carmen’s mouth had learned restraint before it had ever learned tenderness.
you noticed it the second he kissed you for the first time.
even now, weeks later, after every lingering glance had turned into stolen kisses and every accidental touch had become something neither of you bothered pretending was accidental anymore, he still kissed you like he was standing at the edge of something he wasn't sure he deserved.
he'd kiss you until your lungs forgot themselves, then pull away first. his thumb would brush your cheek, only to disappear into his pocket a heartbeat later. his hand would settle on your waist and stay perfectly still, as though even his fingers knew better than to ask for more.
and it drove you a little insane.
not because he wasn't passionate. because he was. you felt it every time he looked at you.
there were moments he'd forget himself—just for a second. his eyes would drop to your mouth and his jaw would tighten. his tattooed hand would flex against your hip before he caught it, like he'd touched a hot stove instead of your body.
then he'd put another inch between you.
always another inch.
this afternoon was no different.
you'd barely closed your apartment door before his mouth was on yours, deep and hard enough to steal your breath. it was the breaking point of something that had been simmering since the train ride home—standing face-to-face on the crowded L while chicago rattled past around you. you hadn't noticed a single stop. you’d been entirely consumed by each other, both of you desperate for exactly this moment.
for one impossible minute, he forgot.
his hand slid beneath the hem of your sweater, warm palm spreading across the small of your back. he paused, caught between the urge to slide higher against your skin or shift down to the waistband of your jeans.
his body pressed yours against the door and you could feel the way he wanted you. not imagined it. felt it.
every restrained breath. every tremor in the hand resting against your skin. every ounce of restraint holding him together.
then he realized what he was doing. and his hand disappeared.
"...s-sorry."
you frowned.
"for what?"
"i don't..." he rubbed a hand over his face. "i got carried away."
"you kissed me."
"i know."
"you touched me."
"i know."
"as far as crimes go..."
"i'm serious."
"so am i."
he looked away.
god, he looked guilty. as if wanting you had become a liability—something he'd have to apologize for. it felt like shit.
you stepped closer until there wasn't enough room for him to retreat without physically moving you.
"carmen."
his eyes found yours immediately.
you reached for his hand and turned it over in your own, tracing the pale burns across his fingers.
"i'm not made of glass."
he offered a brief, sharp sound that barely passed for a laugh.
"i know."
"no," you shook your head. "i don't think you do."
you were so close that your chest brushed his with every breath. you were right in his face, trapping him in your orbit, forcing him to look at you.
"you know what i think?"
he shook his head.
"i think you're terrified of your own hands."
his throat worked.
"you hold yourself back like wanting me is a sin, like it’s unfair to me. but i'm not-i’m not some perfect thing you have to preserve."
"it's not that."
"no?"
"no."
"then what is it?"
he was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn't answer.
when he finally did, his voice was barely audible.
“what if…” he swallowed, the sound thick in the tiny space between you. “what if i want more than you’re ready to give? what if it’s too much? what if i’m… i’m too much?”
the confession settled heavily between you.
and all you could think about was the history of his hesitation. every interrupted kiss. every unnecessary apology. every hand that had pulled away just when you were begging it to stay.
"i just don't wanna become..." his voice cracked around the words. "someone who takes."
the armor he wore made sense. his family, his history, the ghosts of his past—everything shifted into focus. the shape of his trauma was suddenly entirely clear.
"you won't."
"you don't know that."
"i do."
"no." his head shook once. "you don't know what it's like in my head."
you offered him a smile. soft, patient, and so unbearably fond it was a weapon.
"no."
your thumb brushed over his bottom lip.
"but i know what it's like in mine."
he opened his eyes, staring down at you with the sudden, terrifying certainty that you were absolute ruin to a man like him.
"i spend half my time wishing you'd stop kissing me like you're saying goodbye."
something ached inside him.
"i don't need perfect," you said while your fingers slid into the hair at the nape of his neck. "i don't need careful."
you felt him inhale sharply.
"i need honest."
beside your waist, his hands hovered. still asking. still waiting.
so you took them. your fingers touched his first, and then your palms met the skin of his forearms, smoothing up the strong line of his muscles. you dragged his hands back down, settling them over your hips, and held them there against you.
"carmy."
his eyes searched yours, looking for hesitation, for uncertainty, for some sign he should let go. to let you escape him.
"i am not something you'll wear out by loving me."
his fingers dug into your hips, a purely involuntary reflex.
your voice dropped to a whisper, the words brushing against his lips: "you can handle me."
carmen’s entire body stilled, a sudden, blinding heat flaring beneath his skin.
when he kissed you again, it wasn't gentler. it was surer, firmer. you met him with everything you had, closing off any path of retreat.
he parted his lips just enough to catch his breath, then let his forehead drop against yours, resting his weight there with his eyes closed.
“i…” his voice caught. he let out a single, quiet laugh at his own expense, shaking his head once against you. “jesus.”
you brushed your thumb across his cheek.
"what?"
he opened his eyes.
there was nowhere left to hide.
"i want you."
the words came out rough, almost disbelieving.
"so much."
another kiss found you before you could reply.
"i've wanted you..." he whispered between breaths, his lips brushing yours again, "...for so long. i just kept thinking… if i let myself feel all of it… if i let you feel–"
"you'd ruin it?"
he nodded once.
you answered by stealing another kiss, teasingly slow at first, until he broke and met you with the exact same hunger you’d been carrying for weeks.
his hand slid gently into you hair, cradling the back of your head as he held you close. when you tilted your head to give him easier access, he brushed a trail of kisses along the curve beneath your ear, lingering there for just a moment.
you bunched the fabric of his t-shirt in your fist, gaze never leaving his.
carmen understood immediately.
slowly, he stripped it off and let it fall to the floor. you mirrored him, pulling your sweater over your head.
there was no rush. but there was no uncertainty, either.
just the two of you, topless in your poorly lit living room, blood rushing hot through your veins, entirely ready to let the inevitable happen. because this thing between you, this pull—it was undeniable.
"so ‘s this okay?" he asked, one last time.
"it's more than okay."
he kissed you once more, smiling against your lips when you smiled back. another grin broke across his face when your fingers brushed against his stomach, his abs tightening instinctively as you undid the button of his pants.
outside, the city carried on without either of you.
inside, time seemed content to wait.
when his trembling fingers fumbled with the clasp of your bra, his mouth dropped down to kiss your collarbone, and any thought of tomorrow completely vanished. you tried to force yourself to think about the future, but it was impossible; you were too entirely consumed by the electric shock of your naked skin finally meeting his, and the heavy, desperate slide of his hands pushing your jeans down your hips.
there were still conversations to have, fears to untangle, names for whatever this was.
but all of that could wait until another day. right now, there was only this. and the overwhelming realization that you never wanted this feeling to end.
nutrition facts: 18+ themes, fem!reader, strippers, cursing, drinking, lingerie, male orgasm, pt. 1/2
Carmen could feel the place before he saw it. This part of town felt different from the rest; the air was thicker and warmer, thousands of perfumes overlapping and mixing with the smell of the sea air. Streetlights seemingly dimmer and farther between. The sidewalks thumped under their feet with the bass of 3 dozen bars and clubs in the surrounding 3 miles.
You wouldn't think Middle-to-Northern East Coast towns would be good party spots, but Richie swore by this town.
“I'm telling you, it's the perfect spot for your 27th!” Richie insisted. It took some convincing to visit this “hidden gem” of a sea-side city, but when Syd and Fak joined in with Richie's praises of the town, they managed to collectively break his walls down with only minimal threatening.
Richie strolls up to the bouncer, throwing an arm around Carmy's shoulders to keep him from running away. “It's my cousin's birthday,” he declares proudly. “Congratulations,” the bouncer says stoically. “ID and entry?”
“Entry?” Carmy glances at Richie, who was fishing in his wallet. The older man doesn't answer him at first, muttering to himself as he searches, so Carmy repeats his question, confused. “Richie, entry?”
“Twenty to get in, but I got it bro, it's your birthday. You're getting your own drinks, though,” Richie tells him, smacking his back.
They hand over their IDs for inspection which are accepted and returned. Richie pays the fine gentleman with the taser in his belt and they are ushered in.
The interior of the building is even darker than it is outside. Every booth and curved couch is sunken into the ground Conversation-Pit Style in a U-shape around the main stage. Curtains flanked the walls, most of them closed, all though some were open, revealing smaller rooms. Low lights made it hard to see, but that sort of felt like the point. It was easier to be unashamed of your actions when no one could see your face clearly.
As they sat, a girl soon approached, as if waiting just out of their original line of sight.
You crouch down beside the couch pit, smiling at the two men brightly. Carmen quickly looks away, embarrassed by your outfit, or lack thereof. “Good evening, gentlemen, is this your first time at Lucky's?” You ask them. “Not mine,” Richie speaks up. “But my cousin, yes. It's his birthday.” You gasp, turning to Carmen. “Oh, a birthday we say? How wonderful. And how old are you, sweetheart?” You coo, sitting with your feet hanging into the pit.
You cross your legs and he glances up at you, seemingly uncomfortable or maybe nervous. His eyes dart to your bare thighs, glittering with a body shimmer in the low lights.
“Um… 27,” he mutters.
You lean a little bit closer and your perfume washes over him in waves. “My my, not such a ‘sweetheart’ then are we?” You murmur, your voice low and warm. “Would you prefer a ‘sir’ as I serve you drinks and ass?” He hesitates, his tongue tying itself in knots in his mouth. His coherence lowers rapidly and a blush begins to spread across his face.
Richie laughs, clapping him on the back. “You can call him anything you want, darlin’,” he tells you, handing you a twenty already. “He's just a little shy. Would you mind loosening him up?”
You tuck the bill in your bra, raising an eyebrow. “Just a Jackson? C'mon, baby, you can do better.” Richie hands you more money from Carmy's pocket, against the blonde's protests. You see a flash of three more twenties and you slide into the pit, pushing Richie aside.
Instead of being offended, Richie just leaves, understanding that this was something only for Carmen.
“So, birthday boy, do you have a name?” You ask him, crossing your legs. He tries not to look at you, feeling a sense of guilt, like he was already objectifying you. As if the lingerie and poles didn't tip him off that that was the point of this place. “I um… Carmen,” he tells you. “Carmen,” you murmur. “Never heard that name on a guy before.” “Well, my mom was a character.” “I'm not saying I don't like it,” you assure him. He flashes a half-hearted smile and looks away again.
Damn. This might be the hardest 80 bucks you ever had to earn.
You catch the attention of the bartender, making a vague gesture and he pours two drinks. One of your coworkers brings them over to you. “Thank you, Katie,” you say, handing one of the drinks to Carmen. “What is it?" “Just a little whiskey. Don't worry, its house, not premium,” you say, sipping your own drink. He takes a small sip, then sets it aside. You prop your chin on your fist, watching him fidget.
“Is this your first time in a strip club ever?” You ask him softly. Carm goes tense, glancing at you with a slight worry, like you just found out a horrible secret of his. Instead of laughing or making fun, you just smile.
“I'm not really… that kind of guy,” he tells you. “This kind of place isn't really my scene.” “Well, what is your scene?” He sighs, scratching his neck almost anxiously. “Um… a kitchen.” “A kitchen? You cook?” “I'm a chef,” he confirms. “Oh, what kind?” He hesitates. “...Like what kind of food do you make?” You clarify.
“Oh, uh… Well, I own a place. In Chicago. A sandwich shop right now. But I'm hoping to turn it around, make it a bit more gourmet.” You lean in, tilting your head. “Oh? Where in Chicago?” “River North,” he tells you. “Oh, cool! I got family in West Town! What kind of gourmet are we talking?” He hesitates again.
Carmen hadn't expected you to be so curious about his personal life. Was this a Stripper Thing or just a You Thing?
“Y-y'know, just… pasta, steak… things,” he tells you, all his previous thoughts of a menu embarrassingly gone from his head.
You laugh, your head tipping back. “Pasta and steak and things. I'll have to stop by sometime when I'm in the area then.” He glances at you again, taking in your at-ease posture. You were so relaxed in this atmosphere. Was spending your nights in lingerie talking to nervous guys something you had needed to grow accustomed to or were you always so easy going? Would it be rude to ask you how you got into this line of work?
While you're looking away, he finally allows himself to really look at you. He insists to himself that it's simply curiosity and he's not objectifying you at all.
The way you were dressed seemed intentional, hinting at an innocence that was out of place in an establishment such as this. A black babydoll piece, fluffy and silken and see through, tied ribbons holding it up on your shoulders. Little black kitten heels adorned your feet. You seemed almost out of place. Almost. It was still lingerie, so you obviously were one of the workers here, but you just seemed… different.
“I uh… Never got your name,” he says, his voice barely a whisper. You supply it, the sounds rolling off your tongue in a manner that shouldn't have made him feel the way it did. “That's… a nice name,” he tells you, finally, for the first time in this interaction, meeting your eyes.
At the sight of his eyes, your face lights up. “Oh, your eyes are so beautiful,” you whisper, leaning in. He quickly looks away. “Thanks,” he mumbles. “No, I wanna- lemme see them again.” You move to look at his face again. For a moment he considers being childish and closing his eyes or covering his face, but that would be stupid. Despite his anxiety, he lets you catch his eye again and your smile so often. “They're so blue,” you murmur. He hesitates, but thanks you softly.
“You have wonderful eyelashes for a guy. And your skin is so clear. Do you have a routine or is it just genetics?”
This was certainly not what he pictured his first interaction with a stripper to be. You could be doing this simply to put him at ease since he was very obviously nervous. But this could also be your true personality and you genuinely wanted to know. He didn’t know which was better.
“Uh, just… wash my face in the morning,” he murmurs. “Ugh, lucky,” you sigh. “I wish that was all I needed.” “I’m sure you’re very beautiful without all of this.” Carmen reaches for your face, his knuckles just barely grazing your cheek before he quickly pulls his hand away, realizing that might be inappropriate. Your eyes widen, but you don’t pull away. Instead of being upset, you offer a smile. “Isn’t that supposed to be my job?” You tease softly. He looks away, stammering some form of apology that you don’t care to listen to. “Sweetheart, I’m messing with you,” you tell him.
“I’m still sorry. I know you’re not supposed to touch the…” “The strippers?” A blush touches his cheeks. He gives no form of an answer, too embarrassed to use that term out loud to describe such a beautiful and kind woman he was with.
“It’s alright if they give you permission and… I think I might do just that,” you tell him, scooting a little closer. The air between the two of you seems thicker. Whether it was a romantic tension or just his own anxiety, Carmen couldn’t tell.
You reach over, gently placing your hand on his knee. “Carmen…” His name sounds heavenly falling from your glossed lips. “Please don’t ignore me… I didn’t mean to embarrass you.” You didn’t mean to sound so sultry, but your tone made Carmy go red. Slowly, your hand moves a bit higher on his thigh. A tension fills him, his body going rigid as your touch nears his growing problem. He prays you don’t notice it, but it was impossible for you not to. Your eyes never left him. Your touch was inching right for it.
You had indeed noticed the tent in his pants, choosing not to verbally acknowledge it, but instead using touch and implication to show your awareness. It was a bit flattering. It meant you were earning those $80 his cousin gave you to “loosen him up”.
Suddenly, the wall seemed very important, because that was all Carmen would look at. “Carmen,” you purr, gently turning his face back to you. A small, strangled sound comes from his throat and he goes tense, well tense-er. “I-I'm not ignoring you,” he breathes. “Good… Because it's very rude, don't you know?” You whisper, rubbing his thigh. “I-I know,” he says, his voice shaking. “You look like a boy with good manners,” you murmur. “So why don't you… use them?”
He chokes on a gasp, his body going tense again as your fingers finally brush his growing erection. Just as you think you might finally be getting somewhere, a warmth spreads under your fingertips and the bulge begins to go down. You glance, surprised to see a wet mark covering his lap. Carmen is bright red, stammering and cursing and stuttering over apologies and such. He was positively humiliated. How the fuck did his birthday go from morning coffee overlooking the beach to cumming in his pants, practically untouched, in front of the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
You silence his apologies by kneeling in front of him, trailing a teasing lick up the front of his pants before standing again. “You're really cute,” you murmur, wetting your lips. “I hate to go, but… I gotta be onstage. I hope you'll forgive me.” Before he could respond, you tuck a card between his lips; a business card for the establishment but with the building phone number crossed out and yours scribbled below.
“Thanks…,” he breathes around the card, his eyes full of warmth and an emotion you didn't really have the name for. Whatever it was, it made your stomach turn. “Keep in touch, Carmen?” He nods quickly and you smile. “That's a good boy… Happy birthday.”
a/n: I have a confession to make- I never finished watching the Bear. the Fight or Flight it gives me is unparalleled and I genuinely had to stop partly through Fishes because I was so tense my Ceramics teacher actually came over to check on me l
like this one? well, I got plenty more where that came from! I even made a Masterlist
you’re sitting at the small table by the window, laptop open, half a cup of coffee gone cold beside you. something for work, something that needs your full attention — and you’re giving it. brows slightly furrowed, fingers moving steadily across the keyboard.
carmy’s been moving around the apartment for the past half hour. not loud. never loud. just… there.
drawer opens. closes. the fridge hums. a cabinet door taps shut a little too carefully.
he glances at you.
you feel it, but you don’t look up.
he leans against the counter, arms crossed, watching you like he’s trying to decide something.
you still don’t look up.
he exhales, quiet, and pushes off the counter.
“hey,” he says.
“hm?” you answer, distracted, eyes still on the screen.
he hovers for a second, then steps closer. “what’re you working on?”
“just something i need to finish,” you mumble. “give me like ten minutes?”
he nods. “yeah. yeah, okay.”
he doesn’t move.
you type a few more lines before it registers — his presence, right there, just slightly too close.
you glance up.
he’s standing beside your chair, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweats, looking at you in that soft, unsure way he gets when he wants something but doesn’t know how to ask for it.
“what?” you ask, a smile tugging at your mouth.
he shrugs. “nothing.”
you raise an eyebrow. “carmy.”
a beat.
“…can i sit?” he asks, like it’s not his own apartment.
you laugh under your breath. “yeah, come here.”
that’s all the permission he needs.
he slides into the chair beside you, close enough that his knee presses against yours. then closer. until his shoulder is brushing your arm, warm and steady.
you try to keep working.
you really do.
but then his hand finds your thigh, absentminded, thumb tracing slow, idle patterns like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. his head tilts slightly, resting just barely against yours for a second before he pulls back, like he’s testing the boundary.
you don’t pull away.
so he does it again. this time staying there.
“you said ten minutes,” he murmurs.
“i know, i’m sorry,” you say, softer now.
“it’s been like… eight.”
you huff a quiet laugh. “you’re actually counting?”
“no,” he says immediately. then, after a second, “maybe.”
you finally close the laptop halfway, turning toward him. “you’re being clingy.”
he freezes.
“…’m not.”
you smile, reaching up to push a curl off his forehead. “you are.”
he looks at you, caught, but he doesn’t deny it this time. just shrugs, a little helpless.
“just wanna be close to you,” he admits, voice low.
that does it.
you soften completely, hand sliding to the back of his neck, pulling him in. he goes easily, like he was already halfway there, forehead bumping yours before his lips find yours.
the kiss is warm, a little desperate in that quiet way. like he’s been holding it in, like this is what he needed all along. his hand tightens on your thigh, the other coming up to cradle your jaw, grounding, anchoring.
you hum softly against his mouth, and he melts into it, tension draining out of him all at once.
when you pull back, he stays close, nose brushing yours.
“hi,” you whisper.
he smiles, small and soft and completely gone for you. “hi, baby.”
you close the laptop fully this time, setting it aside.
“ten minutes can wait,” you say.
he nods, drawn back to you by a pull he clearly can’t fight.
he catches your mouth with his again, before you can even say anything else. like the space between you is suddenly unacceptable.
your laugh gets swallowed by his mouth, soft and surprised, and his hand tightens on your thigh, pulling you closer — closer than you already are, like he’s trying to erase whatever distance was there before.
“carmy—” you murmur, smiling against his lips.
“yeah,” he breathes, not stopping.
he shifts in his chair, angling himself toward you fully now, one arm sliding around your waist. and then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he tugs you — gently but insistently — until you’re halfway in his lap.
you blink. “what are you—”
“stay,” he says, quiet, almost shy, but his grip doesn’t loosen.
you huff a soft laugh. “i am staying.”
“no, like—” he exhales, forehead pressing into your shoulder for a second. “like this.”
and there it is again. that honesty he only gives you.
you soften instantly, shifting properly this time, settling into his lap. his arms wrap around you like he’s been waiting to do that all day, holding you close, one hand splayed warm against your back.
he lets out a breath you feel more than hear.
“better,” he mumbles.
you run your fingers through his hair, slow, soothing. “you’re really not letting me go, huh?”
“no,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, steady vow. it isn’t just about this moment. it’s a claim on every second you’re willing to give him.
you smile against the sharp line of his jaw. “clingy.”
“…yeah,” he admits, after a second.
there’s no embarrassment in it now. just truth.
he nuzzles closer, face tucked into your neck, and for a moment he just stays there — breathing you in, grounding himself, like this is the only place he wants to be.
you tilt your head, pressing a kiss into his hair.
“what brought this on?” you ask softly.
he shrugs, but his arms tighten. “you were busy.”
“for ten minutes, babe.”
“yeah,” he says, like that explains everything.
you laugh quietly, but your grip on him tightens too, fingers tracing slow patterns along his strong back.
“you could’ve just said you missed me.”
he huffs, pulling back just enough to look at you. “i did.”
“no, you hovered,” you tease.
he narrows his eyes a little, but there’s no heat in it. “same thing.”
“not even close.”
he leans in again, stealing another kiss, slower this time, like he’s proving a point. his thumb brushes along your side, absentminded, grounding, like he needs to keep feeling you there.
when he pulls back, he doesn’t go far.
“i missed you,” he says properly this time.
your expression softens, completely undone by how sincere he sounds.
“i was right here,” you whisper.
“yeah,” he murmurs, resting his forehead against yours. “i know. still.”
you don’t argue with that.
you just wrap your arms around him, settle deeper into his hold, and let him keep you there — as long as he wants.
your laptop sits forgotten while you kiss for what feels like hours. and carmen berzatto doesn’t loosen his grip once.
The thought of giving Carmy a handjob in the car on your way to a dinner date 😵💫😵💫
He looks too good not to. Out of his normal garb, donning instead a pair of slacks that hugged his thighs just right, and a baby blue button up rolled to his elbows, he has you drooling. Toughened forearms on display, shiny wristwatch bringing attention back to his veiny hands—those hands that make you so soft, so pliant for him, those hands that do everything for you. And the way he drives you wherever you please, with one hand gripping the wheel and the other squeezing your thigh, or toying with your hair, or held in your hands.
He couldn’t be sexier if he tried.
You first strike at a red light. You take his free arm into your grasp, thumbing at the sinew the way he likes, and purr as you kiss the back of his hand. “Carmy?”
“What’s up, baby?” He stays facing forward, illuminated by a red glow, yet brings your hand to his lips so you get a kiss of your own.
Leaning in a bit closer across the console, you graze your hand up his neck and by his jaw. “Can I have a kiss?”
His eyes flit your way, shooting back to the traffic light. Still red. Smiling, he urges you his way. “Gotta make it quick, alright? Light’s gonna—”
But you kiss him before he can say too much, humming an Mhmmm to say you understand, deep and sensual and definitely leaving behind a stain of lipstick he’ll have to scrub off before entering the restaurant.
Just in time, he pulls away to check the light ahead as it turns green. He’s too sweet not to apologize for the inconvenience, so he brings your knuckles to his lips—even though you’re fucking insatiable, and your hand slips to his chest, then sternum, then stomach, then his belt—
“Baby,” he warns, “You’re distractin’ me.”
But you kiss his jaw, fresh with aftershave, and kiss his pulse even harder. “You just look so handsome, honey,” you whine, palming over the front of his slacks, “Don’t wanna wait till after dinner to have you.”
He groans, then, white knuckles the wheel, hisses with an intake of breath. He’s hard already, you can feel it, throbbing beneath your hand, arousal swirling in your gut and making you press your thighs together.
“Please, Carmy, jus’ lemme help you…”
Yeah…help. As if you didn’t get him wound up in the first place.
“Y’know…” He pauses, weighing what he wants versus what he knows he should do. “It’s not safe to drive like that.”
A kiss to his cheek, then his jaw, your voice purring in his ear: “I’m not the one driving.”
“Baby—”
See, now, you know that tone—it’s firm, and it’s demanding, with next to nothing behind it. Flush runs up past the collar of his shirt, and he takes one hand off the wheel to grab that pesky hand of yours, bringing it to his lips again like it’ll turn you off course.
You send him those babydoll eyes. “Just lemme see it, please?” Then a hand on his lap, another kiss to his cheek. “I’ll be good for you…”
Before the syllable can trail off to completion the car jerks to the right with a mumbled Sorry, baby slipping past his lips as he peels onto a side street.
The car stops.
Your lips curl into a smile.
A deep sigh leaves his chest, his hands go for his belt, his head rears back. “You’re fuckin’ insane, y’know that?”
“Maybe.”
There’s little else for him to do other than give you what you want. Well, there’s that, and then cleaning the lipstick off his face, and wiping the mascara from under your eyes once he’s done with you.
And, hey, only five minutes late for the reservation? No harm, no foul.
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