his arm held you steady.
Dana reappeared at the curtain like she had sensed movement. “You good?”
Jack nodded. “I’ve got her.”
Dana looked at you. “Mrs. Abbot?”
Your smile came back, sleepy and immediate.
“I’m good.”
Dana’s mouth barely moved. “Clearly.”
Robby narrowed his eyes at her. “You did it again.”
Dana checked the hallway. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You absolutely do.”
Jack adjusted his hold at your waist. “Can we leave before anyone learns anything else about my wedding?”
Princess, still at the computer, lifted one finger. “I have follow-up questions.”
“No,” Jack said.
Santos leaned against the counter. “I have several.”
Jack shook his head. “Absolutely not.”
Robby grinned. “I have photos.”
Jack went still. You gasped softly. “You have photos?”
Robby’s grin widened. “And videos.”
Jack pointed at him. “Delete them.”
“Never,” Robby responded immediately.
“You have videos of the dance?” you asked, unable to contain your excitement.
Robby gave you a look. “You think I would witness neurological history and not document it?”
Your eyes went glassy again. “Can you send them to me?”
Jack looked down at you. “Baby.”
“What? I was there. I should have them,” you defended yourself.
Robby tapped his phone. “Already sent.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Good Lord.”
Your phone buzzed somewhere in the plastic belongings bag.
You looked up at Jack, delighted. “Brain chemistry.”
Dana held up one hand before Santos could speak. “Do not repeat Mrs. Abbot.”
Santos sighed. “I didn’t even say it.”
Dana looked at her. “You thought loudly.”
Jack shook his head and started guiding you toward the hallway. “We’re going home.”
You leaned into him, warm and sore and still floating enough that the ED lights looked like stars smeared across glass. “Home with you?”
Jack glanced down. His face softened. “Yeah.”
You smiled. “I picked good.”
This time, there were no monitors beeping too loud, no hands at your shoulder, no room full of witnesses waiting for the next outrageous thing you might say.
Just Jack’s hand at your waist, his body steady beside yours, his voice low near your ear.
Summary: Jack knows you read smut. What he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. They are ideas. A whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. When he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, Jack has questions. Several, actually. Should he be jealous? Grateful? Offended? You are more than happy to explain.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, sexual themes, spicy book discussion, implied smut, post-sex scene, praise kink references, light restraint references, orgasm control references, semi-public hookup references, body worship, begging/asking clearly, lots of sexual tension, married flirting, Jack being fifty and deeply personally victimized by fictional men with shadows and jawlines, prosthetic mention, emotional intimacy, trust, mutual pleasure, reader owns her sexuality, soft/domestic married sexiness.
Author's Note: This fic is for every woman who has ever been made to feel embarrassed about reading romance or smut. There is no shame here. None. Sometimes books give us language for desire. Sometimes they make wanting feel normal. Sometimes they make asking feel less terrifying. And sometimes your very hot husband finds the red tabs and realizes he has been unknowingly participating in literary adaptation. This one is funny, sexy, soft, and deeply married. It is about trust as much as it is about heat. It is about owning what you want, asking for it clearly, giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, and being with someone who makes desire feel safe. Also, Jack Abbot versus a twenty-two-year-old shadow man? I had to.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.
This was the second kind.
He knew because your breathing changed.
Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.
He knew you read smut.
That was not new information.
You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.
What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.
You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.
The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be suspicious.
Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.
You turned a page.
Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.
Jack’s thumb paused.
You bit your lip.
Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.
You did not notice.
Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.
Jack had seen the tabs before.
He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.
You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.
He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.
He was about to find out that he was right.
Just not in the way he thought.
You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.
Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”
Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”
Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.
His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”
You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”
You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”
Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”
Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.
“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.
Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”
You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”
You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”
Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”
You did not hesitate. “Smut.”
Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”
You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”
Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”
You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”
Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”
You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”
You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”
Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”
Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”
You gave him a look. “Obviously.”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”
You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.
You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.
Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”
You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”
Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”
You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”
Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”
You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”
Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”
You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.
You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”
Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”
You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”
Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”
You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”
Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”
You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.
Jack waited.
He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.
Jack looked at the book.
The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.
He reached for it.
Not because he was snooping.
Snooping implied shame.
Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.
This was clinical curiosity.
Marital clinical curiosity.
He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.
Jack glanced toward the hallway.
The kettle hummed.
He opened the book where your finger had been.
He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.
Jack muttered, “Christ.”
You had not been kidding about the smut.
He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.
Red.
Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.
Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.
At first, he smiled.
Then he stopped smiling.
His eyes moved over the page once.
Then again, slower.
A throne.
A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.
A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.
Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.
At the end of that hallway sat his home office.
His chair.
His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.
The one with lumbar support.
The one with the locked wheels.
The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.
Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.
Jack said softly, “Well.”
The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.
He should have stopped there.
He did not.
The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.
Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.
He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.
His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.
Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.
Jack murmured, “Fuck.”
You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.
You stopped in the bedroom doorway.
Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.
Not casually.
Not idly.
Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.
Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.
You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”
Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”
You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”
You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”
Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”
You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.
That was the first thing that got him.
Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.
It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.
Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.
Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”
You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”
Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.
The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter.
“That’s what you wanted?”
You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”
Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”
You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”
His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.
He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”
You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”
Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”
You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”
You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”
You smiled. “You like it.”
Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”
The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.
Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“He’s twenty-two?”
You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”
Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”
You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”
Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”
You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”
He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”
Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”
Jack paused. “That was vague.”
You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”
Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”
You blinked. “Worried?”
Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”
You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”
Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”
You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”
His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”
You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”
His hand stilled on the book.
You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”
Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”
You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”
Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”
You laughed softly. “Noted.”
His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”
You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”
Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.
You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.
In the way his eyes came back to yours.
In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.
You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”
His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”
“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”
Jack went still.
You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”
His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.
You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.
“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”
His jaw shifted.
“That’s part of it too.”
Jack did not blink.
“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”
His thumb moved once at your waist.
You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”
Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.
You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”
His voice came out lower. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Because I trust you,” you said.
His hand stilled at your waist.
You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.
“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”
Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.
Then they came back to yours.
“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”
Jack was silent for a long moment.
Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.
“It’s the trust,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”
You laughed under your breath.
His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”
You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”
Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”
Jack looked toward the book.
His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”
You laughed.
He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”
Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.
His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”
You blinked. “How many what?”
Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”
You laughed softly. “Your problem?”
Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”
You smiled.
He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”
You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.
Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.
You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.
“You really want to know?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.
Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.
You tapped the page. “Start there.”
Jack glanced down at the red tab.
Then back at you.
His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”
You nodded. “The throne.”
Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.
He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.
You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”
You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”
“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”
Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”
“We covered the chair,” you agreed.
His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”
The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.
“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.
Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about worship.”
Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.
But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.
“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”
Jack did not interrupt.
You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”
The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.
His voice had gone lower. “What?”
You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.
“I want to try something.”
Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”
Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.
“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”
Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”
You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”
Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.
You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”
Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.
You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”
Jack had taken one slow breath.
Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.
“Close the door.”
You had.
By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.
“Here?” he had asked.
You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.
Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.
Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.
“You want my full attention?” he had asked.
You had nodded, throat tight.
His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”
And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet.
The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.
But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.
“Look at me,” he had murmured.
You had tried. God, you had tried.
Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.
“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”
And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.
It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.
Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”
You nodded. “That was the idea.”
His thumb moved once. “The worship.”
You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”
For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
You smiled a little. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”
Your chest softened.
You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”
You nodded. “Not the first.”
His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”
You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”
Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”
You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”
His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”
You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”
Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”
You glanced back at him. “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.
Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”
You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”
Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”
You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”
Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”
You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”
You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.
Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”
You added it to the stack. “That one too.”
His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.
You followed his eyes and smiled.
Jack sat forward. “No.”
You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”
Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”
You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”
His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”
You smiled. “It was.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”
You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”
Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.
The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.
Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”
You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”
Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”
You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”
Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”
His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.
Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”
Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”
Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”
You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”
You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”
The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His mouth had curved. “You need something?”
You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you.
You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”
Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.
Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”
You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”
Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”
He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.
Jack had checked once. “Like this?”
Your breath had caught. “Yes.”
Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.
His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”
You had tried.
Jack had noticed every second you failed.
Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”
You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”
Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”
You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”
You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”
Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”
You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”
His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”
You nodded. “The night it snowed.”
Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”
Your pulse kicked once.
You held his eyes. “Yes.”
The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.
He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.
Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”
You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”
Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”
You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”
Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.
You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”
His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”
You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”
You had nodded.
Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”
And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.
In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.
His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”
You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”
Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”
You smiled wider. “A lot.”
Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.
You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”
Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”
You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”
Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.
“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”
You laughed softly. “Mixed?”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”
You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”
You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”
Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.
His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”
You smiled. “The sundress.”
Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”
You held his gaze. “No underwear.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.
His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”
You smiled. “That was for you.”
The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.
Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”
Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”
You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”
Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.
Jack had asked, “You sure?”
You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.
“Bathroom,” he had said.
You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”
His hand had found the small of your back.
Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”
In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.
His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.
“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”
Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.
Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.
You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”
Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”
You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”
You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”
You laughed. “This is not a court.”
Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”
Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.
Jack watched your hand move to it.
His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”
You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”
Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”
You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”
His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.
You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”
Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.
You nodded. “After the double.”
Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”
Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”
The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.
“What?” he had asked.
Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.
His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.
You had nodded.
The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.
“Tell me what you need,” he had said.
You had swallowed.
You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”
Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”
Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”
Jack had gone very still.
Then his mouth had softened against your temple.
“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.
Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.
Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.
His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”
In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”
Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”
You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”
Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”
You sighed. “Yes.”
Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”
Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”
You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”
Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”
You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”
Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.
His voice softened. “There.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”
You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”
You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”
Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”
The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.
“Begging,” you said.
Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”
You nodded. “After your shower.”
The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.
His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.
You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.
Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.
“Ask for what?” he had asked.
Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.
His thumb had moved once over your skin.
“Then tell me.” Jack had said.
You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”
Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle.
“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”
Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.
“That one mattered,” Jack said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”
You breathed out. “Because I asked.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”
Your throat tightened.
You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”
You tilted your head. “The begging?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”
You laughed once.
Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”
Your smile softened.
His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”
The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.
You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”
Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.
Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”
You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”
You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”
You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.
“Green dress,” he said.
You nodded. “Green dress.”
The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.
You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.
Completely.
His eyes moved over you once.
Then again, like the first look had not been enough.
“Jack,” you had said.
He had crossed the room without saying anything.
You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy.
Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.
“I want you to help me see it.”
Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.
Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.
For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.
“Look,” Jack had said.
You had started to glance away.
His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”
Your breath had caught.
His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.
You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.
“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.
Your throat had tightened.
His fingers had spread over your waist.
“Beautiful,” he had said.
You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him.
The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.
You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”
Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”
Jack covered your hand with his.
You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”
Your smile wobbled. “I know.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.
You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”
The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.
“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”
You nodded. “Mostly.”
Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”
You smiled. “Pool house.”
His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”
“Fireplace.”
He tapped the third. “Risk.”
“Bar bathroom.”
His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”
“Supply closet.”
His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”
“Bedroom.”
Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”
You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“And worship.”
Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”
Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”
You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”
His eyes darkened.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled.
He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.
“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”
You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.
“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”
You laughed, startled and bright.
Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.
You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”
You smiled. “Every single one.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”
You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”
You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”
Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”
Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”
You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”
Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”
Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”
You laughed. “Obscene.”
Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.
“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”
Your breath caught.
His smile deepened.
“There,” he murmured. “That look.”
Later That Night…
The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.
Face-down.
Spine bent.
One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually.
Probably.
When your lungs worked again.
For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.
Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.
Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.
He had conducted research.
Thoroughly.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.
Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound.
“That was incredible.”
You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.
His eyes were still on the ceiling.
You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”
Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”
Your smile widened. “I heard you.”
Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”
You waited.
His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.
Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”
A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.
Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.
You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”
Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously.
“Yeah.”
Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”
His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.
“Just need a minute.”
You smiled. “Take your time.”
Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.
His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”
Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”
That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”
Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”
You raised your eyebrows. “No?”
“Wrong word.”
You waited, biting back a smile.
Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.
“Beautiful,” he decided.
Your throat warmed.
Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”
You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”
Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”
You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.
His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”
You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”
You pressed your lips together. “The process?”
He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”
You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”
Jack looked back at you.
His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.
“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”
You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.
Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.
You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.
His heartbeat was still too fast.
You smiled against his skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.
Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.
“That was incredible.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”
His eyes shifted to yours.
He looked almost offended by your amusement.
“What?”
“You’ve said that four times.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”
Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”
Jack’s eyes held yours.
For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.
“I liked that you showed me.”
Your chest tightened.
His thumb moved against your back.
“I liked that you asked,” he said.
You swallowed.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”
The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.
When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then he exhaled.
“That was also incredible.”
You burst out laughing.
Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”
His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.
“I’m enlightened.”
You laughed against him. “By smut?”
Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.
“By my wife.”
That stole the breath from your chest.
You lifted your head.
Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.
Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”
Jack nodded once, like that mattered.
Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.
His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”
Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.
“Too late.”
You stared at him.
He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”
You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.
Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.
You hit him with it.
He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.
Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.
After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”
summary: you're spending quality time with your boyfriend, jack. things are comfortable as usual, but end up taking a spicy turn all because of one simple tiktok.
contains: experimentalist! bf! jack abbot, shy! sexually confused! reader, fem! reader, established relationship, implied age difference, reader discovers something new about herself, jack is literally down for anything as long as he gets to do it with you, slight? petplay... but not really? idfk., oral sex, p in v sex, cowgirl position :3
note: i'm really sorry if this seems awkward- i've never written anything like this before and am feeling quite like the reader in this situation (annoyingly flustered) LMFAO
word count: 2.7k
you'd just arrived home from work, finding your crazy hot doctor of a boyfriend doing the dishes in the kitchen. he was sitting in that same plastic chair he always used, posted right in front of the sink. you'd previously questioned why he'd never let you take care of these kinds of chores, but he'd always dismiss your worries. if he had a day off, he'd catch up on whatever the two of you had missed throughout the week.
you notice crutches resting a couple feet away, resting against the countertop. walking over to stand behind him, you slowly slide your hands over his shoulders then down his chest. he lets out a shameless groan in response, clearly already in a teasing mood. he'd never say it out loud, but he got really bored at home all day without his girl. you lean over and press a gentle kiss to his stubbled cheek.
"there's my pretty lady. let me finish up here and then i'll give you a proper greeting, yeah?"
he smirks, bringing one of your hands up and kissing your knuckles. you nod and walk off toward the bedroom to get out of your work clothes. after a few minutes, you walk back into the hallway, spotting jack who was now resting on the couch. his legs were spread wide, as per usual, allowing your gaze to focus on the way his sweatpants hugged his meaty thighs.
"looks like you've been having fun without me, huh?"
you chuckle, plopping right down next to him and immediately snuggling into his side. his arm wraps around you snugly, hand finding its place on the side of your thigh. he gives it a gentle squeeze, looking over at you and admiring your gorgeous features.
"this place is empty without you, sweetheart."
he places a kiss to your forehead before pulling you in for a real one. his free hand gently caresses your cheek as his lips press against yours. he always had that way of making you melt in an instant. so damn domestic that it made you never want to walk out the front door for work again.
"how was work?"
he gently pulls you in closer even though there wasn't any room left between you. he reaches for the tv remote and scrolls through a couple streaming platforms before deciding on a show you two had already binge watched a couple months ago.
"same shit, different day. realizing once again that i don't get paid enough to deal with half of that bullshit."
he smirks against your hair, knowing how trying work could be for you, especially when others were in a bad mood. you were the first person they'd take it out on, but you have to take it so you won't get fired.
"sorry, baby... wish we could get you out of there."
"i just find it funny that only certain people are the problem, yet management still keeps them around. i've found more useful things on the bottom of my fucking shoe."
he was really trying to behave at this moment, but he couldn't deny how sexy it was to see this spitfire side of you. he just continues to rub circles into your thigh until he feels you relax in his hold. you pull out your phone and start scrolling through tiktok. jack would always end up watching them with you over your shoulder. tonight was no different as he adjusts you slightly to get a better view of your phone.
he watches as you slowly start to unwind from your long day, laughing at the stupidest videos he's ever seen. it wasn't until you scrolled onto a video where it was showing images of a golden retreiver and a black cat sat next to each other. the text in the video read us? (black cat x golden retriever in some ridiculously fancy font.
"what does that mean? us... but it's just a dog and a cat?"
he asks you curiously, causing you to giggle. he really was becoming more well-versed with shitty brainrot lingo, but there were just some trends you hadn't been able to introduce him to yet.
"well... it's kind of like this power duo or couple thing that people like."
he raises an eyebrow, still completely lost. you turn your head, taking in his expression and gently pat his thigh before continuing.
"golden retrievers are supposed to be super friendly and charming in a way... so they're meant to represent a person who has a warm personality."
he nods, listening intently because he was waiting for an excuse to make this relate to your relationship.
"black cats are more chill and laid back, they take a lot longer to warm up to people. so they basically represent a person who's a little more introverted."
"okay- i think i'm getting it. so it's like a duo where one is shy while the other is outgoing?"
you nod with a soft smile, almost able to hear the gears turning in your boyfriend's head.
"would we be one of those duos?"
he asks curiously, watching your face to gauge your reaction.
"ehh- i think we're more of a doberman and orange cat duo."
confusion spreads across his face once again, questioning if he even wants to ask what this duo is supposed to represent. one step ahead of him, you alread begin to explain.
"you're the doberman, protective and calm when it counts. i'm the orange cat, bit of a menace with too much energy, but still lovable."
he quickly nods in understanding, seeing how that pairing fits the two of you a bit better. he's now wearing a soft smile as he thinks about those random moments where you get bursts of energy and start talking a mile a minute or dancing to get the jitters out. he wouldn't trade you for the world, in fact, he really did find himself feeling extra protective over you when you had all that energy.
"lucky me, i managed to find a really cute and feisty kitty."
his overtly teasing words didn't register with you for a few seconds, but when they did, you couldn't help the way your face went beet red. jack feels you tense slightly in his arms, trying to examine your expression. he notices the furious blush on your face and the way you frantically swipe at your phone and try to distract yourself.
"... what's this about, huh?"
he smirks, pulling your phone out of your hands. you were already completely embarrassed at the fact that you were getting wet from being called 'kitty' of all things. but of course, jack never lets this last for long. he was going to get you to admit it one way or another.
"come on, sweetheart. just tell me."
he coos, pulling you into his lap. he helps you slot your thighs on either side of him, holding your hips as he gazed up into your eyes. you desperately try to look away, but a hand flies up to immediately grab your jaw. he turns your face back toward him, feeling himself get hard beneath you as he takes in your flustered face. you both knew jack was up for anything with his beautiful girl, but especially when it came to discovering something new that made you feel good.
he could tell just from your body language that you were damp in your panties, so his hand that was originally on your hip starts to move towards your front. you squirm as his hand gets closer to your aching center, which confirms his suspicions.
"tell me what's got you worked up and i'll touch you."
you suck your bottom lip in between your teeth, letting out a heavy sigh. you were seriously trying to get the words out, but you were flustered beyond belief. everything about the past minute, including the stupidly smug expression on your boyfriend's face causes you to choke on your words. he was trying to work with you, thinking of all the things that might have gotten you in this state. you can visibly recogize when the realization dawns on him.
"i see what's got my kitty so embarrassed now."
he gets an immense feeling of success as he watches you pratically writhe above him at his words. he wasn't really sure what you had to be embarrassed about, since it was just a little nickname that he'd absolutely make use of from now on.
"yeah? are you into that? being my good kitty?"
the sultry tone in his voice has you feeling ready to explode. now you just might as his hand finally slips past the hem of your sweatpants and starts to rub against your covered slit. you moan softly, hips buckling slightly against his hand. you look down at his face, his eyes are completely zeroed in on your expression. he hadn't seen you this worked up since the beginning of your relationship when he'd made you sit on his face for the first time.
"fucking beautiful when you get like this."
he groans, the sensations of you grinding against his hand also rubbing off on the growing tent in his pants. he removes his hand from your pants and helps you slide them off, tossing them to the side somewhere. his hands return to your hips, slowly but firmly grinding them against his own hips.
"you wanna show me? show me how worked up my kitty really is?"
you nod hesitantly before he lets go of your hips and lets you have free reign. you continue to grind against him on your own, hands resting on his shoulders for stability as you quicken the pace. his head tips back against the soft cushion of the couch, soft grunts coming out as he can feel a wet spot forming on his sweatpants.
"atta fucking girl... look at you."
he chuckles, lifting you off of his lap for a moment to get rid of his own pants. an idea comes to his head right before you can straddle him again. he rests a firm hand against your thigh, holding you in place.
"stand up for a second."
you shoot him a confused look, but nod and follow his directions anyway. you stand there, feeling a bit awkward and self-conscious as he... lays on his back on the couch. oh fuck... that only meant one thing. you start to protest as he grabs at your thighs to bring you closer.
"jack- i don't know if i can-
"sure you can. now come sit on my fucking face like a good kitty."
your knees wobble slightly as you reluctantly close the distance between the two of you. as soon as you're within enough reach, he's hoisting one of your legs over the side of his head. he was doing this for you whether you were ready to accept it or not. as soon as your steady, he's pulling you down, not willing to let you even attempt hovering. he plunges his tongue into your slick folds, lapping greedily at your generous amount of slick.
"fuck- you really do like this... you're soaked, baby."
he mumbles against your cunt, grabbing handfuls of your ass as he starts to suck on your clit. you were completely overwhelmed now, head falling back as uncontrolled moans rip from your throat. he starts to glide your hips back and forth, thighs twitching slightly every time your clit would graze the tip of his nose. you were already close, hands moving down to his salt and pepper curls, tugging harshly.
he loved every second of it, you falling apart on his face.
"taste so good... could eat you all night..."
every vibration from his voice got you closer and closer to the edge until you finally succumb to all the pleasure he could bring you with just his mouth. he groans against you as you come all over his face, slick coating him from his nose down to his chin. he doesn't stop licking until you're completely spent and threatening to toppple over.
as soon as his hands move, you scramble off of him. he chuckles as he watches you almost tumble to the floor. if it weren't for his stupidly sexy and big hands grabbing you, you would have eaten shit. he sits up against the couch, pulling you closer. leaning forward, he presses a kiss to your lower stomach, gazing up at you.
"don't have to be so shy about what you want, kitty."
he won't even try to hide the smirk this time as he drags you back into his lap. without a second to waste, he pulls his aching cock from his boxers and lines it up with your entrance. you wince as he lowers your hips just enough to where the tip is inside. for him, it wasn't so much the length as it was the girth that really stretched you out. he knew to take it easy on you when first starting out.
however, you seem to have other things in mind as you manage to wiggle your hips enough that he's completely bottomed out inside you within seconds. you moan loudly, and so does jack, as his fingers dig into the plush skin of your hips.
"so eager for this cock, aren't you?"
he loosens his grip ever so slightly as you start to take control. you're bouncing on his cock like your life depends on it. all he can do is sit there and watch the way pleasure makes your face contort in the most beautiful ways. he loved when you took what you wanted because it showed him that you were comfortable and really feeling good.
"what other dirty secrets is my kitty hiding from me, huh?"
he teases, feeling the way you clench around him at the nickname. if you thought that he was through with the teasing, you were dead wrong. suddenly, he's grabbing your hips and pressing you firmly against him so you couldn't move. you whimper in protest, trying desperately to move your hips in any way.
"don't worry, baby, i'll let you keep going. but i need you to tell me something first."
"please... i'm so close-"
you pant, your brows furrowed as you're forced to sit still. he doesn't miss the way your eyes are starting to glisten, so he knows that he'll get you to crack rather easily.
"i know, shh, i know. all you have to do is say that you're my good kitty and i'll let you ride this cock to your heart's content."
you squirm against him, the familiar flush creeping back up your body once again. you roll your eyes at him, which earns you a swat on the ass.
"i didn't say bad kitty, did i? because if you want to be a bad kitty, you're not coming anywhere near it."
you struggle against his hold for a few more seconds before finally giving in.
"i-i'm your good kitty..."
you mutter under your breath, which clearly wasn't good enough for jack as his grip tightens on your hips.
"say it like you fucking mean it."
"i'm your good kitty."
you say with a bit more volume, your voice breaking slightly as he rams his hips up into you. you moan loudly, gripping onto his arms.
"yeah, you are. such a good fucking kitty. now take what you want."
you don't hesitate, already back to bouncing on him as your eyes roll to the back of your head. your fucked out expression has jack realizing that he's close too. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close against him, lifting his hips to meet your own.
"that's it, baby. come on this fucking cock."
he grunts out, just barely holding back until you come undone around him. no more than two seconds later, he's coming too, shooting his load deep inside you with a ragged moan. he holds you close as you tremble from the aftershocks of your orgasm, panting against his shoulder.
"such a pretty kitty... you know how to take it, don't you?"
he smirks against your cheek, kissing it softly. you pull back, enough to meet his gaze with a slight frown.
"you're insufferable sometimes, babe."
"says the cutie that just fucked herself stupid on my cock."
filthy smug bastard and his even filthier words... fuck, you loved him.
a/n: HOLY FUCK??? i have never written anything quite like this before... in the meantime, i have seriously discovered something new about myself. wowowowowow, i need that old man so bad i might just explode. AS ALWAYS, THANK YOU SM FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <3333
taglist: @nyxmoretti @popecodysgirl @justreadinghere7
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That time your best friend ditched you and you slept with her dad
✦ Pairing: Jack Abbot x fem!reader
✦ Word count: ~5,6k
✦ Rating: Explicit
✦ Warnings/tags: best friend's dad!Jack, reader is around 30, Jack have only known you for a few years not since childhood, forced proximity, like a medium burn maybe?, fluff, smut, oral (fem receiving), multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (no pregnancy), hint of possessive Jack, dirty talk, HEA.
✦ Summary: Feeling like you're connecting better with a man fifteen years your senior should maybe give you a hint why dating guys your age isn't going anywhere.
✦ Note: Look! It's my first long Jack Abbot fic! I'm so happy! It's always scary to write for someone new so please reblog and comment if you want more in the future 💖
Masterlist | AO3
“You're doing what?” you have to ask again, because you're not sure you heard your best friend right.
“I'm going on a date,” Aubrey answers simply and continues with her makeup.
“Since when?“
“Since I matched with this guy on Tinder about an hour ago?“
“Are you abandoning me for some dick?“
She puts down her brush and turns to you.
“Do you want me to cancel?”
She's serious and would if you asked her. But the issue isn't that she's leaving. The issue is that you'll be left with her dad. Her insanely hot dad, Dr. Jack Abbot.
“No,” you sigh. “You go.”
“Dad's cooking dinner, and then you can go back to reading your book,” she smiles.
You nod. When you had accepted to go on a trip over the weekend with her and her dad, you had just been happy to get out of your apartment. You have been in such a rut lately, with nothing to look forward to and too many failed dates to even consider going on the apps again for a long time.
So, when Aubrey said, “Come with Dad and me to the cabin this weekend, it'll be fun,”
you had expected the two of you to hang out. And now she was ditching you.
“And he's fine with that?” you ask.
You and her dad do get along great. Feeling as if you're connecting better with a man fifteen years your senior should maybe give you a hint why dating guys your age isn't going anywhere.
“Yeah, he doesn't mind! He likes you!“
“Hah!“ you say, and try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach. He likes you like his daughter's friend. Not the way you like him. The way you want to cling to those impossibly broad shoulders and ride him until you both pass out. That's how you like him, and Aubrey can never ever know that! While she does the finishing touches on her makeup, you scroll on your phone, internally panicking and trying to distract yourself from what's coming.
“Okay, how do I look?“ Aubrey does a turn in the hallway, just before heading out.
“Great!“ you say, but you have a hard time concentrating on her right now. Her dad is standing right beside you, thick arms crossed over his chest and a scowl on his brow.
“I can't believe you're ditching us for some guy,” he looks at you, “Right?”
For an instant, you're caught in his eyes, and how they're glittering with mirth. Then you quickly snap back and give Aubrey a similar scowl, crossing your arms, “Right!”
She looks between you and her father and then rolls her eyes.
“It's just for a few hours, and then I'll be back. I'm sure you two can manage!“
“Oh, we'll manage!” Jack says and slings his arm over your shoulder, “You'll regret ever leaving us. It's going to be a hoot!“
Aubrey gives the largest sigh, “You're so old! I'm leaving now.”
“Have fun!” You say, forcing your voice steady, and trying not to think about the fact that Jack is touching you. Touching you! His arm is warm and heavy, and your mind jumps to incredibly inappropriate conclusions on what the weight of his body would feel on top of you.
Then she's out the door, and the two of you are left in the hallway.
“She's restless that one,” he mumbles as he removes his arm.
“Yeah, can't imagine where she'd get that from,” you shoot Jack a pointed look.
He raises his eyebrows at your comment, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”
Then he turns and heads towards the kitchen. You follow with a shake of your head.
Jack starts to pull things from the fridge, and you're suddenly unsure of what to do. Should you help? Does he want to be left alone?
Thankfully, Jack holds out an apron and tells you, “Chop some veggies, will you?” and you happily do. Just the two of you in the small cabin kitchen, side by side, preparing dinner feels weirdly intimate. Usually, Aubrey is there too, and you're not as distracted by Jack as you are now. You're careful when you chop since your mind seems to be wandering, and you don't want to end up in the ER.
“So, no date for you while you're out here?” Jack breaks the silence.
“No, I've given up on dating for a while. I can't find someone that I click with,” you sigh. “How about you? Seeing anyone?”
“Nah, I tried the apps a few times, but it's nothing there for me.”
“Then someone from work?“ you suggest.
“That always gets complicated.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
He asks about your work and about your life. Just casual small talk while the rest of the ingredients go in the pot.
As he puts the lid on, you ask, “And what time is dinner?”
“Give it an hour, at least,” he nods.
You hang the apron back in its place, and your hand lightly brushes Jack's arm when you do. It feels as if electricity runs up your arm, all the way to your heart, making it jump around wildly. Quickly, you drag your hand back.
“Great,” you swallow hard and hope Jack doesn't notice. “Then I'll hop in the shower.”
“You do that,” he murmurs, and you head out of the kitchen to not get caught staring at his chest and arms. He's in a regular t-shirt, but it's enough for you and your dirty mind.
Thankfully, the shower head has a massage setting. If you're going to have dinner with Jack Abbot and get through it with minimal embarrassment, then you need to take the edge off.
You lean back against the shower wall, spreading your legs and closing your eyes. The fantasies of Jack are not far away, about how his hands would feel on your body, his mouth on your cunt, fingers inside you. His cock. Fuck, damn, you just know it's thick. That man is thick all over.
“Jack,” you whisper as the soft stream of water hits your clit. But then you have to slap a hand over your mouth to not be too loud, whimpers and small moans still slip out, but the shower drowns them out. The orgasm crashes into you quickly, and you let yourself rest for a short time afterwards, then get back to finishing your shower.
When you step out, the bathroom is chilly, and you notice you didn't shut the door properly. Thinking nothing more of it, you close it and start to dry off. Back in the bedroom, you look at your meager choice of clothing for the night. The only thing that you haven't worn is the one dress you brought that you really love because it hugs in all the right places. Hopefully, Jack won't think you're trying to impress him, even though you are.
The other choice is to just wear nothing and serve yourself up as dinner on the table.
“Ha! Imagine that!” you say to yourself and then shake your head. You would never live that rejection down.
The hour Jack said isn't quite up yet when you return from your room, and he is also nowhere in the communal areas. So, you start setting the table to have something to do. It's dark outside now, and the wind is blowing heavily against the cabin, bringing a chill to the air that you feel without a sweater. Instead of putting one on though, you light the candles that are scattered over the room. Maybe you can ask Jack to light the fireplace.
Thinking of the man makes him appear from the hallway.
“That's nice,” he says, looking around. He's changed too, into a soft-looking shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms and some nice pants, and it’s a look that makes heat blossom in your stomach.
“Want me to get the fireplace going too?” he jerks a thumb in its direction, as if having read your thoughts.
“If you don't mind?”
“Not at all.”
When he crouches down, you take the opportunity to admire his broad back, strong arms, hands, and thick thighs.
It's unfair that someone so handsome isn't your age. Aubrey's been saying you should find someone older, and now you think that maybe she's right. But not Jack, that would just be too complicated. For a night, perhaps, but you're also not a one-time kinda girl. You want a relationship and someone to be with, to share life with. And Jack’s already done all that. Even if you don't want children, he's been married before, and probably doesn't want to do it again.
“Hi, hello?” Jack suddenly waves his hands in front of your face, and you realize you've been zoning out.
“Oh, sorry! Did you say something?“
“Do you want anything to drink?”
“Is there wine?”
“Sure,” he says and goes to find a bottle.
In the meantime, you head to the kitchen to check on the food, and when you sneak a taste, it's great.
“This should do!” he declares as he comes back and puts down a dusty-looking bottle.
“Wait, how old is that?“ you ask.
“About my age, I think?” Jack looks at the bottle, turning it around to find a year on the label.
“I don't need something that fancy!” you hurry and say, taking the bottle out of Jack's hands.
He is briefly stunned before calmly waving his hand, “Give it back, darling.”
He's never called you that before, and the momentary shock allows him to take it back. Before you can do anything else, he's put the cork screw in. Slightly horrified, you watch him pull it free with a pop, and then smell the cork, before holding it out to you.
“It smells very nice,” you say.
“Should go well with dinner,” he says and pours two glasses, then gives you one.
Jack's fingers brush against yours when you receive the glass, but you force yourself not to react. To not feel a pulse of desire through your body, to not think about his fingers inside you.
“Cheers,” he says and holds out his glass, and you gingerly tap it before taking a sip. It's very good. You tell Jack that.
“Yeah, been saving it for a while.”
“For a special occasion or something?” you say, horrified. You can't believe Jack wasted such a good bottle on you.
He shrugs, “Or something, yeah.”
But he doesn't explain more, and you're too scared to ask.
He moves to the stove and tastes the food as well, declares it done, and then grabs the pot to bring it to the table. You walk in after him and is hit by the sight of candles lit all over, the fire going in the fireplace, and the table set for two. It looks very romantic, more like a date than a simple dinner.
And Jack is very handsome, with the soft glow in the room, and his button-up shirt fitting so perfectly. He puts the pot down, and you bring over the glasses, and then the bottle.
Ever the gentleman, Jack pulls out the chair for you first, then sits down himself. Then you help yourself to the food, and after that, Jack holds up the glass of wine.
“Cheers, to us. For having fun by ourselves,” Jack smiles.
“Cheers to us, indeed!” you return.
After the first few bites, you realize you might have underestimated his cooking skills.
“Where'd you learn to cook like this?” you ask, not hiding the surprise in your voice all too well.
“Just because I'm an old bachelor doesn't mean I only eat TV dinners and fast food, you know. I like cooking! It's not as much fun to do when you're alone, but it keeps my brain and my hands occupied for a while.”
“You're not old,” you protest.
“Oh, darling, I'm actually old enough to be your father.”
“I have friends with boyfriends older than you,” you shrug. And Jack doesn't look old in any way. He's just like the wine you're drinking, only gotten better with age.
“Don't call them boyfriends, that sounds weird!” Jack huffs.
“Okay? What would you want to be called then, if you dated someone younger?”
“Husband!”
“Even if you're not married?” you raise your eyebrow.
“Still sounds better than boyfriend,” he argues.
You can't help but laugh and shake your head, “You're so weird!”
“Would you seriously call me your boyfriend if we were dating?” he asks, and your heart skips a beat. You know he's asking the questions because of the topic currently being discussed, not because he's fishing for a specific answer, but you still have to take a sip of wine to help the sudden dryness of your mouth.
“Maybe you'd prefer partner, then?”
“Anything that doesn't make me sound like a pubescent teenager is fine,” he says and drinks some more wine. “But if we were dating, I'd make sure to wife you up before you could think too much about it.”
It sends heat through your whole body. He must be joking. There's this look in his eyes that gives you a feeling that he's not, but it might be the flickering candles playing a prank on you.
Right as you open your mouth to say something, anything, both your phones sound with a notification.
“Huh, must be Aubrey,” Jack fishes out his phone from his pocket. “Apparently, she's staying in town because the rain is so bad,” he explains, and a frown forms on his face. “I'm gonna give her a call and make sure she's all right. Just a sec.”
As Jack leaves the table, you look out through the patio doors, and for the first time, you notice the way the wind and the rain have picked up. You've been so cradled in your bubble with Jack that you've forgotten about the outside world. And Aubrey.
Jack's daughter.
Your best friend.
Guilt like none you've ever felt before erupts in your chest. She's out in the storm, and you're in a warm cabin, flirting with her father. Are you the worst friend ever? Probably…
“Alright, I love you, bye,” Jack finishes the conversation as he steps back into the room.
“She's holed up in a hotel, and they have a backup generator in case the power goes out. I offered to come get her, but she didn't want me driving either.”
“She's sweet like that,” you smile.
“Yeah, she is,” Jack stares at the black screen on his phone, lost in thought.
“Should we clean up?” you ask and stand. Anything to break up the weird tension you feel in your stomach right now.
The two of you put the leftovers away and then do the dishes since there is no dishwasher in the cabin. Jack washes as you dry, and it's a weirdly comfortable domestic feeling, standing shoulder to shoulder. The two of you pick up your conversation again, but this time it's about books and not dating. After you're done, you just sorta migrate to the living room couch.
It's a comfy two-seater, but not very big, and as you sit sideways and talk, your legs occasionally touch. Jack tells you crazy stories from work, the fun ones, not the horrible ones. Which you're grateful for. The crow's feet around his eyes come out in full force when he's laughing, and it makes you feel hot all over. He's so handsome, you think once again, and maybe it's the alcohol giving you liquid courage that makes you ask,
“How come you never remarried after Aubrey's mom?”
The question is incredibly personal and invasive. You regret it as soon as it's out of your mouth.
“Sorry,” you apologize right away. “You don't have to answer that. I just… you're a catch with your cooking skills and your humor and your job on top of being so handsome, I just assume you'd have no trouble finding someone.”
Jack's eyes are a little on the wide side for a heartbeat before he puts his glass down on the table.
“It's fine,” he says, holding your gaze. You do the same and put away your glass because you're afraid you're going to break the stem of it if you keep holding it with a death grip.
“You think I'm handsome?” He smiles cheekily.
“Ugh!“ you bury your face in your hands from embarrassment. “Everything I said, and that's what you take from it?”
“It was the most important part. Second, that you think I'm a catch.”
“Well, you are,” you decide to be brave and look at him as you say it. You can't have him, but all the things you know about him, you value in a man. And if he has any doubts about his own worth on the dating market, you're going to throw in your two cents.
“And you're very beautiful,” he counters, “why haven't you found anyone?“
You shrug, feeling Jack's words hit you right in the chest in a way that makes your fingertips tingle, and your response rushes out, “It’s a lot of things, I guess. Me. Them. Nothing seems to work out. Maybe other people don't think I'm beautiful.”
“Their loss,” Jack's voice is lower now, and there is a swoop in your stomach from just how intensely he’s looking at you. Slowly, he inches closer to you.
“Especially if you wore this dress to the date.” Two of his fingers find their way in under the shoulder strap and move gently up and down as if to feel the fabric, but end up caressing your skin instead.
“You like it?” you ask, voice breathless. Jack is touching you and calling you beautiful. You're not imagining the flirting now, you're sure of it.
“Yeah,” he answers, voice husky. Carefully, he moves the strap down your shoulder and leaves it hanging there, before letting his fingers move their way back up. Goosebumps erupt over your skin, but you're not cold in any way. Your body feels so warm, in all the right places, and Jack's touch has ignited you.
“And your skin is so soft,” he continues. “Did you let any of your dates touch you?”
“No more than a hug.”
“Good. I don't like the idea of someone else touching you.”
“Jack,” you whisper as his fingers go towards your neck.
“Mmm, say my name the way you did in the shower.”
You stiffen and stare at him with wide eyes. Jack's fingers still, but he doesn't remove them and returns your terrified stare with a chuckle.
“You forgot to close the door all the way, and I happened to catch the best part as I walked by.”
“I- I was just-” you try to come up with any explanation for why you would say your best friend's dad's name in the shower, but you're drawing a blank.
“Don't worry about it, just tell me, did you use your hands or-?”
“The shower head,” you answer quickly, embarrassed and hot at the same time.
“Mhm. You'll have to show me some time, darling.”
You swallow and nod, “Yeah. Sure.”
His fingers then continue their gentle exploration of your skin, making you shiver in the best possible way. Never before have you been so aroused by the simplest of touches. There is a slight tremble in your own hand as you reach for Jack. It feels forbidden but also like a wish come true. It lands on his thigh, and that touch makes a groan slip from his throat.
“Fuck,” he murmurs.
Emboldened by his reaction, you push forward. He leans back against the sofa, removing his hand from you. He's just watching you right now.
You let your hand travel up his leg, then up his stomach and chest. Even through the fabric, the warmth of his skin seeps through and makes you want to press even closer. You're so hungry for him in a way you've never felt for a man before, and it's making you do daring things you never otherwise would consider. Like you're doing now, climbing into his lap, straddling him. Sure, some of it is the wine, but mostly it's him making you feel safe.
“Darling,” he breathes. There is no mistaking what you feel pressing against your soaked underwear; there is no mistaking how he feels about you.
“Yes, Jack,” you answer.
But instead of words, his hand moves to the back of your neck, and he pulls you down towards him, towards his mouth, and it's fireworks in your stomach when you finally kiss.
His other arm wraps around your waist and pulls your body closer, and in response, you wrap your arms around his neck. The kiss is slow, no need to rush, while the rainstorm batters the cabin windows. First, it's just lips, and then a tongue gently licking your lower lip, wanting more, which you give unequivocally. He tastes of the wine, but also himself, and it's a taste you need more of. You push closer. His grip gets harder. You're so wet. He's rock hard.
Wrenching his mouth free, he pants, “You're going to make me come like a teenager if you keep grinding on me.”
“I need it,” you whine.
“I know you do, darling. But I need something first.”
Before you can ask what, Jack deposits you from his lap onto the couch, and then kneels on the floor, right between your legs.
You're stunned, staring into his eyes filled to the brim with the same want you know yours reflect.
“I need this,” he says and kisses the inside of your thighs. First one, then the other.
You just nod. You don't trust your voice.
He holds your gaze a moment longer, but there is no doubt for him to see. Your biggest fear is that it's a dream and you're going to wake to your alarm going off.
But it's not a dream and his hands slide up your thighs, making you spread them wider to fit in his broad shoulders. Then his fingertips find your center, and an animalistic sound comes from him.
“You're soaked,” he notes.
“Yeah,” you simply answer.
He peels off your underwear, but instead of throwing them away, he stuffs them down his back pocket.
“I'm keeping them.”
Your cunt pulses with that simple statement, and your mind whirls with all the ways he could use them. But then his fingers are back at your naked core, and everything else is meaningless except what he's doing. He grabs the back of one of your thighs and pushes it up towards your stomach, then his tongue is on your, swiping through the wetness, and you both groan when he does.
No more words are exchanged. One of your hands lands in his hair, grabbing onto those salt and pepper curls; the other is holding onto the armrest of the couch in an attempt to anchor yourself.
There is no rush this time either; he takes his time to slowly make you insane with pleasure. Almost tipping you over but never quite getting there.
“Jack,” you finally plead. “I need your fingers inside me.”
“No,” he answers simply.
A mewl you didn't know you were capable of escapes from your throat, but he only chuckles, and maneuvers your thighs until they're both resting on his shoulders.
You don't have the brain capacity to ask why, and Jack doesn't elaborate, busy using his tongue to make you see stars. You pant, and beg, and try to not go insane. The pressure is so high in your body, and soon you can't fight it any longer, but his mouth doesn't stop when you tell him, “I'm gonna come!”
Instead, he answers with a moan, his grip on your thighs hardening, but otherwise continuing with exactly what he's doing.
The stars turn into galaxies, which explode behind your eyelids. It's a good thing no one is near for miles because they'd all know who made you feel so good. When you pry your eyes open, Jack's face is buried between your legs, your thighs practically crushing his head.
With a strangled laugh, you spread them and let him get some air.
“Sorry,” you say. Your body lies boneless against the couch, the orgasm having entirely wrecked you, but you still yearn for him, you still want more.
“Don't say that, it was my pleasure,” he smiles and then clamber to his feet with some effort.
A pang of guilt fills your chest. You didn't think about his leg.
“Are you okay?”
You sit up, ready to spring into action if he needs anything.
Instead, his hand caresses your cheek. He's standing right in front of you, and the tent in his pants is clear, but you're only looking up into his eyes, trying to see if he's hiding pain from you.
“I forgot about your leg,” you explain. “You didn't need to do that. We could have made it more comfortable for you.”
“Don't stress about it, darling. I know what I'm capable of, and when it's too much.”
Those words calm you a bit, and you caress his thighs, up to the bulge, smoothing your hand over it gently.
He hisses at the touch.
“Sit down,” you say, patting the cushion beside you. He doesn't look away from you once while he does, and you remove your hand for a bit to let him. Then it's right back over his bulge again.
“So, do you want to come in my mouth or in my pussy,” you lean in to whisper in his ear and then burst out in a giggle when his mouth drops open. You feel as if you can be fully yourself when you're with him, and you're taking full advantage of it.
“Darling…” his voice is hoarse.
“Yes?”
“Whatever you want, I'll have it.”
“Mmhm,” you bite your lip and start undoing his pants, then pulling them and his boxers down enough to get his cock out. Your mouth waters and your cunt pulses. Just as you suspected, he's perfectly thick and already leaking, the pre-cum making him slick under your palm as you drag your hand up and down. You watch as his eyes flutter closed, and his chest starts to rise and fall more rapidly. Seeing him this way makes the decision easy for you.
Throwing your knee over him, you straddle his lap once again, and his eyes pop open at the same time as his hands land on your hips immediately, gripping hard. You hold his gaze as you stand up on your knees and swipe his length through the wet mess of you.
“Fuck, darling, sit on my cock. Let me feel that perfect cunt grip me,” he rasps out.
A realization hits you just then, and you still, “Do you have a condom?”
“I've had a vasectomy, darling. Are you okay with that? I'm all clean.”
“Yeah, yeah, me too.“
You want to look at him as you sink down, but the feeling of him filling your pussy is so divine you involuntarily close your eyes. When you're all the way down, you lean your forehead against his. His hands let go of your hips to grab your face, and that makes you open your eyes, and then you move.
Placing your hands on the couch behind him, you lift to drop down, over and over again. You share breath and kisses as you move and don't care that he ate you out mere minutes ago. As you rock your hips, your clit presses against his body most deliciously, and it becomes glaringly obvious to you how long you've been without sex when just that feeling almost sends you toppling again.
“I can feel you squeeze me, darling. Are you going to come again?”
“Maybe,” you gasp and move your hands to grip his shoulders.
His hands don't go back to your hips as you expect. Instead, he pulls down the top of your dress until your tits spill out. Without preamble, he grips them, sucking one nipple into his mouth while pinching the other. The sight of him there, together with the delicious feeling of his dick, takes you right to the edge, so close to coming.
“I- I think. I think I'm gonna come again!” you tell him.
He lets go of your breast and says, “Good! Use my body, darling, take what you need, let me feel you come on my cock!“
Your grip on him hardens, your hips rock faster.
“Jack, oh god, Jack!” you chant.
“That's it, darling, just like that.”
“I'm gonna come, I'm gonna-. Fuck, Jack! Aaaah!”
Your body convulses, liquid heat erupts from your center out through your body, and you collapse against him, burying your face in the crook of his neck as every muscle in your body tenses and then relaxes over and over again, until only the smallest tremors remain.
When it's mostly over, you lie there and try to catch your breath. Jack's arms circle your waist, pressing you hard against him, and then he thrusts up into you, fucking your pliant body. If you weren't spent already, you'd chase another orgasm with him, but instead you grip him, one hand on his neck and the other in his hair.
“Jack, you feel so good!” you tell him as you kiss any skin you can reach.
“I'm gonna fill you up with my cum.”
“Please!“
“This cunt is fucking perfect for me. Taking me so well.”
His mouth is right by your ear, whispering, grunting, moaning as he chases his own high.
You answer him with rolling your hips, biting his skin, telling him how fucking good he feels. It's ridiculous to feel horny when you're already getting fucked, but everything about Jack makes you crazy. You wish it never had to stop. You want to be stuck in the cabin, in the rainstorm with him until the end of days. Fucking, kissing, talking, laughing.
“I need your cum in me. Make me yours. Please, Jack, I wanna be yours,” you whimper.
“Oh, darling, you are. The moment I saw you in that dress tonight, I knew you'd be mine.”
His grip tightens, his hips stutter. You do your best to help as he growls your name, and you feel his cum paint the inside of your pussy.
Slowly, the world starts to materialize around you again as you try to catch your breath and come down off your high. The wind still howls, and the fire still crackles. You're not sure how long you stay connected, but Jack goes soft, and the cum runs out of you, but neither of you wants to move. In the end, it's the sweat that has accumulated on your skin cooling that makes you start to shiver.
“Let's get into the shower,” Jack says with a kiss, and you begin to clamber off him, while also taking stock of the mess, not sure if the stains will ever wash out of Jack's pants and underwear. With a silly smile, you hold out your hand and help him up, both of you walking to the bedroom, his bedroom.
Jack leads you with him into the shower of his en suite after you undress. It's bigger than the bathroom you share with Aubrey, and there is a chair for Jack to sit while he showers. You don't want to wash away the evidence of what happened, but it feels alright anyway when it's Jack's steady hands that help you get clean.
After having dried off, you crawl in under the covers together, but it's not to sleep, it's to be close. And you lie on his chest, listening to his heart.
“What do you want to tell Aubrey?” Jack asks after a while, as his fingers caress your skin.
“I don't know. What do you want to tell her?“
Jack’s hand stills, and then, without warning, he rolls on top of you. Your legs spread by instinct, and he fits perfectly between them. He's hard again, and just that simple feeling of his dick against your unprotected cunt makes you needy. He balances on his elbows above you as he speaks, stealing kisses in between that do nothing to soothe your want for him.
“I want to tell her that we're together. That I'm your partner, or boyfriend,” he rolls his eyes at that. “I want to have a reason to go home and stay home. I want to cook and clean and argue with you.” His hand moves down, finding your entrance and feeling that you're drenched again. He pumps his fingers in you a few times, then notches his dick at your opening, “And I want to fuck you until you can't move,” and pushes inside.
You wrap your legs around him, feeling the stretch of not being fully ready, together with some lingering soreness from before, but that fades when he hits your G-spot.
“I want it,” you answer. “I want you!”
The night is spent alternating between fucking, sleeping, cuddling, and talking. By the time it's light outside, you're getting out of bed with too few hours of sleep, but the roads are getting cleared, and Aubrey texted that she's on her way back.
You’re flittering, nervous. Jack takes your hands in his. They're warm and grounding.
“What if she hates me?“
“She won't.“
The front door opens.
Aubrey calls out.
You hear the pulse in your ears.
Your palms are clammy.
“What is going on?” are the first words out of her mouth.
You swallow, look at Jack, and he takes your hand, entwining your fingers together.
Sorry, Millennials, but recent paleontologist findings and hyolaryngeal apparatus reconstructions no longer support the hypothesis that "rawr" means "I love you" in dinosaur.
