Warnings: Explicit sexual content, smut, supply closet sex, rough sex, multiple orgasms, wall sex, praise kink, power dynamics (attending/resident), canon character/reader insert, established tension/UST, post-shift exhaustion sex, marking/hickies, dom/sub undertones
Summary: Sixteen hours into a brutal mass casualty shift at Pittsburgh Trauma, you're running on fumes and adrenaline. When Dr. Jack Abbott corners you in a supply closet and pins your wrist above your head against the wall, all that professional tension finally snaps. He whispers praise against your neck—and then he shows you exactly how he rewards competence.
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The fluorescent lights of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center's ER had never felt so harsh. Sixteen hours. Sixteen hours of screaming patients, arterial spray on your scrubs, and the kind of decisions that would haunt you in your sleep. The mass casualty incident had stretched the department to its breaking point, and you were running on fumes, adrenaline, and the dregs of cold coffee from six hours ago.
You'd lost track of how many lives you'd touched tonight—stitched, stabilized, or said goodbye to. Your hands were still shaking slightly as you peeled off your bloodied gloves in the empty supply closet, trying to find a moment of quiet in the chaos.
That's when you felt him behind you.
You didn't hear footsteps. You never did with Jack Abbott. The man moved like a shadow when he wanted to, all coiled intensity and controlled silence. But you felt the shift in the air, the way the temperature seemed to spike, the prickling awareness that danced across your skin.
"Don't turn around," his voice rumbled, low and rough from hours of shouting orders over the din of trauma bays.
Your breath caught. You'd been working under Dr. Abbott for eight months now, enduring his exacting standards, his brutal teaching methods, the way he demanded perfection and settled for nothing less. He was relentless, uncompromising, and—God help you—absolutely magnetic in his intensity.
"Jack—" you started, but his hand was already moving, lightning fast, closing around your wrist.
"Up," he commanded, and you felt yourself lifted, your arm raised above your head as he spun you, pressing your back against the cold metal shelving. His body crowded against yours, all hard planes and coiled strength, the dark scrubs beneath, still damp with sweat from the marathon shift.
Your heart hammered against your ribs as he pinned your wrist against the shelf above you, his other hand coming to brace beside your head, caging you in completely. The supply closet suddenly felt impossibly small, filled with the scent of him—antiseptic, sweat, and something darker, masculine and intoxicating.
"You were incredible today," he murmured, his mouth hovering inches from your ear. His breath was hot against your neck, sending shivers racing down your spine. "I watched you. That chest tube in Bay Three. The kid in respiratory distress. You didn't flinch. You didn't break."
Your throat went dry. "Jack, we can't—"
"Can't?" His laugh was dark, almost dangerous. "I've watched you for months. Watching you bend over stretchers, your ass in those scrubs. Watching your hands work, steady and sure. Do you know what that does to me? To watch competence made flesh? To want someone who knows exactly what they're doing with their hands?"
He pressed closer, and you felt it then—the hard, thick outline of his arousal grinding against your hip. A whimper escaped your lips before you could stop it.
"Now let me reward you," he whispered, and then his mouth was on your neck, hot and demanding.
His teeth grazed your pulse point, sucking hard enough to bruise, to mark, and your knees went weak. You'd imagined this—God, you'd imagined this—during late-night shifts when he stood too close, when his hand brushed yours passing instruments, when those storm-gray eyes pinned you with a look that felt like it stripped you bare.
But imagination was nothing compared to reality.
Jack Abbott kissed like he practiced medicine—with absolute confidence, devastating precision, and no mercy. His tongue traced the column of your throat, licking and tasting, while his free hand slid down your side, gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.
"You have no idea," he growled against your skin, "how hard it was to watch you save that kid tonight and not drag you into the nearest empty room. Do you know what competence does to me? To watch someone be good at something that matters?"
His hand slid lower, palming your ass and squeezing, grinding you against the hard ridge of his cock. You gasped, your free hand flying to his chest, feeling the rapid thunder of his heart beneath your palm.
"Jack—"
"Tell me to stop," he challenged, lifting his head to meet your eyes. His gaze was wild, blown wide with desire, the controlled attending completely shattered. "Tell me to stop and I will. I'll walk away. We'll pretend this never happened."
You looked at him—really looked at him. The lines of exhaustion around his eyes, the stubble darkening his jaw, the way his hair was mussed from running his hands through it during the crisis. He was beautiful in his intensity, in his hunger, in the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world worth having.
"Don't stop," you breathed.
A predatory smile curved his lips. "Good girl."
His mouth crashed against yours, and the kiss was devastating—deep and filthy, his tongue sweeping inside to claim you, to taste you, to take. You moaned into it, arching against him, feeling the hard planes of his body pressed flush against yours.
His hand left your hip to grip your thigh, hiking your leg up around his waist, opening you to him. The new position had him grinding against your core, and even through layers of scrubs, the friction made you see stars.
"Fuck," he groaned, breaking the kiss to pant against your lips. "You feel that? That's what you do to me. That's how hard I am for you. Sixteen hours of watching you be brilliant, and I've been hard since hour three."
His hand slid between your bodies, finding the waistband of your scrubs and pushing inside. You gasped as his fingers brushed over your stomach, dipping lower, lower, until they found the damp heat of your underwear.
"Already wet," he observed with dark satisfaction. "Were you thinking about me while you were suturing? While you were saving lives?"
"Yes," you admitted, the word torn from you as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finding your clit with unerring accuracy.
He circled the sensitive bundle of nerves with devastating precision, his medical knowledge of anatomy apparently extending to exactly how to make you fall apart. You cried out, your head falling back against the shelf, and he took advantage, mouthing at your exposed throat.
"Keep quiet," he commanded, even as he increased the pressure, rubbing tight, perfect circles that had your hips bucking. "Unless you want half the ER to hear what I'm doing to you."
You bit your lip, stifling another moan as he slid lower, two fingers pressing against your entrance before pushing inside. The stretch was exquisite, his fingers thick and skilled, curling to find that spot inside you that made your vision blur.
"Jack—oh God—"
"That's it," he encouraged, pumping his fingers in a steady rhythm, his thumb continuing to work your clit. "Let me feel you. Let me feel how tight you are, how much you want this. Want me."
You were spiraling, the dual sensation of his fingers inside you and his mouth on your neck overwhelming. The supply closet, the hospital, the brutal shift—all of it faded away until there was only Jack, his hands, his voice, the way he owned your pleasure with the same intensity he brought to everything else.
"Please," you whimpered, feeling the coil tightening in your belly. "Please, Jack, I need—"
"What do you need?" he demanded, his voice rough. "Tell me. Say it."
"I need you inside me," you gasped, the words spilling out, filthy and desperate. "I need your cock. Please, Jack, fuck me—"
The groan that tore from him was animal, primal. He withdrew his fingers, making you cry out at the loss, but then he was fumbling with his scrub pants, shoving them down just enough to free himself.
You looked down and your mouth went dry. He was thick and heavy in his hand, the tip already slick with precome, veins running along the length of him. He was beautiful, terrifyingly so, and the thought of him filling you, stretching you, made your inner muscles clench with need.
"Condom," you managed, even as you ached for him.
Jack paused, his jaw tight with restraint, and reached into his white coat pocket—of course he had one, the prepared bastard. He tore the packet open with his teeth, rolling it down his length with efficient, practiced movements that had you squirming.
Then he was lifting you, his hands gripping your thighs, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your back pressed against the cool metal of the shelving as he positioned himself, the thick head of his cock nudging against your entrance.
"Look at me," he commanded, his voice strained. "Look at me while I take you."
You met his eyes—dark, stormy, absolutely wrecked—and then he was pushing inside.
The stretch was exquisite, burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by inch, until he was seated to the hilt. You both groaned, the sound mingling in the small space, and for a moment he just held still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants.
"Fuck," he gritted out. "Fuck, you're tight. You're perfect. You feel like—like—"
"Move," you begged, your nails digging into his shoulders. "Please, Jack, move—"
He didn't need to be told twice.
He pulled back and thrust deep, setting a punishing rhythm that had the shelves rattling. Each stroke hit that perfect spot inside you, the friction delicious, the angle devastating. You were reduced to whimpers and gasps, clinging to him as he fucked you against the wall with the same relentless intensity he brought to everything.
"So good," he growled, his mouth finding your neck again, sucking fresh bruises into your skin. "So fucking good. You take me so well. Look at you, taking my cock like you were made for it."
His words were filthy, degrading in the best way, reducing you to nothing but sensation, to the place where he ended and you began. You could feel your orgasm building, tightening, coiling like a spring ready to snap.
"Jack," you gasped, "I'm close—I'm so close—"
"Not yet," he commanded, slowing his thrusts, making you whine in frustration. "Not yet. I'm not done with you."
He withdrew completely, ignoring your cry of protest, and spun you around before you could process the movement. Your chest hit the shelving, your cheek pressed against cool metal, your hands gripping the edge of a shelf for purchase. He kicked your feet apart, spreading you wide, and then his hands were on your hips, tilting you to the perfect angle.
"Look at this," he murmured, his voice thick with appreciation. "Look at you. Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
He thrust back inside in one smooth motion, the new angle even deeper, hitting places inside you that made your vision blur at the edges. You cried out, unable to stop yourself, and his hand came up to cover your mouth, muffling the sound.
"Quiet," he reminded you, his lips at your ear even as he began to move again—slow, deliberate thrusts that dragged against every sensitive nerve ending. "Can you be quiet for me? Can you take what I'm giving you without screaming?"
You nodded frantically, your teeth sinking into his palm as he picked up the pace. His free hand slid around your hip, finding your clit again, rubbing in tight, desperate circles that had you seeing stars.
"Good girl," he praised, his thrusts becoming harder, more erratic. "Such a good girl. Taking my cock so well. Do you know how many times I've imagined this? Imagined bending you over, spreading you open, fucking you until you can't remember your own name?"
His words were filthy, each one driving you higher, closer to the edge. You were babbling now, incoherent pleas and gasps, your body trembling with the effort of staying quiet as he pounded into you.
"Jack—please—I can't—"
"You can," he insisted, his fingers working your clit faster, his cock hitting that perfect spot with every thrust. "You can. You're going to come for me again. And then again. I'm not stopping until I've had my fill of you."
His other hand moved from your mouth to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, arching your spine. The slight sting of pain mixed with the overwhelming pleasure, creating a cocktail of sensation that had you teetering on the edge.
"Please," you begged, your voice breaking. "Please, Jack, I need to—"
"Come," he commanded, his voice like a whip. "Come now."
The orgasm crashed over you with devastating force, your body convulsing around him, your cry muffled by your own shoulder as you bit down to keep from screaming. He didn't stop, didn't slow, fucking you through the waves of pleasure, prolonging them, drawing them out until you were sobbing, tears pricking at your eyes from the intensity of it.
"That's one," he said, his voice dark with satisfaction. He withdrew slowly, making you whimper at the loss, and turned you back to face him. Your legs were jelly, barely holding you up, but he caught you, lifting you again, wrapping your legs around his waist.
"Jack, I can't—" you started, but he cut you off with a kiss—deep and claiming, his tongue sweeping inside to taste you.
"You can," he murmured against your lips. "And you will. I told you I was going to reward you. We're just getting started."
He lowered you onto a stack of folded linens on a lower shelf—the rough fabric scratchy against your back, but you barely noticed. He loomed over you, his eyes dark and hungry, his cock still hard and straining, glistening with your arousal.
He grabbed your knees, pushing them up and out, spreading you completely open for him. The vulnerability of the position made you flush, but his gaze was worshipful, reverent, drinking in the sight of you laid bare before him.
"Beautiful," he breathed, running his hands down your inner thighs, making you shiver. "Absolutely beautiful."
He positioned himself at your entrance again, teasing, rubbing the thick head of his cock through your folds, gathering your wetness, making you squirm and beg.
"Jack, please—"
"Please what?" he asked, his voice deceptively calm, though you could see the strain in his jaw, the tension in his shoulders. "Tell me what you want."
"I want you to fuck me," you gasped, the words spilling out, filthy and desperate. "I want you inside me. Please, Jack, stop teasing—"
He thrust deep in one hard movement, filling you completely, and you arched off the linens with a cry that he swallowed with another kiss. He set a brutal pace, each thrust driving you into the rough fabric, his pelvis grinding against your sensitive clit with every stroke.
"Touch yourself," he commanded, his voice strained. "I want to watch you touch yourself while I fuck you."
Your hand moved without conscious thought, sliding between your bodies to find your clit, rubbing in tight circles as he pounded into you. The dual sensation was overwhelming—his cock filling you, stretching you, your own fingers working your most sensitive spot.
" Fuck," he groaned, his eyes locked on where your bodies joined, where your hand worked yourself. "That's it. That's so fucking hot. Look at you. Look at how much you want this."
You were climbing again, impossibly, your body still sensitive from your last orgasm. Every thrust sent sparks shooting through your veins, every grind of his hips driving you higher.
"Jack—I'm going to—"
"Come with me," he gritted out, his thrusts becoming erratic, losing their rhythm. "Come with me. Now—"
He buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing inside you, his body shuddering against yours. The feeling of him coming, the way he lost control, the raw, primal sound of his release—it pushed you over the edge. You came with him, your body convulsing, your vision whiting out, your cry lost in the space between you.
For long moments, they held you there, pinned against the linens, both of you breathing hard, trembling, coming down from the high. He collapsed slightly, his weight pressing you into the rough fabric, but you didn't mind. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, feeling his heart thunder against your chest.
"Fuck," he breathed, his face buried in your neck. "Fuck, that was—"
"Yeah," you agreed, your voice barely a whisper. "Yeah."
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting yours. The wild intensity had faded, replaced by something softer, something almost vulnerable. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, tender.
"Hi," he said, his voice rough.
A laugh bubbled up in your chest, unexpected and giddy. "Hi."
He smiled then—a real smile, not the tight, controlled expression he wore in the ER, but something genuine and warm. "I've wanted to do that for months."
"Months?" you echoed, surprised.
"Since your first day," he admitted, slowly withdrawing and lowering you back to your feet, steadying you when your knees threatened to buckle. "You walked in, looked me in the eye, and didn't flinch when I asked you a question. Everyone flinches. You didn't."
You stared at him, processing this. "So you've been... what? Torturing me for eight months because you liked me?"
"Professional torture," he corrected, though his eyes were dancing. "I had to maintain standards. But yes. I've been wanting to drag you into a supply closet since approximately day three."
You shook your head, incredulous, but you were smiling. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip, "here we are."
He kissed you then—softly, gently, a complete contrast to the desperate, filthy encounter that had just transpired. It felt like a promise, like a beginning, and you leaned into it, into him, into whatever this was.
"We should probably get back," you murmured against his lips, though you made no move to pull away.
"In a minute," Jack agreed, his arms wrapping around your waist, holding you close. "Let me just... hold you. For a minute."
You melted into him, your head resting on his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—sweat and antiseptic and sex. The ER would still be chaos outside this door, the shift would still be brutal, the world would still be waiting.
But for this moment, in this supply closet, with Jack Abbott's arms around you, you let yourself have this.
"Tomorrow," he said softly, his hand stroking down your back, "dinner. My place. I'll cook."
You lifted your head to look at him, surprised. "Jack Abbott cooks?"
"Jack Abbott does a lot of things," he said, that predatory smile returning. "You've only seen a small sample of my... skills."
Heat flooded your cheeks, and he laughed—a warm, rich sound that you realized you'd never heard before. You wanted to hear it again. You wanted to hear it every day.
"Okay," you agreed. "Dinner. Your place."
"And after dinner," he continued, his hand sliding down to grip your ass again, "I'm going to take my time with you. No supply closet rush. No fear of interruption. Just you, me, and a bed. And I'm going to find out exactly what makes you scream."
Your breath hitched, fresh arousal pooling in your belly despite the fact that you'd just come harder than you ever had in your life.
"That sounds—" you started, but the sound of voices in the hallway made you both freeze.
Jack stepped back quickly, adjusting his scrubs with efficient movements, while you scrambled to straighten your own clothes, your fingers trembling slightly. You caught sight of yourself in the reflection of a metal cabinet—flushed, disheveled, your neck sporting visible bruises that would be impossible to explain.
Jack followed your gaze and smiled, reaching out to adjust your collar with surprising tenderness. "Wear a turtleneck tomorrow," he advised, his eyes darkening with satisfaction. "Or don't. Let them wonder."
The voices passed, fading down the hall, and you both exhaled.
"I should go first," Jack said, though he didn't move. "Give it a few minutes, then follow."
"Jack," you said, catching his hand before he could leave. "This... what is this?"
He turned back, his expression serious, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "This is me finally doing what I've wanted to do for months. This is me telling you that you're brilliant, and I'm in awe of you, and I want to see where this goes. If you want that too."
Your heart swelled, a warm, tender feeling mixing with the lingering arousal in your veins. "I want that."
"Good," he said, leaning in to press a quick, hard kiss to your lips. "Now get some rest. Tomorrow, you're mine."
He slipped out of the supply closet, leaving you alone with your racing heart and the scent of him on your skin.
You leaned back against the shelves, your legs still shaky, your body still humming with aftershocks. The shift from hell had just become the shift that changed everything.
And tomorrow, you thought with a smile, Dr. Jack Abbott had promised to take his time.
Short summary: You push deputy chief Reid's buttons until he locks his office and shows you exactly what happens when you misbehave
Warnings: Explicit sexual content; power imbalance/authority figure dynamics (deputy chief/subordinate); office sex; power play; orgasm control; rough handling including hair pulling and marking; mature language and dirty talk; canon-divergent Chicago PD setting
★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★
The report had been sitting on your desk since Tuesday.
You kept meaning to file it. Kept meaning to walk it up to the 21st District's administrative office, drop it in deputy chief Reid's inbox, let the bureaucracy swallow it whole and forget you'd ever touched the damn thing. But something kept stopping you. Some stupid, reckless instinct that you didn't examine too closely.
Now it was Thursday. 1647 hours. And your phone was buzzing with a text from dispatch.
Reid wants to see you. His office. Now.
---
The Intelligence Unit's bullpen was quiet when you walked through—most of the team out on a scene, Voight's office dark. You'd been down here a dozen times for legitimate reasons. Case consultations. Evidence handoffs. The occasional ride-along when patrol got thin.
Never like this.
Never with your pulse hammering in your throat before you even reached his door.
Reid's office was small, windowless, dominated by a metal desk that looked like it had been through three wars. The walls held his commendations, a photo of him in dress blues looking severe and untouchable.
You knocked.
"Enter."
He didn't look up when you came in. Just kept typing, fingers striking keys with deliberate, punishing precision. You stood at the edge of his desk and waited, hands clasped behind your back like you were waiting for roll call.
The silence stretched. A full minute. Maybe two.
Finally, he hit enter, hard and leaned back in his chair. Looked at you with those blue eyes that missed absolutely nothing. Reid had that cop stare, the one that made witnesses confess and suspects lawyer up. You'd watched him use it in interrogations. Watched him break grown men without raising his voice.
Now it was fixed on you.
"Close the door."
You turned. Walked back. Your hand found the handle and—
"Lock it."
Your fingers hesitated. Then found the deadbolt. The click seemed to echo in the small room.
"Turn around."
You did. He was standing now. Had moved around his desk while your back was turned, silent as always. Reid moved like he'd been trained in stealth long before he picked up a badge—all coiled potential and controlled threat.
"The Kessler file," he said. Not a question.
"Sir, I—"
"Was due Tuesday." He took a step closer. "It's now Thursday. I've had to field calls from the Commander about why my liaison can't complete basic paperwork. Do you know how that reflects on my unit?"
"Sir, I—"
"Do you?"
You swallowed. "No, sir."
Another step. He was close enough now that you could smell him—coffee, the faint trace of his aftershave, something underneath that was just him. Close enough to see the muscle ticking in his jaw, the way his hands flexed at his sides like he was restraining something.
"Look at me."
You met his eyes. There was anger there, real or manufactured you couldn't tell anymore. With Reid, the line had blurred months ago—ever since that stakeout in the van, your thighs pressed together in the dark, neither of you acknowledging the heat between you.
"You're a capable officer," he said, voice dropping to something almost soft. Almost. "Intelligent. Resourceful. Difficult."
Your breath caught.
"And I think," he continued, taking that final step, "that you've been testing me."
His hand shot out. Not for your badge, not for your arm—for your belt. His fingers hooked through the loops at your hip and pulled, hard enough that you stumbled forward, chest colliding with his.
You grabbed his shoulders to steady yourself. He didn't budge. Just held you there, locked in place by nothing but his grip and your own stupid, traitorous want.
"Are you going to keep misbehaving?" he asked. Still using that voice. That command voice, the one that made patrol officers shake in their boots.
You could say yes. Could apologize. Could play this fourteen different ways, retreat to professionalism, claim misunderstanding.
But his thumb was tracing the leather at your hip, rough and deliberate. His jaw was tight, his pupils were blown wide, and you knew what he actually wanted.
"Maybe," you breathed. "Sir."
Something broke behind his eyes. That professional mask slipped just enough to show the hunger underneath.
"Then I suppose," he said, and his other hand finally grabbed you proper—fist in your hair, pulling your head back to expose your throat—"I'll have to keep correcting you."
His mouth was on yours before you could respond, crushing and claiming, all the restraint of the past months shattering at once. You made a sound against his lips, desperate and embarrassing, and he swallowed it like he'd been starving for it. He kissed you like he was trying to consume you—teeth catching your lower lip, tugging just to the edge of pain before soothing it with his tongue. His free hand slid from your belt to your lower back, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel exactly how much he wanted this, hard and insistent against your hip.
"Desk," he growled against your jaw, the word vibrating against your skin. "Now."
Your legs moved without conscious thought, walking backward until your thighs hit the edge of his desk. Papers scattered—case files, evidence photos, the Kessler report itself sliding to the floor, forgotten. Reid didn't care. His hands were on your vest, stripping it off your shoulders with efficient, practiced movements, and then his mouth was at your neck, teeth dragging over the tendon there hard enough that you knew you'd be wearing his mark for days.
"Been watching you," he muttered, the words hot against your collarbone. His hands found your belt again, working the buckle with practiced efficiency. "All week. Thinking about this. About you." He yanked your belt free, the leather hissing as it pulled through the loops, and tossed it aside. It hit the floor with a heavy thud. "Thinking about how you'd look falling apart for me. How you'd sound."
Your hands found his shirt, tugging at buttons, desperate for skin. He let you, helped you, shrugged out of the formal layers until you could press your palms against his chest—warm and solid and scarred, a faded bullet wound near his shoulder that you'd never seen before, and another scar lower, near his ribs, that you traced with trembling fingers.
"Reid—"
"Charlie," he corrected, harsh. His hand caught your chin, forcing your gaze to his. "Say it."
"Charlie." The name felt dangerous in your mouth, illicit and powerful. "Please—"
"Please what?" He pushed you back onto the desk, case files crinkling beneath you, cold metal against your shoulder blades. His hands went to your thighs, spreading them wide, stepping between them. "Please stop? Please continue? Use your words. You're usually so good with them."
You glared up at him, chest heaving, your shirt still half-buttoned, your hair coming loose from its tie. "Fuck you."
He laughed—actually laughed, dark and delighted, the sound rumbling through his chest. "That's my girl."
His mouth crashed down on yours again, hungrier now, all teeth and tongue and intent. You arched up into him, seeking friction, and he gave it—pressed his hips against yours, letting you feel how hard he was through the layers of fabric still separating you. He rolled his hips, grinding against you, and you gasped into his mouth, your hands flying to his shoulders, digging in.
"Need to feel you," he muttered against your lips, his voice rough, wrecked already. "Need to feel if you're as wet for me as I think you are. As wet as I've imagined. As wet as you made me suffer imagining."
Your hands flew to your own pants, clumsy with urgency, but he knocked them away with a sharp smack against your wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to sting, enough to make you freeze. "I didn't say you could touch yourself." His voice was steel wrapped in velvet, that command tone that made your stomach flip and heat pool low and heavy. "Lift your hips. Now."
You obeyed, arching up, and he stripped your pants down in one smooth motion, taking your underwear with them, leaving you bare on his desk with your legs spread and your pride in tatters. The air was cool against your heated skin, and you felt exposed, vulnerable, his in a way that made you tremble.
Reid stepped back—just looked, his gaze dragging over you like a physical touch, cataloging every flush, every tremor, the way your chest heaved with each breath. His eyes darkened as they traveled down your body, from your swollen lips to your peaked nipples visible through your thin shirt, down to where you were already aching and bare for him.
"Beautiful," he said, almost to himself, the word reverent and filthy all at once. Then, sharper: "Touch yourself. Show me what you do when you think about me. When you're alone in your bed, or the shower, or sitting at your desk trying to concentrate on paperwork that isn't late."
Your face burned, heat flooding your cheeks. "I don't—"
"Lie to me again and I'll stop." His eyes were dark, serious, dangerous. "And I don't think you want me to stop. I think you want me to keep going. I think you want me to make you scream. So show me."
Your hand moved before you could think better of it, sliding down your stomach, finding where you were already aching and soaked, your arousal evident on your inner thighs. You touched yourself with two fingers, circling your clit, and your hips bucked involuntarily at the contact, a whimper escaping your lips.
Reid made a sound—low and wrecked, like he'd been punched in the gut—and suddenly he was between your legs again, knocking your hand away, replacing it with his own. His fingers found you unerringly, sliding through your folds, spreading your wetness with deliberate, torturous slowness.
"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to rest against yours, his breath hot and fast. "Look at you. Soaked. Desperate." He pressed one finger inside, testing your resistance, then added a second, curling them just right against that spot that made your vision blur, and you gasped, back arching off the desk, your head falling back with a thud against the metal. "Is this what you wanted? Is this why you've been pushing me? Making me crazy?"
"Yes," you managed, voice breaking, high and needy. "Yes, god, Charlie—"
"Couldn't just ask like a normal person," he continued, working you open with those calloused fingers, the same hands that handled weapons and evidence and suspects with such precision now focused entirely on your undoing. "Had to make me chase you. Make me lose my fucking mind watching you in those tight pants, bending over filing cabinets, leaning across my desk to point at maps with your ass in the air like you were begging for me to do something about it."
"Shut up," you gasped, but you were grinding down on his hand, seeking more, needy and shameless, your hips rolling to meet each thrust of his fingers.
He laughed again, dark and satisfied, and pressed his thumb to your clit, rubbing in tight, firm circles, and you moaned, loud enough that anyone walking past might hear. Reid didn't seem to care—if anything, the sound seemed to spur him on. Just watched you, devouring your reactions*, memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your eyelids, every time you bit your lip to stifle a cry.
"Going to make you cum like this," he said, voice rough, his own breathing ragged. "On my fingers, in my office, with my name on your lips. Going to feel you fall apart. And then you're going to take my cock. Going to take every inch. Understand?"
"Yes," you whimpered, your hands finding his shoulders again, holding on like he was the only solid thing in a spinning world. "Yes, please, I need—"
"I know what you need." He crooked his fingers, found that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes, white-hot pleasure shooting up your spine, and you cried out, hands scrabbling for purchase on the desk, knocking his keyboard to the floor with a crash. "I've known since the first day you walked into my unit. Knew you'd be trouble. Knew I'd have to have you. Knew I'd have to fuck you until you couldn't remember your own name, let alone anyone else's."
His thumb circled your clit, relentless, and you were climbing, heat coiling tight and desperate in your belly, your thighs trembling on either side of his hips. You could feel your orgasm building, huge and overwhelming, a wave you couldn't outrun, and you tried to warn him, tried to speak, but all that came out was his name—"Charlie, Charlie, Charlie"—like a prayer or a curse or both.
"That's it," he encouraged, fingers working faster, harder, the wet sound of your arousal filthy and unmistakable in the small room. "Cum for me. Now. Give it to me. Give me what I've been starving for."
You broke. Shattered. Came apart on his hand with a cry that he swallowed with his mouth, kissing you through it, drinking you down like he couldn't get enough, like he wanted to taste your pleasure. Your body shook, muscles clenching around his fingers in rhythmic pulses that seemed to go on forever, and he worked you through it, gentle now, easing you down from the peak with soft strokes and softer kisses pressed to your jaw, your throat, the corner of your mouth.
You were still trembling when he pulled his hand free, his fingers glistening with your release, and he brought them to his mouth, sucked them clean while holding your gaze, his tongue swirling around each digit, his eyes fluttering shut at the taste like it was the best thing he'd ever had. The sight sent another pulse of heat through you, oversensitive and wanting, your body twitching with aftershocks.
"Good?" he asked, already working his own belt free, his hands not quite steady, his control fraying at the edges.
"Not enough," you managed, reaching for him, pulling him down by his open collar, your voice hoarse from crying out. "Want you inside. Now. Need to feel you. Need all of it."
He groaned, a sound torn from deep in his chest, and pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes squeezed shut like he was fighting for control. "Condom. Wallet. Back pocket."
You reached around him, found the leather, pulled it free. Your hands were shaking but you managed to extract the foil packet, tear it open with your teeth. Reid pushed his pants down just enough, and you took him in hand—thick and hot and heavy, pulsing with his own need, the skin velvet-soft over steel—and rolled the latex down his length, your fingers brushing against his hip, his stomach, everywhere you could reach.
He didn't wait. Didn't tease. Just grabbed your hips and pulled you to the edge of the desk, positioned himself at your entrance, and pushed inside in one long, perfect thrust that seemed to go on forever, filling you, stretching you, hitting places that made your toes curl and your back arch.
You both groaned, loud and uncontrolled. He was huge, thicker than his fingers, and the stretch burned in the best way, your body adjusting around him, fluttering with the aftershocks of your first orgasm. He paused there, buried to the hilt, breathing hard against your neck, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.
"Move," you demanded, digging your heels into his lower back, your nails scoring his shoulders through his undershirt. "Charlie, move. Please. I need you to fuck me."
He pulled out, almost all the way, leaving just the tip inside, then snapped his hips forward—hard, the desk screeching against the floor, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the room. You gasped, grabbed his shoulders, and he did it again. And again. Setting a pace that was brutal and perfect, each thrust driving you back against the metal, each withdrawal making you whimper at the loss, desperate for him to fill you again.
"Is this what you wanted?" he gritted out, voice strained, sweat beading on his forehead, his hair falling into his eyes. "Wanted me out of control? Wanted me to fuck you in my office where anyone could hear? Where anyone could walk in and see you spread out on my desk like a fucking feast?"
"Yes," you sobbed, meeting his thrusts, taking him deeper, your hips rolling to meet each punishing stroke. "Wanted you. Just you. Only you. God, Charlie, harder—"
Something in him broke at that, at your admission, at the please that sounded like a sob. He grabbed your legs, hooked them over his shoulders, changing the angle so he hit that spot inside you with every stroke, deep and relentless, and you screamed, head thrown back, hands fisting in his shirt, your body tightening around him.
"Touch yourself," he ordered, voice ragged, his hips snapping forward with enough force to move the desk. "Want to feel you cum on my cock. Want to feel you fall apart. Now, sweetheart. Give it to me now. Be good for me."
Your hand flew between your bodies, found your clit, swollen and sensitive, and you were so wrecked, so full of him, that it only took seconds. You came with his name tearing out of your throat like a prayer, your body clamping down on him in waves, your vision whiting out at the edges, and he groaned, long and low and broken, and followed you over—thrusts stuttering, losing rhythm, spilling into the condom with his face buried in your neck, your name rasped against your skin like a benediction.
For a long moment, there was only breathing. The sound of the precinct outside, distant and muffled. The hum of the fluorescent lights. Your own heartbeat, slowing gradually in your chest, syncing with his where your bodies were still joined.
Reid pulled out carefully, tied off the condom, tossed it in the trash. Then he collapsed forward, bracing himself on his elbows on either side of your head, caging you in but not touching, just looking at you with something unreadable in his eyes—something soft and fierce and terrified all at once.
"That was—" you started, your voice wrecked.
"Long overdue," he finished. Then, softer, his hand coming up to brush hair from your forehead: "You okay?"
You laughed, breathless, your body still tingling, still feeling him everywhere. "Better than okay." You reached up, traced his jaw, the faint stubble there, the line of his cheekbone. "Was that my punishment? For the late report?"
He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, his lips warm and soft. "That was me finally doing something I should've done months ago." He pulled back, helped you sit up, found your clothes scattered on the floor. "The report, by the way, is still late."
You groaned, dropping your head to his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—sweat and sex and Reid. "You're impossible."
"And you're still on desk duty until it's filed." He handed you your underwear, smirking now, the professional mask settling back into place—but softer at the edges, his eyes still dark with satisfaction. "Though I might be persuaded to help you... after hours."
You dressed in comfortable silence, stealing glances at him as he buttoned his shirt, restored his desk to order. The Kessler file was still on the floor. You left it there.
At the door, his hand caught your wrist. Pulled you back for one last kiss—slow and thorough, a promise, his tongue sweeping through your mouth like he was trying to memorize the taste of you.
"Tomorrow," he said against your lips. "My place. 2000 hours. Bring the report."
"Or what?" you asked, breathless, your heart already racing at the thought.
He smiled, sharp and dangerous, his thumb tracing your swollen lower lip. "Or I'll have to discipline you properly."
You escaped into the bullpen with your face flushed and your knees weak, passing Burgess at her desk. She glanced up, curious.
"Everything okay with Reid?"
You thought of his hands on your hips, his voice in your ear, the threat and promise in his eyes.
"Fine," you said. "Everything's fine."
And for the first time in months, you actually believed it.
Summary: Jack has been finding increasingly flimsy excuses to visit your father’s house ever since you temporarily moved back in. One accidental confession, one brief date, and one closed garage door later, neither of you is pretending anymore.
Warnings: Dad’s best friend!Jack Abbot, age gap, fully adult Reader, explicit sexual content, oral sex, fingering, protected sex, possessive behavior, jealousy, light dominance, praise, bratty Reader, garage sex, workbench sex, multiple orgasms, Jack losing control, brief mentions of Reader’s date with another man.
Author’s Note: A friend sent me a TikTok about dad’s best friend!Jack Abbot, and apparently that was all it took. I wrote this in three and a half hours. Oops. This was supposed to be a quick little idea and then Jack started showing up to fix porch lights he had no intention of fixing, Reader came home early from a date, and somehow we ended up in a garage with a workbench.
You’re welcome.
Xoxo, Del
You heard your father’s voice before you reached the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m telling you, it’s the alternator,” he insisted from somewhere beyond the kitchen.
A second voice answered him, lower and drier.
“And I’m telling you that you’ve blamed the alternator for every noise this car has made since 2009,” Jack said.
Your hand slowed on the banister.
Jack.
Again.
A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth before you could stop it.
His visits had become increasingly frequent since you moved back into your father’s house three weeks ago.
At first, there had been perfectly reasonable explanations. A burst pipe in your apartment building had turned into water damage, which had turned into torn-up flooring, exposed drywall, and a contractor promising you it would only be another few days.
Your father had offered you your old room before you even asked.
Jack had been around occasionally before that. Sunday football. A beer in the garage. Dinner when your father cooked too much and needed someone else to help finish it.
Then you came home.
Suddenly, Jack needed to return tools your father did not remember lending him. He stopped by one Tuesday with coffee and stayed until after dinner. He appeared Thursday to assess the porch light, drank two beers at the kitchen table, and left three hours later without touching the bulb.
Last night, he had brought back a glass container from dinner.
Your father worked with him at the hospital.
He could have returned it there.
Neither of you had mentioned that.
You continued down the stairs, heels tapping softly against the wood. The blazer resting over your shoulders shifted with each step, and you adjusted it as you crossed the kitchen.
The door to the attached garage stood open.
Warm evening air drifted through it, carrying the smell of motor oil, dust, and something faintly metallic.
Your father was bent over the open hood of his old car, only his jeans and worn boots visible from where you stood. Jack leaned against the workbench several feet away, a dark T-shirt pulled across his shoulders.
A streak of grease marked the inside of his wrist.
Another traced the heel of one broad hand.
You paused in the doorway.
“I’m heading out,” you announced.
“All right, sweetheart,” your father called from beneath the hood. “Have fun.”
Jack turned.
The rag in his hands stopped moving. For one suspended moment, he did not say anything. His gaze found your face first. Then it lowered. The blazer draped over your shoulders did little to conceal the black lace beneath it. Jack’s eyes lingered there before moving down the fitted line of your pants, following your legs to the narrow straps circling your ankles.
This was not the first time Jack had looked at you like that.
You had caught him across the dinner table. In the reflection of the kitchen window. Once, when you had wandered downstairs in sleep shorts and one of your father’s old college shirts and found Jack standing at the coffee machine.
Every other time, he had looked away quickly enough to offer both of you plausible deniability.
Tonight, he did not.
Your father shifted beneath the hood, making the car creak faintly.
“Who are you going out with?” he asked.
You adjusted the blazer over one shoulder, though your attention remained fixed on Jack.
“A coworker,” you answered.
Jack’s gaze lifted sharply to your face, the rag still clutched between his hands.
“Someone you work with?” he asked.
You raised an eyebrow at him and stepped farther into the garage.
“That generally is what a coworker is,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth pulled into a humorless half-smile as he twisted the rag once.
“Funny,” he muttered.
You reached the workbench and picked up the small clutch you had left there earlier.
“I thought so,” you said.
Jack’s eyes moved over you again, slower this time, and something tightened visibly in his jaw.
“You usually are,” he said. “Not tonight.”
Heat flickered low in your stomach.
Your father emerged from beneath the hood before you could answer, wiping one hand against the thigh of his jeans. He looked at you and smiled with the uncomplicated affection of a man who remained entirely unaware of the tension filling his garage.
“You look beautiful, sweetheart,” he said.
Your expression softened as you turned toward him.
“Thank you, Dad,” you replied.
He pointed the wrench in his hand toward you.
“Text me when you get there,” he instructed.
You tucked the clutch beneath your arm. “I will,” you promised.
“And when you’re coming home,” he added.
You gave him a patient look. “I know.”
Your father narrowed his eyes slightly. “And don’t let your phone die.”
“That happened once,” you protested.
“It only has to happen once,” he said, lifting the wrench for emphasis.
You pressed your lips together to contain a smile.
“I charged it,” you assured him. “I’ll check in.”
Your father nodded, apparently satisfied, and ducked beneath the hood again.
Jack had not said another word.
You moved along the edge of the workbench toward the open garage door. He shifted aside to let you pass. Not quite far enough. Your shoulder brushed the solid warmth of his chest. Jack’s fingers flexed around the rag.
Neither of you apologized.
You stopped beside him and glanced at your father’s legs beneath the hood before lowering your voice.
“You’ve been here a lot lately,” you murmured.
Jack turned his head toward you, his expression composed a little too carefully.
“Your dad needs help with the car,” he replied.
You looked pointedly at the car before meeting his eyes again. “The car didn’t need help Tuesday night.”
Jack folded the rag over once. “He needed a socket wrench.”
You rested one hip against the workbench. “He owns six.”
“He couldn’t find the right one,” Jack said.
You tilted your head. “He found it before you arrived.”
The corner of Jack’s mouth threatened to lift before he forced it flat.
“He had beer,” he amended.
You ran one finger along the metal clasp of your clutch. “And Thursday?”
Jack glanced briefly toward the kitchen door. “The porch light was flickering.”
“You didn’t fix it,” you reminded him.
“I assessed it,” Jack said.
You let your gaze travel over the grease on his hands, the shirt fitted across his chest, and the faint shadow darkening his jaw.
“For three hours?” you asked.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
“Complicated wiring,” he murmured.
A horn sounded once from the driveway.
Your father shifted beneath the hood, one hand disappearing deeper into the engine.
“That your date?” he called.
You kept your eyes on Jack.
“Apparently,” you answered.
The horn sounded a second time.
Jack’s mouth flattened.
You pushed away from the workbench and adjusted the clutch beneath your arm.
“I should go,” you said.
Jack folded the rag over in his hands, keeping his attention fixed on the dark smear of grease across the fabric.
“Yeah,” he replied. “You should.”
You waited for him to look at you.
He did not.
The little flare of disappointment in your chest irritated you more than it should have. You turned toward the open garage door, your heels clicking softly against the concrete.
Behind you, the rag snapped once between Jack’s hands.
“If I were twenty years younger, you wouldn’t be leaving this house,” he muttered.
Your next step faltered.
The words had been quiet. Rough. Spoken without any of the measured control Jack usually wrapped around himself when he was near you.
You turned slowly.
Jack had gone still beside the workbench.
His eyes closed for one brief second, as though he had heard the words only after they escaped him.
When he opened them, you were already staring.
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth, leaving the faintest trace of grease near the edge of his jaw.
“You should go,” he muttered. “He’s waiting.”
Your father shifted beneath the hood. “You say something, Jack?”
Jack kept his gaze on yours.
“No,” he answered, his voice firmer now. “Nothing.”
You walked back toward him.
Only one step.
It was enough to make his shoulders tighten.
You studied him for a moment, taking in the tension around his mouth and the refusal to meet your eyes now that he had finally given himself away. Then you moved close enough that your voice would not carry beyond the two of you.
“Good thing I’ve never wanted you younger,” you whispered.
Jack’s gaze snapped to yours.
The rag stopped twisting between his hands.
For one suspended second, the entire garage seemed to fall silent around you.
“You two plotting something over there?” your father called.
You took a careful step back.
“Just making sure Jack understands what a coworker is,” you replied.
Your father snorted from beneath the hood. “Good luck with that.”
Jack did not react.
He stood beside the workbench, staring at you as though you had just shifted something fundamental beneath his feet.
You smiled faintly and turned toward the driveway.
“Have fun with the alternator,” you called.
“It’s not the alternator,” Jack said automatically, although his voice came out rough.
Your father lifted his head just enough to object. “You don’t know that.”
You reached the waiting car and opened the passenger door.
Before climbing inside, you glanced back.
Your father had already disappeared beneath the hood again.
Jack had not moved.
His hands rested motionless against the workbench, the forgotten rag caught beneath one palm as he watched you leave.
The house was quiet when you came home.
Your father’s truck was gone from the driveway, but Jack’s car still sat along the curb beneath the streetlight.
You let yourself in through the front door and paused in the entryway.
No television. No music from the kitchen. No familiar sound of your father moving through the house.
Only the faint metallic clink of tools coming from the garage.
You slipped off your blazer and draped it over one arm before crossing the kitchen. The door leading into the garage was nearly closed, a narrow strip of yellow light cutting across the floor.
You pushed it open.
The garage door was down now, sealing out the evening air and the view of the street. Beneath the warm overhead lights, Jack stood alone at the workbench, returning tools to your father’s battered red toolbox one at a time.
He looked up at the sound of the door.
His gaze swept over your face first, then lower, taking in the lace bodysuit no longer half-hidden beneath your blazer. The hand holding the wrench went still.
Jack glanced toward the clock above the shelves, then back at you.
You stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind you.
The latch clicked softly.
Jack’s eyes flicked toward it.
You set your purse and blazer on the end of the bench.
“Where’s Dad?” you asked.
Jack closed the toolbox drawer and reached for a socket lying near his elbow.
“Your uncle had the part we needed,” he explained. “He drove across town to pick it up.”
You leaned one hip against the bench. “And left you here?”
Jack rolled the socket between his fingers. “I stayed to clean up.”
You watched him avoid your eyes. “Is he coming back soon?”
“Your aunt convinced him to stay for dinner,” Jack replied, fitting the socket into its slot. “Could be a while.”
The answer settled heavily between you.
Jack cleared his throat and reached for another tool.
“I was just finishing up before I headed home,” he added.
You placed both palms against the edge of the workbench and lifted yourself onto it.
Jack stepped back quickly, the wrench in his hand tightening against his palm.
He glanced toward the clock once more before lowering his attention to the toolbox.
“Bad date?” he asked.
You watched him turn the wrench once, then twice, as though he had forgotten where it belonged.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about what you said,” you admitted.
The wrench stopped moving. Jack’s shoulders went rigid beneath his shirt.
“I shouldn’t have said it,” he answered without looking up.
You leaned back on your palms. “But you meant it.”
Jack found an empty drawer and placed the wrench inside with unnecessary care. “It was a stupid comment.”
You tilted your head. “That isn’t an answer.”
He shut the drawer and rested both hands against the toolbox.
“You should go inside,” Jack said.
You glanced pointedly toward the closed door behind you. “I was inside.”
His gaze lifted to yours. The look in his eyes sent a slow curl of heat through your stomach. You held it.
“You’ve been finding excuses to come here for three weeks,” you said. “Now you want me to leave?”
Jack’s mouth tightened.
“I haven’t been making excuses,” he said, reaching for another socket.
You watched him pick it up, turn it once between his fingers, and place it into the wrong compartment.
“You stood in the kitchen and watched me make dinner,” you said, letting one heel swing beneath the bench.
His hand went still over the open drawer.
“Your father was there,” Jack replied, though he still would not look at you.
You leaned back on your palms and studied the hard line of his profile. “He went upstairs before ten.”
Jack shut the drawer with more force than necessary.
“I stayed for another beer,” he said.
“You held the same bottle for an hour,” you reminded him. “You barely drank any of it.”
His jaw shifted.
You leaned back on your hands and studied him. “You were watching me.”
Jack released a slow breath through his nose. “You’re reading too much into this.”
A quiet laugh escaped you. “Am I?”
He reached for a wrench lying beside your thigh. His fingers stopped inches from your leg. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Then Jack withdrew his hand and chose a different tool from the far end of the bench.
“You went out with someone tonight,” he said, keeping his eyes on the toolbox. “Maybe you should be thinking about him.”
“I tried,” you said.
The wrench slipped slightly in his grip. You watched him recover it.
“He was nice,” you continued.
Jack forced the wrench into an already full drawer. “That’s good.”
“Attractive too,” you added.
His shoulders tightened. “Sounds like a successful evening.”
You tilted your head. “I wouldn’t know. I barely heard him.”
That finally made him look at you.
The heat in his expression was no longer hidden beneath dry humor or careful glances. It sat openly in the hard set of his jaw and the tension pulling across his shoulders.
You watched him reach for another tool.
“You can keep rearranging those tools,” you said, “but it won’t make me forget what you said.”
Jack went completely still.
The tool in his hand remained suspended over the bench. “You should forget I said it.”
You shifted closer to the edge of the bench. “I don’t want to.”
His eyes flicked toward the closed door leading into the house.
“Your father is my best friend,” Jack said. “I’ve known you most of your life.”
You held his gaze. “And I still came back.”
Jack dragged one hand over the back of his neck. “I’m twenty years older than you.”
You watched the muscles in his forearm tighten. “You seem very determined to remind me.”
Jack threw a hand up. “Because you’re acting like it doesn’t matter.”
“It matters,” you said. “It just doesn’t change what I want.”
Jack’s attention snapped back to you.
The silence that followed felt heavy enough to press against your skin.
“You don’t know what you want,” he said.
Your eyebrows lifted. “That’s convenient. You think I accidentally came home early?”
Jack’s expression hardened. “I think you’re caught up in something you haven’t thought through.”
You slid forward until the edge of the bench pressed beneath your thighs. “I’ve had three weeks to think about it.”
His gaze dropped briefly to the lace covering your chest before returning to your face.
“Three weeks,” he repeated.
“You think I didn’t notice?” you asked.
He braced both hands against the workbench, leaving several feet between you. “I came to see your dad.”
His fingers curled against the metal edge.
“You stayed to see me,” you said quietly.
Jack did not deny it. Your pulse kicked harder.
“I see the way you look at me,” you said.
His head turned slowly. The warning in his expression should have made you stop. It only made you want to push harder.
“At dinner,” you continued. “Every time I walk into a room. Every time you think Dad isn’t paying attention.”
Jack straightened. “You need to be careful.”
The roughness of his voice sent heat slipping lower through you.
You parted your knees just enough to make room for him, though he remained stubbornly out of reach.
“Why?” you asked. “Because I might be right?”
“Because you have no idea what you’re asking for,” he warned, his voice rough.
You held his stare. “Then tell me.”
Jack’s nostrils flared with his next breath. “No.”
You slid down from the bench. Your heels struck the concrete softly.
Jack did not step back as you approached him.
He should have.
You stopped close enough to see the faint trace of grease along his jaw.
“You said if you were younger, I wouldn’t have left,” you reminded him.
His throat worked. “You went on a date with someone else.”
“And came home to you,” you said, holding his gaze.
His eyes returned to yours. You took one more step. The lace over your chest nearly brushed his shirt.
“You’re not twenty years younger, Jack,” you said softly.
His hands flexed at his sides.
“I still came back,” you murmured.
Something in his face fractured.
It was small. A tightening around his eyes. A sudden rough inhale. The briefest drop of his gaze to your mouth.
Then Jack stepped away.
The rejection stung fast and sharp.
He turned toward the workbench and planted both hands against it, his head bowed.
“You need to go inside,” he said.
You stared at his back. “No.”
Jack’s shoulders rose with a measured breath. “Don’t make this harder.”
You let your gaze travel over the tension locked across his back.
“You’ve made it hard for three weeks,” you replied.
He gave a humorless laugh. “You have no idea.”
You tipped your chin up, challenge in your voice. “Then do something about it.”
Jack turned.
The movement was sudden enough that your breath caught.
He crossed the space between you in two strides and stopped with his chest nearly touching yours.
His hands remained at his sides.
That restraint felt more intimate than if he had grabbed you.
“You want me to show you?” he asked.
You tipped your face up toward his. “Yes.”
You reached for the front of his shirt.
Jack caught your wrist before your fingers made contact. His grip was firm but careful, his thumb resting against your pulse.
Jack’s eyes searched yours, his hand still wrapped around your wrist.
“You know I’m not going to be gentle about this.”
You tipped your chin up. “I didn’t come back for gentle.”
Jack held your stare for one more second.
Then he pulled you into him.
His mouth came down on yours hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
One of Jack’s hands closed around your waist while the other slid behind your neck, angling your face exactly where he wanted it. You caught his shirt in both fists and dragged him closer, pressing yourself against the solid heat of him.
A groan vibrated against your mouth.
Jack walked you backward until the workbench struck the backs of your thighs.
Tools rattled behind you.
He broke the kiss only long enough to sweep one arm across the bench, pushing the scattered wrenches and sockets aside with a metallic clatter.
Then his hands found your hips.
Jack lifted you onto the workbench.
Your knees parted around him without hesitation.
His mouth returned to yours.
The kiss turned deeper, slower, somehow more consuming now that he had you seated beneath him. His fingers tightened against your waist, careful of the grease still staining his skin while his body pressed between your thighs.
You slid one hand into the short hair at the back of his neck.
Jack groaned into your mouth.
The sound made you pull him closer.
He kissed you until your lungs burned and your thoughts dissolved into the scrape of his stubble, the heat of his body, and the broad hand spanning your waist.
Then Jack tore his mouth away.
His breathing was rough against your cheek.
For a second, he kept his forehead pressed to yours as though he needed the contact to steady himself.
His thumb dragged once along your side.
“Did he touch you?” Jack asked.
You blinked, still dazed from his mouth. “Jack—”
The possessiveness in his expression sent another pulse of heat through you.
His hand tightened around your waist. “Answer me.”
The command landed low in your stomach.
“He kissed me,” you admitted.
Jack went utterly still.
His gaze dropped to your swollen mouth.
Something dark and hungry settled across his face.
“Then I guess I’d better make sure you forget him,” he murmured.
Before you could answer, Jack kissed you again.
This time, there was nothing restrained about it.
Jack’s hand slid behind your neck, his fingers spreading beneath the base of your skull as he held you exactly where he wanted you. His mouth moved over yours with slow, deliberate intent, coaxing your lips apart before his tongue swept against yours.
The kiss was not frantic.
It was worse than that, controlled enough to make it clear he planned to take his time proving every word.
You curled your fingers into the front of his shirt and pulled him closer.
Jack followed without hesitation, stepping fully into the space between your knees. One broad hand settled at your waist and dragged you forward until you sat at the very edge of the workbench, your thighs opening around his hips.
The hard line of him pressed against you through his jeans.
Your breath caught in his mouth.
“Jack,” you breathed, your fingers tightening in the fabric over his chest.
A rough sound caught in his throat.
He broke from your lips only to kiss the corner of your mouth, his stubble scraping pleasantly over your skin as he followed the line of your jaw. His hand tightened at your waist when you tipped your head back, baring your throat to him.
“Already sounds like you’re forgetting,” Jack muttered against your skin.
His mouth closed over the sensitive place beneath your ear.
You shivered, your heels knocking softly against the cabinet beneath the bench as you pulled him closer with your legs.
“Cocky for a man who spent three weeks pretending he came here for a porch light,” you whispered.
Jack lifted his head.
The heat in his eyes made your pulse jump. His lips were damp from yours, his breathing heavier than it had been moments ago, but the infuriating control remained.
“Still talking,” he observed, his thumb pressing into the narrow curve of your waist.
You caught the hem of his shirt and tugged it upward. “Then shut me up.”
His mouth twitched.
Then Jack stepped back just far enough to drag the shirt over his head.
The fabric caught briefly around his shoulders before he yanked it free and tossed it blindly toward the other end of the workbench. It landed across a scattering of tools, sending a socket rolling several inches before it stopped against the toolbox.
You had seen the shape of him beneath scrubs, T-shirts, and the occasional button-down.
None of it had prepared you for the reality of him.
Bare skin stretched over broad shoulders and a solid chest, softened only slightly by age. Faint scars crossed his torso, pale lines broken by freckles scattered over his chest and stomach. His stomach tightened beneath your attention as you took him in.
Your gaze lingered.
Jack noticed.
The hint of amusement disappeared from his face, replaced by something more vulnerable that lasted only a second.
You reached for him before he could hide it.
Your palms landed flat against his chest. Heat sank into them as you moved slowly downward, feeling his breathing quicken beneath your touch and the muscles of his stomach tense when your thumbs skimmed his ribs.
“You’re staring,” Jack said, his voice lower now.
You traced one fingertip along the edge of a scar near his side. “So were you.”
His hand closed around your waist, his fingers spanning nearly half of it.
“Fair,” he conceded.
Jack pulled you back into him.
You let him come close enough that his breath touched your lips, then turned your face at the last moment, making his mouth catch your cheek instead.
He stilled.
“What?” Jack asked, suspicion sharpening the word as his hand flexed against your side.
You smiled and loosened your legs from around his hips.
Then you slid down from the workbench.
Your heels struck the concrete one after the other, the thin points clicking loudly in the enclosed garage. Jack followed the movement with his eyes, clearly expecting you to stand and draw him into another kiss.
Instead, you planted both hands against his bare chest and pushed.
Jack allowed himself to be moved, taking one backward step and then another. His brows drew together as the edge of the opposite section of the workbench pressed into the backs of his thighs.
“What are you doing?” Jack asked, though the roughness in his voice suggested he already knew.
You flattened your palms over his chest once more, letting them travel slowly down his stomach.
His muscles tightened beneath your touch.
You reached his belt and hooked two fingers beneath the leather, using it to pull his hips closer before working the buckle loose with your other hand.
The metal clicked in the sudden quiet.
Jack’s eyes dropped to your hands.
You held his gaze as you sank slowly to your knees.
The concrete was cool through your pants, but you barely noticed. Your attention remained fixed on the way understanding spread across Jack’s face—and took every trace of composure with it.
His hand shot out, gripping the workbench behind him hard enough to make the scattered tools tremble.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
You looked up at him from beneath your lashes, your fingers resting over the open buckle. “Having second thoughts?”
Jack’s other hand settled carefully along your jaw. The broad sweep of his palm was warm against your cheek, his thumb brushing once beneath your lower lip with startling tenderness despite the tension locked through the rest of him.
“Not even one,” he answered.
The words came out wrecked.
You tugged once on the open belt, drawing his hips closer to your mouth before opening the button of his jeans.
Jack inhaled sharply as you lowered the zipper, the sound of the teeth parting unnaturally loud between you. Your fingers curled into the waistband of his jeans and briefs together, easing them down just far enough to free him.
His grip tightened on the bench.
You wrapped your hand around him.
Jack’s head tipped back immediately, his throat working as a broken curse escaped him. His hips pushed into your palm before he caught himself and forced them still.
You stroked him once, slowly, watching his stomach draw tight.
Then again.
His fingers flexed against your cheek.
When you leaned forward and took him into your mouth, whatever control Jack had recovered vanished completely.
A low, ruined sound tore from his chest.
His head fell back. His shoulders struck the cabinets behind him, and his hand clenched around the edge of the workbench until his knuckles blanched.
You took him deeper, one hand wrapped around what your mouth could not take while the other settled against his thigh for balance.
Every breath dragged from him rougher than the last.
“Fuck,” Jack rasped, the word breaking as your tongue moved over him.
His hand remained cupped against your face.
He did not push or guide you deeper. He only held on, his thumb stroking your cheek in a rhythm that grew increasingly uneven as you moved.
You looked up.
Jack was already staring down at you.
His expression had been stripped of every practiced defense, eyes dark, jaw slack, chest rising hard beneath the garage lights.
Seeing him like that made you take him deeper.
His entire body locked.
“Christ,” Jack gasped, his fingers tightening carefully along your jaw. “You’re going to—”
You did it again.
Jack’s sentence dissolved into a ragged groan as his head tipped back once more.
Jack’s hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck.
“Wait,” he rasped.
You kept going. His stomach clenched beneath your palm as you took him deep again, and the sound he made was nearly enough to undo you all by itself.
Jack’s fingers tightened.
“I mean it,” he warned, his voice breaking around the words.
You drew back just enough to look at him, keeping your hand wrapped around him. “Why?”
Jack stared down at you, breathing hard. “Because I’m about five seconds from coming.”
You stroked him once more, deliberately slow. “That sounds like a you problem.”
Disbelief flashed across his face.
Then his jaw tightened. “Brat.”
You smiled and leaned forward again.
Jack caught you beneath the jaw before your mouth could reach him.
“Up,” he ordered.
You resisted the pull just enough to make the tendons stand out along his forearm. “I wasn’t finished.”
Hunger flashed through his eyes. “I know.”
Jack hauled you smoothly to your feet.
The sudden movement brought you flush against his bare chest, your palms landing against his shoulders to steady yourself. His jeans remained open around his hips, his breathing ragged, every part of him stripped of the calm control he usually wore so well.
He looked wrecked.
You had done that.
The realization sent a fresh pulse of heat through you.
Jack saw it cross your face.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, his hand tightening at your waist.
You let your gaze travel down his body before returning to his eyes. “Immensely.”
His mouth curved without humor. “Good.”
Jack turned you back toward the workbench and lifted you onto the cleared edge.
His gaze dropped to the thin straps circling your ankles.
“Hold still,” he said, his voice still rough.
You watched him lower himself in front of you.
Jack curled one hand around your calf and lifted your foot into his lap. His thumb brushed once over the delicate bone of your ankle before he worked the tiny buckle loose.
The heel slipped free into his palm.
He set it beneath the bench.
“You’re being very gentle for someone who just called me a brat,” you teased, letting your bare foot trail lightly against his thigh.
Jack caught your ankle before you could pull away.
“Don’t confuse gentle with patient,” he warned.
Heat curled low in your stomach.
He released you only long enough to unfasten the second shoe. His fingers dragged slowly along your calf as he slipped it off and placed it beside the first.
Then Jack remained between your knees.
His hands settled around your ankles before sliding upward, over your calves, beneath the hems of your pants.
His gaze lifted to yours.
“Stand up for me,” he said.
You slid off the edge of the workbench, your bare feet meeting the cool concrete between his knees.
Jack stayed where he was.
For one suspended second, he simply looked up at you.
The sight of him kneeling at your feet—shirtless, jeans still open, lips swollen from your mouth—made your stomach tighten all over again.
“You look good down there,” you murmured, letting your fingers brush through the hair at his temple.
Jack caught your wrist and pressed a slow kiss to the inside of it.
“Careful,” he warned against your pulse.
A smile pulled at your mouth. “Or what?”
His gaze lifted to yours as he released your wrist. “Keep pushing and find out.”
Jack reached for the fastening of your pants.
The button slipped free beneath his fingers. He lowered the zipper slowly, his knuckles brushing the lace beneath as the fabric parted.
Your breath caught.
Jack noticed.
His mouth curved faintly as he hooked both hands into the waistband.
“Hands on the bench,” he instructed.
You turned your back to him and braced your palms against the metal surface.
Jack’s hands settled at your hips.
He pulled your pants down slowly, following the fabric over the curve of your ass and along your thighs. The tailored material pooled around your ankles before you stepped free of it.
The garage fell quiet.
You looked over your shoulder.
Jack remained on his knees behind you, his attention fixed on the black lace fitted over your body.
His hand moved up the back of your calf.
Then higher.
His palm followed the outside of your thigh until his fingers reached the lace at your hip.
“Jack,” you said softly.
His thumb traced the edge of the bodysuit. “You wore this under those pants and jacket all night?”
You shifted your weight, pressing your hips back by the smallest degree. “You saw it before I left.”
“I saw enough to lose my mind,” Jack replied, his fingers tightening around your thigh. “This is worse.”
You turned within the space between him and the bench. Jack’s hands slid automatically to your waist as you faced him.
“Worse?” you asked, lifting one eyebrow.
His gaze traveled openly over you. “For my self-control.”
You rested one hand on his shoulder. “That hasn’t been particularly impressive tonight.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “No?”
You shook your head. “You barely made it through one conversation before telling me I wouldn’t be leaving.”
His grip tightened around your waist. “And you came back.”
You leaned down until your lips nearly brushed his. “I did.”
Jack rose suddenly.
The movement brought his body flush against yours, forcing you back into the edge of the bench.
One of his hands slid behind your neck.
The other settled low on your hip.
He kissed you hard.
You caught his shoulders, holding on as his mouth moved over yours. His hand dragged slowly up your side, following the shape of the lace until his thumb brushed beneath your breast.
You arched into him.
Jack broke the kiss with a rough breath.
His forehead pressed against yours.
“How does this come off?” he asked, his fingers catching at the lace near your hip.
You smiled. “Getting impatient?”
Jack looked down at the bodysuit as though it had personally offended him. “Very.”
You guided his hand lower, toward the fastening hidden beneath the lace.
His eyes returned to yours. “This feels like a trap.”
You exhaled softly, “It’s three snaps, Jack.”
“Exactly,” Jack murmured.
A laugh escaped you.
Jack’s mouth found yours again as his fingers worked beneath you. The first snap opened easily.
The second took longer.
By the third, his patience had clearly disappeared.
It came loose beneath a muttered curse.
“You’re a doctor,” you teased against his mouth.
“Emergency medicine,” Jack corrected, pulling the lace upward. “We cut things off.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You rip this, and I’ll kill you.”
His hand stopped.
Jack leaned back just enough to look at you. “You wore this while you went out with another man, and now you’re threatening me over it?”
You caught his chin lightly, forcing his eyes back to yours. “He wasn’t supposed to see it.”
Jack’s expression darkened. “But I was?”
You held his gaze. “You’re the one taking it off.”
That silenced him.
Jack slid the loosened lace upward, baring you slowly. His hands moved with far more care than his expression suggested, pulling the bodysuit over your waist and ribs before guiding your arms free.
The garment joined your blazer and pants on the far end of the bench.
You stood naked in front of him.
Jack did not touch you immediately.
His gaze moved over every inch of exposed skin, his breathing turning heavier with each second he allowed himself to look.
You shifted beneath the attention.
“Still staring,” you whispered.
Jack’s hand closed around your waist. “You have no idea how long I’ve tried not to.”
He lifted you back onto the workbench.
The metal was cool beneath your thighs, but Jack’s body filled the space between them before you could react.
His mouth returned to yours.
One hand spread across your back, holding you close while the other moved slowly down your stomach.
Jack’s fingers stopped just above your hip.
You followed his gaze to the grease still smudged across his palm.
For the first time since you came home, hesitation crossed his face.
“Shit,” he muttered, pulling his hand back.
You took his hand and turned it over between yours. The grease had faded into dark smudges along his palm and fingers.
“You were worried about getting me dirty?” you asked.
Jack’s jaw flexed. “I was trying not to.”
You lifted his hand to your mouth and kissed the center of his palm.
His breathing stopped.
Then you guided it down your body. “Too late.”
Jack watched his own hand move over your stomach. His fingers flexed once against your skin.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he murmured.
You opened your legs wider around him.
His gaze snapped to yours.
Then Jack dropped to his knees.
Your eyes widened. “Jack—”
He looked up at you from between your legs.
“Now,” he said, his voice rough, “it’s my turn.”
Jack closed his hands around your thighs and pulled you to the edge of the workbench. Your palms braced behind you as he spread your legs wider and settled between them, looking at you with enough intensity to make your stomach clench.
For a moment, he only looked.
You shifted beneath the weight of his attention.
“Jack,” you breathed, curling your fingers around the edge of the bench.
His eyes lifted slowly to yours.
“Still impatient?” he asked, dragging his thumbs along the insides of your thighs.
You tried to close your legs around him, but Jack’s hands held them firmly apart.
“You’re making me wait on purpose,” you accused, shifting restlessly beneath his hands.
His mouth hovered close enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath.
“You’ve been making me wait for three weeks,” he murmured.
You lifted one hand from the bench and threaded your fingers into his hair. “You’re the one who kept pretending you came over to see Dad.”
Jack’s teeth grazed lightly over your skin. “And you’re still talking.”
You opened your mouth to answer.
Then his tongue touched you, and the words disappeared.
Your hips jerked toward him, but Jack’s hands closed firmly around your thighs and held you exactly where he wanted you. He moved slowly at first, learning what pulled the sharpest breaths from you and returning to it each time.
A broken sound slipped from your mouth.
Jack hummed against you, the vibration making your head fall back.
“Fuck,” you gasped, tightening your fingers in his hair.
His grip flexed around your thigh.
“That’s better,” Jack murmured before lowering his mouth again.
You tugged at his hair when he found a rhythm that made your legs tense around his shoulders. His answering groan sent another rush of heat through you.
He took his time.
Every time your hips began to chase him, Jack eased away just enough to deny you. Every time your breathing steadied, he changed the pressure and stole it again.
You forced your head up and looked down at him.
Jack was already watching you.
The sight nearly undid you on its own, his shoulders between your thighs, his gaze fixed on your face as though every reaction mattered.
“Don’t stop,” you pleaded, tightening your hand in his hair.
Jack’s eyes darkened at the desperation in your voice. “I wasn’t planning to.”
One of his hands left your thigh and moved between your legs. Jack eased one finger into you with deliberate care, watching your face for every sign that he had found what you needed.
Your back arched sharply.
“Jack,” you cried, your free hand sliding helplessly across the bench.
He repeated the movement that had drawn the sound from you, then added a second finger when your body opened around him.
“There?” he asked, his voice low and certain.
You nodded quickly, the heel of your foot dragging against his back. “Right there.”
Jack’s mouth returned to you as his hand continued its steady rhythm.
You tried to move against him, chasing the pressure building inside you, but his forearm settled across your hips and held you still.
“Let me,” he ordered against you.
The command sent a shudder through your entire body.
You forced yourself to stop moving and surrendered your weight to his hold.
“Then don’t tease me,” you managed, though the words dissolved into a breathless sound.
Jack lifted his gaze, satisfaction flashing in his expression. “I’m not teasing you now.”
He proved it before you could answer.
The pressure built so quickly that your breath broke apart, every muscle straining toward him despite the arm holding your hips in place.
“I’m close,” you warned, your voice shaking as you clutched his hair.
Jack tightened his grip on your thigh and refused to slow. “I know.”
Your legs began to tremble around his shoulders.
“Jack—” His name fractured into a cry as the pleasure finally broke through you.
He stayed with you through every pulse, holding you securely while your body went taut and then slowly softened beneath his hands.
When your grip loosened in his hair, Jack pressed one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before rising.
You barely managed to lift your head before he stepped between your knees and kissed you.
A weak tremor passed through you as you caught his shoulders.
Jack’s hand settled behind your neck while his other arm wrapped securely around your waist.
“You with me?” he asked against your lips, searching your face.
You opened your eyes and slid one hand slowly down his bare chest. “Very much.”
Jack caught your hand before it reached his open jeans.
“Protection?” he asked, his thumb pressing lightly against your pulse.
You nodded toward the purse resting at the far end of the bench. “In my purse.”
Jack followed your gesture, then looked back at you with one eyebrow raised. “You came prepared?”
You traced your thumb along the faint grease mark near his jaw. “I believe in being prepared.”
Jack’s expression darkened instantly, his hand tightening around your wrist. “Careful.”
You smiled and leaned forward to kiss the corner of his mouth. “But I came home to you.”
His grip eased as his gaze dropped to your lips. “You enjoy provoking me.”
You let your smile deepen. “I’m starting to.”
Jack released your wrist and dragged your purse across the bench.
“Find it,” he instructed, placing it in your lap.
You opened the clasp with unsteady fingers and searched inside until you found the foil packet.
“Bossy,” you murmured, holding it out to him.
Jack took it from your hand, his eyes never leaving yours. “You haven’t complained yet.”
You let your gaze travel openly down his body. “I wasn’t complaining.”
A slow smile touched his mouth as he pushed the rest of his clothes aside. “Still staring?”
You looked slowly back up at him. “Still worth looking at.”
Jack tore open the packet, his gaze fixed on yours as he rolled the condom into place.
You watched the movement, the heat low in your stomach tightening all over again.
His eyes flicked toward your face.
“Nervous?” Jack asked, settling one hand against your thigh.
You shook your head and drew him closer with your bare feet hooked behind his legs. “Impatient.”
Jack laughed under his breath as he stepped fully between your knees. “That, I believe.”
Jack’s hands slid beneath your thighs and pulled you to the very edge of the workbench. The sudden movement made your palms flatten behind you, and a stray socket rolled beneath one hand.
He stopped immediately.
“Hold on,” Jack said, bracing one arm around your waist.
He snatched the socket away and dropped it into the open drawer.
“Very romantic,” you teased, steadying yourself against his shoulder.
Jack pushed the drawer shut with his hip before looking back at you. “I’m trying not to put a socket through your hand.”
You let your fingers drift along the hard line of his shoulder. “My hero.”
His eyes narrowed at the sweetness in your voice. “Keep it up.”
You tipped your chin toward him. “Or what?”
Jack stepped closer until the inside of your thighs pressed against his hips. “You really haven’t learned when to stop talking.”
You caught the back of his neck and pulled him down until your lips nearly touched. “I thought you were going to do something about that.”
The last of his amusement disappeared.
Jack kissed you, one hand sliding behind your neck while the other settled firmly at your hip. His mouth worked against yours until you softened into him, the teasing stripped from your breath one kiss at a time.
Then his hand moved between your bodies.
Your breath caught when he guided himself against you.
Jack broke the kiss but stayed close, his forehead resting against yours.
“Still sure?” he asked, searching your face.
You tightened your legs around him. “Yes.”
His thumb moved once against the side of your neck. “Tell me if you need me to stop.”
You held his gaze and shifted your hips toward him. “I will.”
Jack entered you slowly.
The first stretch pulled a sharp breath from your lungs, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he paused.
His jaw tightened with the effort of holding still as he searched your face.
You rolled your hips toward him.
“Keep going,” you whispered.
Jack obeyed with another measured push.
Your head tipped back as he filled you, the metal beneath you cool against your skin and his body burning between your thighs. He moved carefully until his hips met yours, then stopped again, breathing hard against the curve of your throat.
“Christ,” Jack muttered, his hand flexing at your waist.
A smile touched your mouth as you rolled your hips experimentally.
Jack’s entire body went rigid.
The reaction made your smile widen. “You feel very strongly about it.”
His hand slid beneath your thigh and lifted your leg higher around him. “You’re going to regret being a brat.”
You rocked against him again, deliberately this time. “Promises, promises.”
Jack pulled back and drove into you hard enough to knock the rest of the sentence from your mouth.
A cry escaped you as your hands flew behind you, bracing against the cleared bench.
His eyes stayed on your face.
“Too much?” he asked, holding himself still despite the strain showing in his expression.
You shook your head quickly. “Again.”
Something darkened in Jack’s gaze. He pulled back and drove into you with the same force, then settled into a steady rhythm that made the workbench rattle beneath you, one hand supporting your back while the other held your thigh open around his hip.
You reached for him, your fingers dragging over his chest before curling around his shoulder.
Jack kissed you between thrusts, each one deeper than the last. His mouth caught every broken sound you made until your lips felt swollen and your thoughts blurred into heat, pressure, and the relentless movement of his body against yours.
Your nails dug into his back when he found the angle that stole your breath.
Jack felt the change immediately and repeated it, his mouth curving when your answer dissolved into a gasp.
You tightened your legs around him and pulled him deeper. “Don’t get smug.”
Jack drove into you again, finding the same spot with punishing accuracy. “You liked me smug five minutes ago.”
“I liked you on your knees,” you replied.
His rhythm faltered.
The satisfaction that flashed through you lasted less than a second before Jack caught your jaw and made you look at him.
“You enjoyed that?” he asked, his thumb pressing beneath your lower lip.
You held his gaze as he continued moving inside you. “Very much.”
Jack’s jaw clenched. “Watching me lose my mind?”
You nodded, letting your nails scrape lightly over his shoulder. “You looked good.”
A rough sound broke from him.
Jack kissed you hard, his control slipping as the careful rhythm gave way to something faster and needier. The bench shuddered beneath you, its legs scraping faintly over the concrete.
You clung to him, every thrust winding the pressure inside you tighter.
His mouth moved to your throat.
“Still thinking about him?” Jack asked against your skin.
The question came out rough and possessive, his hand tightening around your thigh.
You blinked through the haze. “Who?”
Jack stopped for half a heartbeat.
Then a low, satisfied laugh vibrated against your neck. “Good answer.”
He resumed with renewed force.
Your body tightened around him, the aftershocks of your first orgasm still leaving you sensitive enough that every movement pushed you closer far too quickly.
Jack lifted his head when your breathing changed.
You caught his wrist and guided his hand between your bodies. “Help me.”
His eyes darkened at the request.
Jack pressed his fingers where you needed them, matching the rhythm of his hips.
Your head fell back.
“There,” you gasped, gripping his shoulder. “Don’t stop.”
Jack’s forehead pressed against yours as he kept the pressure steady.
“I’ve got you.”
Your body clenched around him at the promise.
Your legs tightened around him, holding him close as the pleasure rose sharply. Jack continued moving, his breath breaking against your mouth while his fingers refused to slow.
“Jack,” you cried, your body beginning to tremble beneath him.
His arm tightened around your waist. “Come for me.”
The command tipped you over.
Your orgasm tore through you, your body clenching hard around him as your cry echoed through the enclosed garage. Jack kissed you through it, swallowing the sound while his hips lost their rhythm.
He held you firmly against him, driving into you twice more before his entire body locked.
Your name left him in a broken groan.
Jack buried his face against your neck as he came, his arms tightening around you while the last of his restraint disappeared.
For several seconds, neither of you moved.
The garage fell quiet except for your uneven breathing and the faint tick of the cooling engine beside you.
Jack’s forehead rested against your shoulder.
Your fingers moved slowly through the damp hair at the nape of his neck.
Jack lifted his head eventually and searched your face.
“You okay?” he asked, brushing his knuckles over your cheek.
You nodded, still catching your breath. “Better than okay.”
Relief softened the hard line of his face.
Jack kissed you once, gentler now. “You’re trouble.”
You smiled against his mouth and traced one finger along the grease mark still lingering near his jaw. “You kept coming back.”
His eyes held yours. “So did you.”
Jack eased away first. After taking care of the condom, he returned to stand between your knees and settled both hands around your waist.
You slipped your arms over his shoulders as he helped you down from the workbench.
Your knees softened the moment your bare feet touched the concrete.
Jack caught you immediately, one arm locking securely around your waist.
“Easy,” he murmured, drawing you against his chest.
You rested a hand over his heart and waited for the weakness to pass.
“I’m fine,” you assured him, lifting your face to his.
Jack searched your expression, his palm moving slowly over your back.
“I know,” he said, though he kept you close for another few seconds.
When he finally released you, the evidence of what had happened lay scattered across the garage—clothes, heels, tools, and the black lace bodysuit hanging halfway from the workbench.
You nudged his jeans toward him with your toes.
“You made a mess,” you observed.
Jack followed the movement before giving you a flat look.
“I made a mess?” he repeated, bending to retrieve them.
You crossed to the cabinet and rescued one of your heels.
“You threw half of it,” you reminded him, straightening with the shoe dangling from your fingers.
“You started it,” Jack countered, stepping into his jeans and pulling them over his hips.
You located the second heel near the shop towel and placed it beside the first.
“That sounds defensive,” you said, glancing back at him.
Jack dragged his belt through the loops with a sharp pull.
“It is,” he admitted.
A laugh escaped you as you reached for your pants.
Jack caught them first.
He turned them right side out before crouching and holding the waistband open in front of you.
You rested one hand on his shoulder and looked down at him.
“What a gentleman,” you teased, stepping carefully into them.
Jack drew the pants slowly up your legs, his knuckles grazing your skin as the fabric climbed.
“I have my moments,” he replied, settling his hands briefly at your hips.
You watched him fasten the button with unnecessary concentration.
“Was the workbench one of them?” you asked, tracing your fingers along the back of his neck.
Jack lifted his gaze to yours, the corner of his mouth twitching.
“Absolutely,” he said.
You laughed and caught his chin, drawing him into a brief kiss.
Jack’s hand slid around the back of your neck, turning what you intended to be quick into something slower.
When he finally let you go, your breathing had gone uneven again.
“Thought we were cleaning up,” you murmured, your lips still brushing his.
Jack reached past you and collected his shirt from the floor.
“We were,” he said, pulling it over his head. “Then you kissed me.”
You watched the fabric catch briefly across his shoulders before falling into place.
“You kissed me back,” you pointed out.
Jack smoothed one hand down the front of his shirt.
“I’m weak,” he said without a trace of apology.
You smiled and reached for the bodysuit.
The lace had tangled around itself, the narrow straps twisted together and the fastening hidden somewhere inside the mess.
You held it up for inspection, then dropped it over your forearm.
“I’m not fighting my way back into that,” you said, reaching instead for your blazer and slipping your arms into it.
You pulled the sides together over your bare chest.
Jack stopped halfway through closing the toolbox.
His gaze fixed on your fingers as you fastened the first button.
You looked up at him.
“What?” you asked, pausing over the second.
Jack leaned one hip against the workbench and watched you secure it.
“Nothing,” he said, though the word came out rough.
You fastened the final button and smoothed both palms down the front. “That doesn’t look like nothing.”
His eyes dragged over the narrow opening left between the buttons.
“It’s not,” he admitted.
You gathered both heels in one hand and hooked the bodysuit over the same wrist.
“There,” you said, turning once for his inspection. “Presentable enough.”
Jack looked you over slowly.
“Debatable,” he replied, his mouth pulling into a half-smile.
You shot him a look before bending to collect your purse.
Behind you, Jack returned the remaining sockets to their tray and pushed the drawer closed. He ran a shop towel once over the workbench, gathered the discarded packaging, and restored the garage to something resembling its earlier order.
Your phone buzzed against the metal surface.
You picked it up and woke the screen.
A message from your father filled the display.
**Dad:** At your uncle’s. He opened another bottle. I’m staying late. Don’t wait up.
You read it once before turning the phone toward Jack.
“He’s staying late,” you said, holding the screen out to him.
Jack stepped closer and glanced at the message. Then his eyes lifted slowly to yours.
“Upstairs,” he said, closing the last toolbox drawer.
You lowered the phone and quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Upstairs?” you repeated.
“Bedroom,” he clarified, stepping into your space.
Heat curled low through you all over again. You placed one palm against his chest, feeling his heartbeat quicken beneath your hand.
“And what exactly are we doing upstairs?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth as his hand closed around your waist.
“I’m not done with you,” he said.
Your pulse jumped beneath his stare.
“You seemed fairly thorough,” you teased, curling your fingers into his shirt.
Jack tightened his grip and drew you flush against him.
“You want to keep testing that theory?” he asked, lowering his mouth until it hovered over yours.
A smile tugged at your lips.
“I might,” you admitted.
Jack kissed you once, hard, brief, and promising, before pulling away.
“Move,” he ordered, glancing toward the heels and lace hanging from your hand.
You let your fingers trail down his chest before stepping out of his hold.
“Still bossy,” you murmured.
Jack picked up your purse and held it out to you.
“Still following me upstairs,” he replied.
You took the purse from him, tucked it beneath your arm, and opened the door leading into the house.
“Lead the way, old man,” you called, glancing back over your shoulder.
Jack went completely still.
Then he turned his head slowly toward you.
“You’re going to regret that,” he warned, heat sharpening his expression.
You smiled, spun away, and took off through the kitchen with your heels and bodysuit clutched to your chest.
“You’ll have to catch me first,” you called over your shoulder.
Jack swore behind you. His footsteps closed in before you made it halfway up.
His arm locked around your waist and hauled you backward against him, your laugh breaking into a gasp as your feet left the step.
