#au fic

[witchywithwhiskey]

do you want the kitchen tour?

pairing: chef!jack abbot x female reader

summary: when your already bad date takes a turn for the worse, the head chef of the restaurant comes to see what he can do to help. when he offers to give you a tour of the kitchen, you jump at the chance to escape, and your bad night turns into something else entirely.

warnings: 18+ content (minors do not interact!!!), some verbal and physical abuse against reader during her date, reader sustains a minor injury (bruised wrist), some hurt/comfort, unspecified age gap, porn with feelings, kinda instalove, eventual smut, dry humping, piv sex, unprotected sex, creampie, big cock, cock warming, vaginal fingering, finger sucking, come eating, marking/hickeys, sorta scent kink, dirty talk, chef kink, praise kink, pet names (sweetheart, angel, baby), aftercare, happy ending

word count: 26.0k

a/n: it's finally hereeeee!!! i've been working on nothing else but this fic for the last month and it's finally done 😮‍💨😭 it was inspired by Shawn Hatosy's Quinn audio (although i haven't actually listened to it yet). i just had to write something for chef!Jack Abbot, and i'm really happy with how this turned out! it feels almost like a smutty little romance novella, which i think is cool. anyway, i hope y'all enjoy!!

if you'd rather read the fic broken down into chapters, check it out on AO3

“Hey, chef.”

With just those two words, Jack Abbot knew his night was about to take a turn for the worse. Nothing good could come from the underlying urgency and overt hesitance in the voice of one of his servers, Nazely Toomarian.

But Jack also knew, from his years as head chef and owner of one of Pittsburgh’s most popular fine dining restaurants, Night Shift, that it wasn’t Nazely’s fault. No, it was very likely to be one of the insufferable guests who frequented his restaurant who ruined his night.

So Jack swallowed his sigh, kept stirring the sauce of that night’s special, and glanced at his server, giving her a nod to go on.

“We’ve got a situation in the dining room.”

Of course they did.

Jack finally let loose the sigh that had been building between his ribs, wondering distractedly if the situation was some jagoff businessman’s card declining, an impossible-to-please socialite sending every bite of her food back, or if another influencer was insisting on getting their meal comped in exchange for free publicity on their Instagram or TikTok or whatever.

Jack knew he was old and out of touch—that was why he’d hired one of the daytime servers, Victoria Javadi, to run the restaurant’s social media—but he also knew a scam when he saw it. Someone who genuinely wanted to work with him asked about partnership deals before eating an entire meal they expected to be free.

Grumbling about influencers under his breath, Jack gave the sauce on the stove one last stir, adding a little more salt, then handed the wooden spoon off to his sous chef, John Shen. Quickly, but methodically, Jack took off his gloves, turned to Nazely, and tucked his arms behind his back—a remnant from his days in the army.

“What kind of a situation?” Jack asked, his voice calm and measured even as he was already preparing himself for the worst.

The chef listened attentively as his server explained what had brought her back into the kitchen with that concerned look in her eyes. The frown on Jack’s face deepened the more he heard about the date going decidedly bad in his dining room.

Finally, Nazely finished up her story with a breathless, “Do you want me to have security handle it?”

Jack knew it was the easiest solution, to call security and have them escort the man creating the situation out of the restaurant. But it would cause a scene, and everyone else in the packed restaurant would be talking more about what had happened than his food.

It would be better for Night Shift’s business if Jack could remedy the situation himself, as quietly as possible.

Instead of answering his server’s question, Jack walked to the double swinging doors that led out to the dining room. He peered through the window, feeling a bit like a king overlooking his kingdom, and he had a sudden, fierce impulse to protect it.

“Which table was it?” Jack asked, glancing back at Nazely, who’d followed him to the doors.

“Table 12,” she answered quickly.

Jack looked out across the sea of glamorous guests dining in his restaurant, a swell of pride in his heart when he saw beyond the expensive clothes and glitzy jewelry to the smiles and laughter of people enjoying his food. In his heart of hearts, Jack just wanted to make food people liked eating, and it never failed to overwhelm him when he got a chance to see the delight he brought to complete strangers who’d entrusted their time and money to him.

Pushing those thoughts and feelings aside for the moment, Jack focused back on the room, his eyes tracking along the tables until he found the one Nazely had indicated. For the first time in a long time, Jack Abbot’s heart skipped a beat and he froze at the sight in front of him.

The first thing about you that rendered Jack speechless was your mouth, the curve of your lips, the tension around the edges as you hid a frown behind a sip of wine. Jack knew, instinctively, that your lips would look gorgeous when you smiled, that your mouth would look exquisite while eating his food—and he knew, too, that he’d do anything to make you smile, to feed you, to take care of you.

Jack shook his head at those thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the situation Nazely had told him about, the date going irreparably sideways.

Still, the chef couldn’t help but rake his eyes over you, telling himself he was simply assessing how much distress you were in. Jack noted the stiffness in your shoulders, how you were curling in on yourself slightly, like your body was trying to protect itself. He also noticed the pretty color of your eyes, the curve of your cheekbones, the sweep of your dress at it fell across your thighs.

You were beautiful, enchanting in a way Jack hadn’t experienced in a long, long time—and you were miserable. That much was clear from your body language and the way you regarded your date with no small amount of disgust and fear deep in your pretty eyes.

Finally, the chef dragged his gaze across your table to your date.

Immediately, Jack didn’t like the arrogant slant of the man’s shoulders, the imperious tilt of his chin, or the pompous way he held his glass as he spoke and drank. Even the way the man took a sip of wine, smacking his lips before resuming his tirade where he’d left off, made anger coil like a poised predator in Jack’s gut.

Something shifted in the man, and Jack looked back at you, seeing indignant rage boiling beneath the surface of your expression. Jack watched you say something through bared teeth, hissing at your date like you were trying not to make a scene.

Your hands were braced against the edge of the table, and you pushed to stand—but then your date moved to stop you, grabbing your wrist, and something in Jack snapped.

Later, he’d tell himself he would’ve had the same reaction if any man had put his hands on a woman in his restaurant. But in that moment, he was driven almost entirely by the edge of something else threaded through the fury in his chest—something greedy and selfish that you, and only you, had inspired in him.

“I’ll handle this myself,” Jack growled, tossing the words over his shoulder at Nazely without taking his eyes off where your date’s hand was still wrapped around your wrist, holding you chained to the table like a misbehaving pet.

All Jack could think, as he strode across the dining room, his chest churning with wrath and violence, was that it was a good thing he didn’t have a knife in his hand.

You were on the date from hell.

And the worst part? You weren’t even sure when everything had gone wrong.

Was it when you’d let your coworker set you up with her boyfriend’s best friend, a man named Curtis Larsen?

Was it when you’d gotten your hopes up and donned your favorite dress—the black fabric clinging to your curves in all the right places and showing off your legs—only for Curtis not to say a word when he picked you up from your office building in downtown Pittsburgh?

Was it when you decided you could put up with his pretentious posturing about his job and his golf game to enjoy one night at Night Shift, the restaurant you’d always wanted to try but could never afford?

Hiding a sigh by taking a sip of your wine—a bitter red you’d never have ordered for yourself—you decided that was probably when things had gone wrong.

From the moment you’d gotten into Curtis’s car, he’d been nothing but insufferable. You should’ve left before walking into the restaurant, but you’d heard such good things about Night Shift, and its head chef Jack Abbot, that you’d ignored your instincts and soldiered on.

You were rewarded for your selfishness by watching Curtis talk down to everyone he came across—the hostess, who sat you in the middle of the dining room only for Curtis to complain you weren’t in one of the booths; the server, who tried to recite the night’s specials only to be interrupted by Curtis asking about a specific dish; the sommelier, who had to put up with Curtis acting like he knew more about wine than the man whose job it was.

It was all you could do to offer the restaurant workers apologetic smiles and slip them some money from your own purse when Curtis wasn’t looking. You tried to grin and bear it, to soak up the ambience of the restaurant despite the black hole of unearned smugness sitting across from you.

Truthfully, Night Shift was spectacular enough to almost distract you from your horrible date and everything that was wrong with him.

The space was decorated in rich, emerald greens and dark, roughhewn wood, with real, lustrous plants and other greenery breaking up the dining room to give each table a pretense of privacy. Warm candles and low lighting gave the restaurant an intimate atmosphere, even while it was packed full.

All told, Night Shift was the perfect place for a date. It was too bad you were there with a man who might’ve been worse than the devil.

You were hiding another frown behind a sip of your disgusting wine when Curtis launched into a tirade about how the woman he’d marry should have a respectable job and make a good salary—and she’d also be responsible for keeping his house clean and taking care of his kids.

It took all of your self-control to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at him. You weren’t exactly surprised—you’d been set up with enough financial analysts like Curtis to know a lot of them were useless assholes who wanted a mommy more than a wife. But you could feel your desire to put up with the date for the sake of trying Night Shift’s food slipping away, and you hadn’t even ordered your appetizers yet.

Resolving to treat yourself to a dinner at Night Shift for your next birthday, you interrupted Curtis’s egotistical diatribe about modern women and tried to politely excuse yourself. You were kinder than you thought he deserved when you told him you didn’t think the two of you were a good fit and it would save you both some time to cut the date short.

But Curtis’s eyes flashed in a way that had fear suddenly bursting in your gut, and his expression turned mean as he leaned forward across the small table, invading your space.

“The date isn’t over until I say it’s over,” Curtis said, his voice so cold, you froze in your seat. “You’re not going anywhere.”

For a moment, you sat in your seat in surprise. You’d been on some bad dates, and while some of the men had reacted badly when you’d left early, none of them had scared you the way Curtis was. There was something so aggressive about the way he spoke, and it was then that you noticed a strange haze in his eyes.

Was he… high?

Thankfully, a sever must’ve caught Curtis’s words, or his tone of voice, because she came over to check on you. Her brown eyes were sharp, but kind as they stayed fixed on you, asking if everything was okay.

“We’re fine,” you told her weakly, giving her the most reassuring smile you could offer while silently begging her to help you somehow. You didn’t want to make a scene, and you were sure the restaurant didn’t want that either, but you would if you needed to.

That’s what you hoped to convey, and you thought the server might’ve understood because she gave a firm nod and headed off with a determined spring in her step. You saw her walk quickly toward the kitchen before your attention was diverted by Curtis.

“You better not embarrass me in front of the staff,” Curtis was saying, clutching his wine glass a little too tight and swirling the liquid enough that you worried he’d spill some on the expensive decor. “I bring a lot of high-profile clients here, I can’t have you leaving early—you know how people like them talk.”

The fear you’d felt melted away in the face of indignant anger on behalf of the restaurant staff—who Curtis had treated like garbage since he’d walked in. It was a miracle he was even allowed in the doors after what you’d seen that evening.

“What kind of people is that exactly?” you asked, quiet fury lacing your voice. You could put up with the indignity of being ordered around by your date, but you wouldn’t sit by and listen to him disparage the people who’d only tried to help the two of you that evening.

Curtis clearly didn’t hear the warning in your tone, because he gave a careless shrug of his shoulders, gesturing thoughtlessly with his hand holding his wine. Some sloshed over the edge, spilling on the floor.

“You know, low-class people.”

There was so much casual disdain dripping from his voice, you had to wonder, if Curtis was such a regular at Night Shift, why hadn’t the sommelier poisoned him already—it’s not like the world wouldn’t be better off without your date, who was somehow still talking.

“The type of people too poor to get a real job—like us,” Curtis said, fixing you with what he clearly thought was a winning smile. It did not make him look like a winner.

At the implication that you were anything like Curtis, your stomach roiled unpleasantly, and you were suddenly afraid that what little wine you’d drank was about to come back up.

That was it, you’d officially reached the end of your patience. You didn’t care if it caused a scene, you couldn’t spend another moment in this man’s presence without vomiting.

“You’re a small-dicked, pathetic excuse for a man, Curtis Larsen,” you hissed at him, trying to keep your fury in check as you braced your hands against the edge of the table and moved to stand. “And I would fuck every one of the people who worked here before I let you anywhere near me —”

As you pushed yourself up from the table, Curtis reached for you quicker than you would’ve expected, snatching your wrist in his big, meaty hand. He yanked on your arm hard enough that you sat back down, biting back a cry as a jolt of pain shot through your shoulder.

“Don’t you dare fucking try to leave,” Curtis snarled, his face contorted into an ugly mask of rage. It was clearer, in that moment, that he was high. It was making him more aggressive, so even when you tried to pull free of his grasp, he held on tighter, hurting you even more.

Just then, movement over Curtis’s shoulder caught your attention and your gaze snagged on a man pushing through the door to the kitchen, an air of violence and vengeance about him that made your heart leap in hope. He carried himself with the kind of quiet confidence weak-willed men like Curtis could only dream of, and he was heading straight for your table.

In the brief time it took the man to make his way through the dining room, you took stock of his appearance. The first thing you noticed was how handsome he was. Silvery, steel gray curls were swept back from his face, giving you a clear view of his sharp, hazel eyes, straight nose and a soft mouth bracketed by short stubble.

The man was clearly older than you, in his 50s, but he looked competent and put together in a way that had your belly swooping as your eyes raked down his body. A plain white t-shirt stretched around his bulging biceps, freckles dusted down his tanned, weathered arms. His broad shoulders and narrow waist were accentuated by the brown apron hanging from his neck.

Something about the man looked familiar, like you’d seen him somewhere before, but between the pain in your wrist, the fear inspired by Curtis’s aggressive change in mood, and the sudden attraction you felt toward the handsome chef, you couldn’t place him.

At least, not until you looked back at his face and saw the intent determination in his expression. It was the same exceedingly hot look he’d been wearing in the photos you’d seen—the ones in the article about Night Shift and its chef-slash-owner.

You realized, with sudden clarity, two very important things: The man approaching your table was the restaurant’s owner and world-renowned head chef, Jack Abbot. And he looked furious enough about the way Curtis was still holding on to you that he was liable to murder your date.

Jack Abbot could not kill a restaurant guest.

He could not. No matter how much that guest might deserve it for putting his filthy fucking hands on a woman in his restaurant. No matter how much Jack wanted to rip this guy’s head off for daring to touch someone as sweet-looking as you.

He could not kill a guest. He could not kill a guest.

Those words were a refrain playing in his head as he made his way to your table, the one with the situation Nazely had told him about—a situation that had clearly escalated to physical. Because your date had put his hand on you and all Jack could think about was murder.

He hated the way this pompous asshole was holding your wrist tight enough that it looked painful, though your face was a stony mask like you refused to give the guy the satisfaction of showing him he’d hurt you. And Jack especially hated the fact that he’d stupidly left his knife in the kitchen, so he couldn’t cut off the guest’s hand for the crime of touching you with so much violence.

Jack was nearly at the table when he heard your date talking, and he immediately recognized the smarmy voice of Night Shift’s #1 worst regular: Curtis Larsen.

In that moment, Jack knew he should’ve banned the guy after the last time he came in, when he’d terrorized the staff and tipped basically nothing for their efforts. Well, that was a mistake Jack was going to rectify immediately, once he got you away from the shithead.

So focused on his thoughts, and trying to quell his inclination toward murder, Jack didn’t fully register what Curtis was saying until he was right next to the table.

“—Didn’t take you for such a cheap whore—”

Any possibility of Jack politely interrupting Curtis went out the window when he heard those words. What came out of him instead was: “Sir, you need to shut your fucking mouth.”

Jack was louder than he’d meant to be, making you gasp softly. His gaze found you, wanting to make sure he hadn’t scared you, and he ended up getting lost in your eyes. They were bright and smart, and watching him with such a keen interest, it made Jack feel 20 years younger.

It was then that Jack really looked at you, and he realized just how young you were. Not young enough to make him feel like a complete creep, but… young enough to make him feel at least a little bit like a creep.

Especially when he raked his eyes down your body—telling himself he was just checking to make sure you were okay—and he couldn’t help but notice the way your dress clung to your curves, taunting him with how high the hem rode up your thigh. Your bare legs were a tease beneath the tablecloth, and Jack wondered if your skin felt as soft as it looked…

Reminding himself that you needed help, not to be ogled by a creepy older man, Jack shook himself free of the spell you’d cast on him with your wide, trusting eyes and your pretty, tempting curves. He turned to Curtis, giving the man his most fearsome glower, the one that kept the most unruly of restaurant guests in line.

“And keep your fucking hands to yourself,” Jack growled, making a point of looking down at where Curtis’s hand was still holding your wrist before returning his gaze to the man’s face. “Or do I need to teach you a lesson about putting your hands on woman without her consent?”

Jack knew he sounded dangerous—unhinged, probably—but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not when his thinly veiled threat did the trick and Curtis let go of you like he was dropping a hot pan.

Something settled in Jack’s chest, and he felt soothed knowing he hadn’t even needed to resort to violence to save you from Curtis. But that feeling quickly shriveled as Jack watched you bring your hand to our chest and cradle your wrist.

He had the sudden, inexplicable urge to wrap you up in his arms and tell you no one would ever hurt you again. Not on his watch. But somehow, Jack managed to keep his hands tucked behind his back, even as the tips of his fingers prickled with the desire to touch you, to soothe you.

Those thoughts and urges were troubling enough, but then you lifted your eyes and gave Curtis a withering look that had the other man cowering almost as much as he had under Jack’s glare. The chef felt a threat of pride weave through his heart.

Jack could see your strength, your resilience, and he knew in that moment that you could take care of yourself. You could’ve freed yourself from Curtis’s hold, you hadn’t needed saving, but that only made Jack want to whisk you away all the more. He wanted to take care of you in a way he’d never felt before.

Biting back a sigh at himself, Jack realized one very important thing: He was a goner for you. Already. Even though he didn’t even know your name.

Unable and unwilling to stop himself from acting selfishly, Jack held a hand out to you, giving you a soft, encouraging smile and nodding toward your hurt wrist.

“My name’s Jack, I own this restaurant. Can I take a look, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice as gentle as he could make it, a low, raspy rumble that he hoped felt like a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. “I used to be a medic in the army.”

It made Jack’s heart soar when you looked at him for a moment, like you were taking his measure, and decided you could trust him. Your fingers were soft and a little cold as they slipped into Jack’s plam, his own hand closing reflexively around them to warm you up.

Carefully, Jack turned your wrist one way, then the other, bending low over your hand to examine whether it was injured. All the while, he kept an eye on your face, watching for any wince or twinge in your expression to indicate he was hurting you.

Thankfully—for you, for Jack, and most especially for your date—it didn’t look like Curtis had done any real damage.

“No sprain, just some bruising,” Jack said, giving your fingers a soft, reassuring squeeze and lifting his gaze to yours. He nearly lost himself in the admiration and gratefulness in your eyes, but managed to continue. “I have some ibuprofen in my office.”

Your eyes widened a little in surprise, and Jack was forced to endure the torment of watching you nibble on your lower lip while uncertainty filled your expression. He understood your reticence to trust a man so soon after another had hurt you, so Jack tried to put you at ease.

“Whaddya say, sweetheart, do you want the kitchen tour?”

Jack shot you a cheesy, hopefully charming wink, and when you let out a soft giggle, shaking your head at him like you couldn’t believe how corny he was, he felt like he was flying. He felt like he could soar above all of Pittsburgh with only the confidence he earned from making you laugh.

“That would be nice,” you said, looking up at him from under your lashes. Jack was immediately entranced by your voice, by the way your lips moved as you spoke. “Thank you, chef.”

It did absurdly wild things to Jack’s heart, which was already beating a fast, staccato rhythm in his chest, to hear you call him ‘chef’. It shouldn’t have affected him so much, it was a title he heard about a hundred times a night from dozens of other people.

But hearing it from your pretty mouth made Jack feel like it was a badge of honor, and he was glad to have earned it.

Distracted by thinking of ways to get you to call him ‘chef’ some more, it wasn’t until you clutched his fingers more tightly that he remembered he’d intended to get you away from Curtis as quickly as possible. Using it as an excuse to keep holding your hand, Jack helped you to stand up.

When he was sure you were steady on your feet, after wobbling for a moment in your heels, Jack nodded to your chair and said, “Grab your things, angel. You won’t be coming back.”

Even though Jack was leaning into you when he said it, Curtis must’ve caught the words because his expression turned from icy resignation to red-hot fury as he pushed himself to stand. But Jack was quicker, putting himself between you and your former date, growling at the younger man before he could fully stand up.

“Sit down, sir.”

A stunned Curtis plopped back into his chair. Jack raised his chin, staring down his nose at the other man while he tucked his hands behind his back, standing guard between you and your former date. Images of knives began dancing in Jack’s head, and he let it fuel the anger in his expression to keep Curtis in check.

Jack could sense you moving around behind him. You’d dropped his hand when you’d turned to grab your jacket and purse, but you must’ve been done because you slipped your fingers back into his palm.

You grasped his hand tentatively, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze, his heart soaring in his chest even as he continued glaring at the man at the table, who looked riotous at the thought of Jack stealing you away.

“You can’t do this,” Curtis snarled, trying to puff up his chest and make himself look big, even as he remained sitting in his seat, too much a coward to actually challenge Jack’s authority.

The chef responded to the other man’s posturing by looming over him, an unkind smile on his face. Jack was more than a little satisfied by the way Curtis cowered, just a little, in his seat.

“This is my fucking restaurant,” Jack said, his voice even but ruthless. “So let me tell you how this is going to go.” Jack kept your hand tucked in his, holding you behind him while he dealt with your ex-date. “You’re going to pay your bill, leave your server a generous tip, and then you’re never going to step foot in here again. Do you get me?”

Jack watched emotions flit across the younger man’s face—surprise, frustration, indignation, fury—and he could practically feel the temper tantrum brewing, like a storm rolling in. But he could also smell the booze on him and, if Jack wasn’t mistaken, he could see the telltale signs Curtis had been indulging in more than wine.

Night Shift really didn’t need the scene or the paperwork that would come along with the temper tantrum, which would inevitably lead to someone calling the cops. So Jack went in for the metaphorical kill.

“If I ever see your face in here again,” Jack said, lowering his voice even more so only you and Curtis could hear him. “You’re going to pay for putting your hands on a woman in my restaurant—and I’ll take that payment with my knife.”

Jack watched as Curtis blanched, his tanned skin going ghostly pale as all the fight drained out of him at the threat of actual violence. The younger man’s gaze finally fell to the table, and Jack knew he wasn’t going to challenge him again.

It was completely unhinged to threaten Curtis like that, he knew that, but all Jack worried about was that he’d scared you. When he turned to check on you, though, he found you staring at him with so much admiration, Jack wanted to puff up his own chest and take on every asshole who’d ever wronged you.

You took a careful step closer to Jack, looking at him with those wide eyes, a smirk flirting around the edges of your pretty mouth, and wrapped your other hand around his bicep. “Thank you,” you murmured for only him to hear, and Jack offered you an answering smile.

“Ready to go, sweetheart?” he asked charmingly, squeezing your hand gently.

Your smirk bloomed into a full-blown grin, and he caught the edge of excitement in your expression, making Jack’s heart thump harder in his chest. He could hardly believe someone as young and beautiful and strong as you wanted to go anywhere with him. Not only did you look like you wanted it, you looked eager for it.

“Yes, please, chef,” you purred, the sound of your voice calling him ‘chef’ again going straight to his dick.

Oh yeah, Jack was definitely a goner for you.

You could hardly believe how drastically the course of your night had changed in just a few minutes.

You’d gone from being on the absolute worst date of your life, trying to figure out how you were going to get away from the man who’d accosted you, to being on the arm of one of the most talented—and handsome—head chefs in all of Pittsburgh.

Jack Abbot’s hand was warm and strong in yours, his stride steady and determined as he led you through the dining room toward the kitchen. His presence at your side helped to settle the wobbliness you felt in the wake of the fear and adrenaline that had rushed through you when Curtis had grabbed you.

Leaning further into Jack’s side, you got a hint of his scent—fresh laundry something earthy, like sage or rosemary—and you let it stoke the little ember of interest that burned deep your core, the one that had flared to life when you watched the chef put your date in his place.

What did it say about you that you thought it was inexplicably hot the way Jack had threatened Curtis with his knife? What did it say about you that you felt safer with Jack than you had with any man you’d ever gone out with?

With those questions rattling around in your head, you were glad that Jack didn’t try to make conversation beyond asking for your name as he guided you to the kitchen. He seemed to understand you needed a moment to process everything that’d happened, and he remained quiet as the two of you walked together through the crowded dining room, the soft chatter of the other diners filling the silence so it wasn’t awkward.

When Jack pushed through the double swinging doors to the kitchen, the gentle murmur of the restaurant’s dining room gave away to the chaos of the kitchen. Immediately, you felt the buzzy, almost electric energy, of the staff, and you took your first full breath since you’d walked into Night Shift, something about the kitchen making you feel like you were coming home.

Your eyes were opened wide as you looked around because there was so much to take in—a whole army of chefs and cooks moved around the silver metal tables and big, gas range stoves, grabbing things out of fridges, chopping vegetables and searing meat. It was like a masterfully choreographed dance, the way everyone moved around each other.

And it smelled divine. Herbs and spices and so many other scents filled your nose, making your mouth water and your stomach grumble, though there was no way anyone could hear it over the noise—the clatter of knives and pans, the people calling out orders, the slamming of fridge doors.

Everything seemed to revolve around on particular chef, an Asian man spooning some sauce onto a plate and conferring with a Black woman. He was the calm in the center of the storm, obviously running things while Jack had been dealing with your date.

The head chef himself tugged you to the side of the room, pulling you out of the way of the steady stream of servers coming in and out of the double doors, carrying big trays filled with all kinds of dishes—salads and seafood, pasta and chicken. All of it smelled amazing, looked amazing, and it was all you could do to stare around the kitchen with awe no doubt written plainly on your face.

Gradually, you became aware of Jack’s gaze on your face, and when you looked at the chef, you found him watching you closely, so much intensity in his hazel eyes, it made you feel a little shy. Here was this older, accomplished chef, and he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in his entire kitchen—his entire restaurant.

You offered him a tentative smile, your heart skipping a beat when he towed you just a little closer by your still clasped hands.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Jack asked, and you could tell by the tenor of his voice that he actually cared about your answer. He sounded worried, hopeful, and so achingly interested that it made you unsteady on your feet.

“I think it’s amazing,” you answered honestly, your voice more than a little breathless with wonder. You leaned further into his side, staring into his eyes and getting a little lost in them. “Everything looks and smells delicious, chef.”

A small, pleased smile curved Jack’s mouth, even as his eyes darkened at what you’d called him. It stole the breath from your lungs, the knowledge that you could affect him so clearly just by calling him ‘chef’. It made you want to say it more, to say it while his mouth was on your body, just to see if you could drive him wild…

Tension crackled between the two of you, sharp and electric, sucking all the oxygen out of the room so it became a little hard to breathe normally. Your heart fluttered in your chest, and your legs trembled, and still, you couldn’t tear your eyes away from Jack, your gaze drifting down to his mouth and the silvery stubble that surrounded it.

“Jack?” you murmured his name softly, a question in the single syllable, as you raised your eyes back to his. There was an answer in his gaze, in the way his own eyes dropped to your lips and back up, like he was fighting the same urge as you.

“Everything good, chef?”

You and Jack jumped apart, your hands disentangling as you put a respectable amount of space between your bodies. You watched Jack straighten, his expression shifting into something much more professional, much more appropriate for his workplace, as he turned to the room.

“Gimme a few more minutes, chef,” Jack called back to the Asian man who’d addressed him. You got the sense that the man was amused by the two of you, even though his face remained unreadable. “I’ll be back to dig you out of the hole of the dinner rush.”

The man who must’ve been Jack’s sous chef huffed a laugh and, without looking up from the dish he was plating, said, “Don’t worry about us, old man. We’ve got this.”

“Who’s he calling old?” Jack muttered under his breath, making a laugh burst from your lips at how disgruntled he sounded. A smirk flickered at the edge of Jack’s mouth, like he couldn’t help himself, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement, and he leaned closer to you. “Do you think I’m old, angel?”

Jack’s voice was little more than a rasp, and you swore that you could feel it skim down your spine and settle deep in your core, where heat was blooming hotter. All you could do was stare at Jack, at the weathered lines of his freckled face, and the silver curls that you wanted to run your fingers through, as you tried to think of something to say.

A little lop-sided smile tilted Jack’s mouth, like he could somehow see the odd mixture of awe and lust swirling in your body, in your brain, making you tongue-tied—and he didn’t hold it against you. “Don’t answer that,” he grumbled good-naturedly, his eyes still fixed on your face.

The two of you hung suspended in that moment for longer than was strictly necessary, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen fading away, until you finally remembered how to speak. Though once the words came out of your mouth, you wished you’d stayed silent.

“I don’t think you’re too old.”

That statement got Jack’s attention in a way you hadn’t experienced in all the short time you’d been in his presence. His eyes darkened, dropping to your lips once again before dragging their way back to meet your gaze. A charming grin made his mouth look far too tempting.

“Too old for what, angel?” Jack asked innocently, a hint of playful teasing in his tone that had your body burning hotter. His dark hazel eyes were knowing—like he knew what you really meant to say, that you didn’t think he was too old for you.

But you couldn’t say that, couldn’t answer him. You already felt like you’d said too much, and there were too many emotions still swirling around in your chest, in your belly, between your thighs, to make sense of any of them.

Thankfully, Jack seemed to understand you were overwhelmed and he didn’t push it. Instead, he pressed a hand to your lower back, the heat of his palm scorching through the thin fabric of your dress, even in the warmth of the kitchen. He guided you gently to a narrow doorway tucked into the corner of the kitchen you hadn’t noticed before.

Jack led you into a small office that you knew immediately was his. The space was nice and neat, just like his kitchen, with homey touches that reflected the dining room of his restaurant with emerald green walls and a dark wooden desk, which held a few framed photos and other keepsakes alongside his paperwork and computer.

Also, it smelled like him—fresh and clean, with just a hint of garlic and sage.

The room was small, barely big enough for a desk, chair and a couple of filing cabinets, but it was cozy, and you felt just as safe in Jack’s office as you did in his presence. Being away from the loud clamor of the kitchen also helped to settle your nerves and, without being invited to, you sank into the chair, leaving Jack to lean against the edge of his desk.

“How’re you holding up, sweetheart?” Jack asked gently, crossing his arms over his chest and ducking down to catch your eye. You gave him a weary smile.

“I’m ok,” you said, then paused to take stock of yourself to see if that was really true. “A little shaken, a lot hungry,” your smile tured rueful. “I was really looking forward to trying your food,” you told him, dropping your gaze to where your hands were twisted together in your lap. “But we didn’t even make it to the appetizers.”

Jack shifted closer to you, his knee nudging lightly against yours, and you felt a little zing of happiness at even that small touch. You almost huffed a laugh at yourself for the silly crush you were developing on the hot, older chef, but managed to bite it back and looked up at the man who’d so gently gotten your attention.

“If you want to go home, I can have security escort you out back,” Jack started, his mouth twisting into the vague impression of a frown, like he didn’t particularly like that idea. “Or, if you want, you can hang out in here, I can make you something to eat, and then later, I can give you that kitchen tour.”

He shot you another one of those exaggerated winks and you couldn’t help but giggle softly. Jack was charming and he knew it, and if you weren’t careful, you were definitely going to develop a big ol’ crush on the man. He made it too easy to feel comfortable around him.

“It’s your choice, sweetheart,” Jack said, pausing for a moment like he wasn’t sure if he should go on, but then he did. “I do hope you’ll let me cook for you, though.” He reached out, his fingers brushing gently against the edge of your jaw, his touch so light you could barely feel it. “I don’t like the idea of sending you home hungry.”

Before you could lean into Jack’s hand, he snatched it back, like he was worried he’d crossed a line. He crossed his arms more tightly across his chest, his hands tucked away as if he was worried they couldn’t be trusted not to touch you again, and you had to smile.

Maybe it wasn’t the worst idea in the world to develop a crush on the hot, older chef who’d saved you from the worst date of your life—especially since it seemed like the hot, older chef was having trouble keeping his gentle hands off you.

“I’d like to stay,” you murmured, looking up at Jack from under your lashes.

Almost against your will, your body swayed closer to the charming chef, your hand reaching out to wrap around his forearm. The light dusting of Jack’s hair tickled your fingers, and you couldn’t help but notice how strong and firm his arm was beneath your palm.

Your lips quirked into a small smile, putting a little flirty edge on your words as you said, “If you don’t mind, chef.”

Jack’s eyes were dark, liquid heat as he stared at you for a long moment, and you wondered wildly if he might kiss you. The thought had excitement fluttering to life in your belly, but before you could get your hopes up too high, Jack swallowed and looked away. It was only then that you noticed the faint flush pinkening his cheeks.

“Make yourself comfortable, sweetheart,” Jack said, pushing away from the desk and stepping toward the door. “Ibuprofen’s in the top drawer.”

The movement had your hand dropping from his arm and you immediately missed the warmth of his skin. When he looked back at you, he must’ve caught something on your face, something that had him cracking a small smile.

“I’ll be back soon, alright?” His voice was a little rough, teasing your body with its low tenor, but you managed a smile and a nod.

“I’ll be here,” you said, as brightly as you could. “Thank you, Jack.”

Jack looked at you another moment, his eyes going a little soft, before he ducked through the office door. He pulled it most of the way closed behind him, leaving it open just a crack, somehow knowing you wanted some peace, but not to be cut off from the kitchen—from him—entirely.

Left alone to your own devices, you only had your own thoughts as company. You knew your brain wanted to spiral about your date—Why hadn’t you seen the red flags from Curtis earlier? Why hadn’t you cut the date short sooner?—but instead you focused on what was in front of you.

Tossing your purse and jacket onto the desk, you got comfortable in Jack’s chair, leaning back and noticing a leather jacket thrown over the back. Shooting a quick glance at the door to make sure no one could see in, you tucked your face into the collar and breathed in, a smile curving your lips as you inhaled Jack’s clean, earthy scent.

Once you’d had your fill—or, rather, once your shame caught up with you and you forced yourself to stop sniffing the hot, older chef’s jacket like a mindless hussy—you let your eyes roam around the room, taking in the almost military precision of the organization in the office.

The desk was mostly clear, save for the keyboard attached to his computer monitor, and a stack of order forms for things for the restaurant. There were also the photos and keepsakes. You picked them up one by one, looking closely at the people and things Jack cared about, not bothering to feel bad about your nosiness.

The first photo was of Jack and his whole kitchen crew at the opening of Night Shift, looking worn out but exultant in their success. Another photo depicted Jack with a man about his age, tall with brown hair and a salt and pepper beard, standing next to a motorcycle. They had their arms slung around each other like they were old friends.

Next, your fingers trailed over a medal of honor that was tucked into a corner of the desk. It was purple and gold, in the shape of a heart with a man’s side profile in the center. You remembered Jack’s comment about being in the army and wondered what had earned him the medal.

Feeling like you’d possibly overstepped, you set the medal back in its place on Jack’s desk and focused on finding the ibuprofen. After taking the pills with the glass of water he’d grabbed for you from the kitchen, you snuggled deeper into his chair, your head falling back against the collar of the chef’s leather jacket.

It occurred to you suddenly that you really liked Jack Abbot. You hadn’t known him for long, and you didn’t know all that much about him, but you wanted to.

You wanted to know why he’d named his restaurant Night Shift, and why he’d become a chef after being a medic in the army. You wanted to know what his favorite thing to cook was, and whether he needed readers to read texts on his phone.

You wanted to know if he was going to ask you for your number.

That thought made you stop and smile as you considered what you’d do if Jack asked for you number and actually used it. Your fingers played idly with the soft, supple leather of his jacket, letting the sounds of the kitchen lull you into deeper comfort as you imagined what it would be like to date world-renowned chef Jack Abbot.

You suspected it would be a helluva lot better than going on a date with Curtis Larsen, that was for sure.

Jack Abbot could not be interested in the young, pretty restaurant guest he’d saved from a bad date.

He paused just outside the door to his office, trying to get his head on straight, but all he could think about was the way you’d looked at him, like you were attracted to him, like you trusted him to take care of you. His fingers flexed at his side, and he could still feel the softness of your skin beneath his grazing touch—so pretty, so tempting.

His mind was consumed with the sweetness of your scent filling his office, invading his private space, and how much that pleased him. Jack already knew that scent would haunt him for the rest of the evening, that he’d fall asleep just to dream of you.

Wiping a hand down his face, Jack felt like a creep for even thinking about how you smelled, how your hand felt like a perfect fit in his own, how he wanted you to look at him with nothing but lust in your eyes. He was supposed to be helping you, taking care of you, making sure you got home safe, not thinking about what it’d feel like to put his hands on your body and pull you close…

With a hard shake of his head, Jack refocused on the task at hand—making you something to eat—and strode back into the kitchen. He walked up to stand beside his sous chef, who was busy plating a whole tray of that night’s special. John didn’t even look up as Jack approached.

“How are things looking?” Jack asked, busying his hands by retying the strings of his apron while he took a look at the line of orders still needing to be made. It was a busy Friday night at Night Shift, but his sous chef was keeping on top of things.

“Don’t worry about us, chef, we got this,” John said, before raising his voice and calling out to the rest of the kitchen staff. “Don’t we, nightcrawlers?”

“Hoo-rah!” came the answering reply and Jack had to twist his lips to the side to hide the proud smile that wanted to break through. Annoyingly, John noticed.

“Seriously,” John said, straightening up and setting the last of the plates onto a tray for a server to take them out into the dining room. He turned to Jack. “I’ve got this under control, if there’s somewhere else you’d rather be.”

John’s eyes drifted over Jack’s shoulder in the direction of the office before returning his gaze to the head chef and waggling his brows a little.

“I won’t take it personally if there’s someone else you’d rather be with than me,” the sous chef quipped, grabbing his Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee from the shelf over the worktable and taking an obnoxiously loud sip.

“It’s not like that,” Jack grumbled, hoping to nip that thread of conversation in the bud before it began. The last thing he needed was for his business with you to get around the kitchen. Everyone who worked at Night Shift were talented, good people, but they gossiped more than little old ladies.

Jack tugged on some black nitrile gloves and grabbed a knife and cutting board. But when he returned to his station with the ingredients he’d need for what he planned to cook you for dinner, John was giving him a skeptical look.

“Right,” John said, not dropping the subject, no matter that Jack was no longer looking at him and was instead focused entirely on chopping up some rosemary and garlic. “That’s why you stepped in and took care of her date instead of letting security handle it.”

John’s tone was dry enough to give the Sahara a run for its money, but Jack refused to rise to the bait. Huffing an exaggeratedly beleaguered sigh, John cut to the chase. “Do you know her or something?”

“No,” Jack said quickly—too quickly, he knew. He could feel John’s indefatigable gaze drilling into the side of his head while he worked. He knew John wouldn’t give up the interrogation until he got something so Jack finally admitted, “But… maybe I want to get to know her.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw a wide grin spread across his sous chef’s face a moment before John clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s great, chef,” he said, but he must’ve noticed Jack wasn’t grinning along with him because he asked, “It is great, isn’t it? I mean, it’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”

“She’s too young for me, man,” Jack said, his voice harsher than he’d intended. He paused, swallowing, then grabbed a pan and some chicken cutlets, getting to work breading and seasoning them. “Besides, she’s had a rough night—that jackass grabbed her.” Jack had to stop again and take a breath to contain his anger before he went on. “She doesn’t need some old man creeping on her, too.”

“Dude,” John started, before getting distracted by plating up a new round of orders. It took him a moment to get back to the conversation. “You’re not that old,” he said, shooting Jack a look like the head chef should know all his ‘old man’ comments were in good fun. “And if you think she’s not interested, you didn’t see the way she was looking at you.”

At John’s comment, Jack fumbled the pan he was cooking in, nearly spilling oil and chicken into the fire of the stove. He glanced at John, back to what he was doing, then to his sous chef again, who was watching him with a not-so-small smirk on his face.

“H-how was she looking at me?” Jack finally asked, unable to stop himself, not even daring to hope John wasn’t somehow fucking with him.

Sure, Jack knew you’d wrapped yourself around his arm while he’d walked you back to the kitchen, and he couldn’t get the memory of the way you’d touched his arm out of your head. But that wasn’t flirting… was it? And certainly there wasn’t anything particularly interested in the way you’d looked at him. Right?

John’s incredulous look told him otherwise. “Jack, the girl practically had hearts in her eyes when she looked at you,” he said, and when Jack opened his mouth to protest, he cut him off. “She’s into you, dude.”

“What, no—no, no, she’s just…” Jack couldn’t believe how idiotic he sounded, fumbling around his own kitchen while John tried to tell him you were interested. It was like he was a young, inexperienced teenager all over again with his first crush, disbelieving she could ever like him back.

“Ellis, back me up,” John was saying, calling over one of Night Shift’s senior chefs while he set a new round of plated meals onto a tray for a server. “The girl Jack brought back here had heart eyes for our head chef, didn’t she?”

It was only his decades of experience that allowed Jack to continue cooking—boiling water and adding pasta, mixing milk and cheese in with the chicken to create a creamy sauce—while he waited with bated breath for Parker Ellis’s response. Jack trusted the senior chef not to bullshit him or fuck with him the way John sometimes did.

“Oh yeah, full-on heart eyes,” Parker announced, stopping beside John for a moment to drop off some more plates in need of their finishing touches. She glanced at Jack, who was still trying to process her pronouncement. “You gonna do something about it, chef?”

Was Jack going to do something about it? Everything in him ached to do something—to touch you, to kiss you, or, at the very least, ask for your number and take you out for a real meal sometime. He wanted to get to know you, he wanted to impress you with the most romantic of dates, and then he wanted to take you home and take care of you in every way he knew how.

It had been a long time since Jack had wanted any of those things with anyone, and it was a shock to his system to feel them for someone so soon after meeting them. But Jack could tell you were special. There was a spark between the two of you that he knew he’d be a fool to ignore.

However, he was still wary about scaring you off or creeping you out. But maybe he wouldn’t if Jack could take things slow. He could feed you, make sure you were comfortable in his office, and then later, he’d give you a tour of his kitchen and see how things went from there. If you seemed into it, he could ask for your number and take you out on a real date.

Happy with his plan, Jack finally looked up from where he was finishing the meal he’d made for you. He found both John and Parker looking at him expectantly—and a little impatiently. He twisted his mouth to the side to bite back a smirk.

“Don’t you two have something better to do than discuss my love life?” he grumbled good-naturedly, knowing neither of them would take him too seriously.

True to form, Parker snickered and gave Jack a mock salute. “Happy for you, chef,” she said before heading back into the crowded kitchen.

Meanwhile, John was grinning to himself. “Get your girl, old man,” he quipped, giving Jack a sly look out of the corner of his eye.

Jack made a show of grumbling about his impertinent staff while he plated up the dish he’d made for you—chicken and pasta with a creamy, cheesy sauce flavored with plenty of rosemary and other herbs. Then, it was time to bring it to you, and even Jack was a little surprised by how eager he was to get back to you, striding across the kitchen as quick as he could.

Knocking lightly before pushing inside his office, Jack found you curled up in his desk chair, your legs tucked underneath you, an e-reader in your hands. For a moment, Jack was struck by the easy domesticity of the scene—him bringing you dinner while you looked sexy and cozy in his office.

It would be all too easy for Jack to get used to this, having you visit him at his restaurant and waiting in his office for him to finish up for the night so he could take you out for a late-night drink, or some ice cream. And then, he’d take you home and get you underneath him so he could have a late-night snack of his own…

“Oh hi, is that for me?”

Your question dragged Jack from his reverie, and he couldn’t help but smile when he saw your wide eyes looking up at him. He stepped forward to set down the dish and silverware he’d brought on the desk in front of you, your sweet scent tickling his nose before he stood back to give you some room—and so that he could watch your reaction.

You tucked your e-reader back into your purse, and Jack knew the exact moment you smelled the food in front of you because you went still and your eyes slid closed. You took a deep breath in through your nose, and when you exhaled, it was with a low, throaty moan that went straight to Jack’s dick.

For the first time since he’d hit middle age, Jack was actually glad he wasn’t as quick to harden as when he was younger. Still, he had to curl his hands into fists at his sides and tamp down on the instinct to adjust his cock, which was twitching to life, not wanting to bring any attention to how your innocent reaction was affecting him.

Instead, he focused all his willpower on keeping himself from getting harder, which became more difficult when you blinked your eyes open, looking almost dazed with hunger and pleasure. It was all Jack could do to hold himself back from touching you, from tracing the shape of your mouth with his fingers, from kissing you so that the desire in your eyes was all for him and not his food.

“It smells delicious, chef,” you purred, your voice low and husky in a way that Jack could tell wasn’t intentional, which made it affect him all the more.

“Give it a try, sweetheart,” Jack said, unable to keep the gravel out of his voice. He crossed his arms over his chest in an effort to stop himself from reaching for you. He wanted to grab you by your hips, put you in his lap, and feed you. But he reminded himself he was taking things slow, so he leaned against the desk and watched you intently. “I want to know if you like it.”

Bobbing your head in a nod, you grabbed your fork, scooped up some of the pasta and speared a piece of chicken, popping the whole bite into your mouth. Some cream sauce lingered in the corners of your lips, and Jack had to clench his fists to stop from swiping it away with his thumb. He was nearly undone, biting back a groan, when your tongue peaked out and licked it up with a garbled moan.

“Oh my god, that’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” you proclaimed. The pleasure in your voice made Jack harder, but he focused instead on the pride blooming, warm and sweet, in his chest.

Still, he couldn’t completely ignore his cock twitching to life in his jeans. For once, he was grateful for the apron covering his front, helping to shield the bulge growing between his thighs. God, he felt like a fucking teenager.

“Ah, th-thanks,” he said, stumbling over his words, flustered by just how much you visibly—and verbally—enjoyed his food. “It’s a personal recipe, not on the menu.” He shot you a wink, hoping desperately that it came across as charming, and not unbearably cheesy. “I figured you could use some comfort food.”

The somber note in Jack’s voice seemed to strike you right in the heart, and you blinked, your eyes dropping from his for a moment. Jack wondered if he’d made a mistake by referencing your bad date, but then your hand darted out, playing idly with the edge of his apron just below where his arms were crossed.

“I can’t thank you enough for getting me out of that situation, Jack,” you said softly, and the chef was so distracted by the sound of his name on your tongue that he almost missed what you were saying. But then you looked up and your gaze was arresting. “I thought I could handle it—could handle him—but I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t been there…”

Jack hated how small you sounded, how unsure of yourself.

Before he knew what he was doing, Jack was sweeping down onto one knee, barely biting back a wince when his prosthetic protested, and settling his hands gently on the outside of your thighs. He tried to ignore the heat of your bare skin against his palms, forcing himself to focus on you and making sure you saw yourself the way he saw you.

“You would’ve been fine, sweetheart,” Jack said in his firmest tone, even as he made sure to keep his voice gentle. He could tell from the uncertainty in your eyes that you were hanging on his every word, and he felt compelled to go on. “You can take care of yourself, and if you’d needed to, you would’ve handled that asshole.”

Something like pride and confidence swirled in your eyes, and Jack let his mouth twist to the side in a smile. It made him feel good to know he could put that look in your eye, and he felt his chest puffing up a little bit before he got control of himself and gave your thighs a reassuring squeeze before continuing.

“I am glad I could help, though,” Jack said, his voice rougher than it had any right to be. But he was kneeling so close to you that he breathed in your sweet scent with every inhale, and it was going straight to his head. “Thank you for letting me feed you—thank you for letting me take care of you.”

Your eyes were wide and bright and fixed so intensely on Jack’s that he barely felt it when your hands settled gently on his shoulders, holding on to him like he was the one steady thing you could count on. His grip on your thighs tightened, drawing you closer until your knees collided with his chest.

“Anytime, chef,” you murmured, your lips parted and glistening and looking so fucking tempting.

A little growl rumbled in Jack’s chest and he watched your eyes flare with interest, before settling back into a heavy-lidded stare. Your fingers tightened on his shoulders, curling into the cotton of his white t-shirt, and he could feel you lightly tugging on him, trying to bring him closer.

Fuck, Jack wasn’t just interested in you, he craved you. It didn’t matter that he’d known you for such a short time, he wanted to devour you. He wanted to take you into his arms and kiss the breath from your lungs, make you come apart and then hold you tight until you put each other together again.

He wanted to go back to work knowing you were safe and sound in his office, eating the food he’d cooked for you, then give you a tour of the kitchen later. When that was done, he wanted to drive you home, make sure you got in safe, and make plans to see you again. He wanted to take up as much space in your head as you were taking up in his.

Jack wanted to kiss you. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, you looked like you wanted him to kiss you, too.

A great crashing sound came from the kitchen, shattering the perfect moment, and Jack’s stomach sank when you flinched. You tried to hide your reaction, staring at him innocently like you hadn’t recoiled at the loud sound, but he was reminded that he should be taking things slowly, carefully, making sure you weren’t overwhelmed by all that had happened throughout the night.

“Eat up, angel,” he rumbled, giving your thighs one last squeeze before moving to stand, pushing himself up with one hand on his desk. He gritted his teeth through the pain in his limb as he settled back onto his prosthetic, and gave you another of his hopefully charming winks. “If you’re a good girl, I’ll make you some dessert to go with your kitchen tour.”

At that comment, you sucked in a sharp breath, a sultry smile spreading slowly across your face. When you looked up at Jack, your eyes were a little hazy, and your body swayed closer to him, almost like you couldn’t help yourself.

“Oh, I’ll be good,” you murmured, looking more sexy than you had any right to curled up in Jack’s desk chair. “I promise, chef.”

There it was again, that title rolling off your tongue and licking straight down Jack’s spine. He had half a mind to gather you up in his arms and kiss you until you were murmuring that word into his mouth, his neck, into the center of his chest while he pressed between your thighs and slid inside you…

“I’ll be back when it slows down,” Jack promised, wrenching himself away from his fantasy and backing toward the door of the office. If he didn’t know better, he thought you might’ve been smirking as you hummed your acknowledgement. “Enjoy your dinner, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, chef,” you chirped sweetly, turning back to your meal—though not before catching Jack’s eye over your shoulder, a flirty spark in your gaze.

A goofy grin spread across Jack’s face, and for a moment, he let himself watch you as you pulled out your e-reader and began to read while you ate the meal he’d prepared. His chest filled with warm sunlight while something in his gut settled. It felt right to have you here in Jack’s office, in his space, looking safe and comfortable and content.

Holding that sense of rightness close to his heart, Jack ducked back into the kitchen, taking a moment to retie his apron before jumping into the fray. He felt steadier than he had before he’d brought you some dinner, and while Jack knew part of that was because he knew you were fed, it was also because he’d accepted it—he was interested in you and he was going to pursue you.

Jack was done feeling guilty or creepy for wanting to spend time with you, even if you were one of his restaurant guests that he’d had to save from an atrociously bad date. Jack believed what he’d told you, that you could take care of yourself, and if you wanted to spend time with him, too, then Jack wasn’t going to feel bad about it.

So he took his place beside his sous chef and got to work on the endless stream of orders coming into Night Shift’s kitchen. He let himself fall into the rhythm of the work, plating up and putting the finishing touches on all kinds of dishes before they were whisked away into the dining room. He worked with a methodical determination, knowing that the sooner he cleared out all the orders, the sooner he could check back in on you.

When things finally slowed down, Jack heaved a sigh of relief. It was a strange feeling, knowing he had someone in his office that he eagerly wanted to get back to, and it wasn’t until he caught John giving him an annoying looked that he realized he was smiling.

Jack tugged off his black nitrile gloves, tossed them in the trash, and flipped off John while he made his way back to his office. Jack’s heart squeezed at the sight that greeted him.

He found you snuggled up in his chair, his leather jacket tucked around you like a blanket, your head lolled to the side as you slept soundly. Jack marveled at the beauty of your face—the soft slope of your nose, the pretty curve of your mouth, the delicate fan of your lashes against your cheeks.

Somewhere deep in his chest, Jack’s heart knocked against his ribs like it was trying to get his attention, and he knew exactly what it wanted to say—you could be his. If you let him, and if you wanted him, too, Jack could fall for you. That night could be the start of something new, something spectacular.

Thinking about how he could very much get used to seeing you in his chair, in his office, Jack tucked his leather jacket a little tighter around your shoulders, holding his breath when your cheek nuzzled against the back of his hand. His heart thumped happily when you smiled softly in your sleep and it took every bit of his strength to pull away.

As quietly as he could, Jack cleared the empty plate and silverware from his desk, taking care not to disturb you. He carried it to the door, where he paused to look at you again, watching you sleep for just a moment longer.

It struck Jack then, like a lightning bolt, that he wasn’t just interested in you or attracted to you. He was completely gone for you. He was yours, and he could only hope that you’d want to be his.

Even before you were fully awake, you knew you were safe.

Warmth, and the scent of leather and herbs, surrounded you, easing you back into reality from dreams about a hot, silver-haired chef and big, capable hands on your body. Desire curled lazily, low in your belly, and you snuggled deeper into the leather jacket wrapped around your shoulders, wishing for more time of with your dream chef.

But before you could slip back into sleep, it struck you suddenly how quiet it was in your little cocoon. You’d fallen asleep to the chaos and clatter of the kitchen at Night Shift, but the noise had dwindled down to a dull murmur. It hit you that you must’ve slept longer than you’d intended.

You’d only meant to close your eyes for a few minutes. You’d been so full from eating the comfort meal Jack Abbot had cooked for you, and you’d felt so warm and cozy once you’d tugged his jacket off the back of the chair and wrapped it around yourself. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from letting your eyes close and falling asleep.

Reaching out from beneath the jacket, you checked the time on your phone and confirmed you’d not only slept through the rest of the dinner rush, but through Night Shift’s closing time. Slowly, you began to uncurl yourself from your position in Jack’s chair, stretching and looking toward the door of his office, wondering why he hadn’t woken you up sooner.

Had he forgotten about you?

It was a little dizzying, the sheer amount of disappointment that swept through you at that thought, and it took you a moment to wade through the emotions to get back to rational thought. Jack had been so kind and attentive since he’d rescued you from your bad date, it didn’t sit right to think he might’ve forgotten about you.

It also just didn’t make sense based on the way he’d looked at you before he’d left you alone to eat. He’d stared at you so intently with those dark hazel eyes of his, you’d felt like he wanted to consume you. Even just the memory of his stare was enough to warm you from the inside out, heat swirling through your belly before settling between your thighs.

Intending to get to the bottom of why Jack had let you sleep in his office for so long, you did a quick check of your makeup in your phone’s camera and set your feet on the floor. You were just rising to stand when Night Shift’s head chef stuck his head in through the open door.

“You’re up,” he said, his sharp eyes taking in the way you wobbled on your heels, wincing at the pain of wearing them for so long. He came into the room and took your hand, setting a steadying palm on your hip while his fingers twined with yours. “How are you feeling?”

His attentive question sent more warmth spiralling through your chest, and you smiled softly at the chef, leaning into his warmth. He was still wearing the thin white t-shirt that pulled obscenely across his shoulders and highlighted his bulging biceps, but the brown apron he’d had on earlier was gone, leaving him in just a simple pair of dark jeans and black shoes.

Meanwhile, you were still in the little black dress and heels you’d donned for your date, but somehow you didn’t feel overdressed around Jack. You enjoyed the way his eyes raked down your body, appreciating the way your dress clung to your curves—hugging your hips and cupping your tits. It made you crave the chef’s touch everywhere he looked.

“I feel good, chef,” you murmured huskily, your lips quirking into a little smirk when heat flared in Jack’s eyes. “I needed a little rest, but now I’ve got a second wind.”

“Still want that kitchen tour, sweetheart?” Jack rumbled, his hand on your hip pulling you closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the warmth of it teasing every inch of your bare skin. “You were such a good girl during the dinner rush, I’ve got that dessert I promised you.”

Something deep inside you clenched tight at the way Jack’s voice rumbled over the words ‘good girl’, his praise going straight to the place between your legs that was beginning to throb the longer his hand remained on your hip. To steady yourself, you lifted your hands to Jack’s biceps, feeling his muscles flex beneath your fingers as you looked at the chef from under your lashes.

“Really?” you asked, trying and failing to keep the eagerness out of your voice, out of your smile.

Jack’s mouth pulled to the side in a slow, wicked grin, his eyes sparkling with humor and something that looked a lot like hunger. “How do you feel about coffee and chocolate?”

Excitement bubbled up your throat, and you bounced a little on the balls of your feet as you confirmed your undying love for coffee and chocolate. With another grin that had your core clenching, Jack guided you back into the kitchen, his big hand firm against your lower back.

Most of the kitchen staff had cleared out, leaving the space spotless and easier to navigate as Jack walked you through. He showed you each of the stations, and introduced you to the few remaining kitchen staff—including his sous chef John Shen and senior chef Parker Ellis.

Jack left you chatting with John and Parker while he rustled around in a fridge, pulling out some containers and setting up a work station on one of the long, silver tables in the center of the room. Once he was done, the other chefs each gave Jack a handshake and half-hug before bidding you a goodnight.

As they left, John exchanged a loaded look with Jack that had the head chef’s face twisting into an exasperatedly stern expression, and you had to bite back a smile. It was clear Jack’s staff loved him, respected him—and teased him every chance they got.

It made you feel warm and fuzzy inside, to know that you weren’t the only one who felt safe with Jack. He was a good boss, a good man, to everyone in his life. He was the exact opposite of the man you’d gone on a date with and needed to be rescued from.

Jack Abbot was the kind of man you could be alone with in a deserted kitchen and feel only excitement, only the thrumming awareness that something might happen between you two. You turned to him, your gazes meeting, and for a brief moment, the two of you just stared at each other, silently acknowledging the sparks igniting in space between your bodies.

“Hop up,” Jack said, his voice as rough as a knife on metal. With one hand, he patted the counter beside the cutting board he’d set up, his dark eyes watching you intently.

Your gaze snagged on that hand, on the thickness of his fingers and the smattering of freckles along the back. You remembered how that hand had felt on your hip, on your thigh, and you nearly whimpered with the need to feel his palm on you again, but you managed to bite it back.

Instead, you did as the chef said. You pressed back against the counter, planting your hands on the edge and arching your spine just a little more than necessary to stick out your tits. You were rewarded with Jack’s gaze dropping quickly to your chest before he dragged his eyes back up to your face. With a smirk, you jumped onto the counter, careful not to put too much weight on the wrist your date had grabbed.

The cold metal of the worktable was a stark contrast to the warmth of your bare thighs, and you hissed softly, your shoulders trembling as a shiver snaked down your spine. Instinctively, you wrapped your arms around your body and wished you hadn’t left your jacket in Jack’s office.

But then Jack’s hand was on your knee and he was giving you a concerned look, his silver brows lowered over his hazel eyes. “Cold, sweetheart?”

“Yeah,” you answered sheepishly, giving a light shrug and trying to shake off the chill. You leaned into Jack, your body seeking his warmth. “The kitchen gets cold without all the ovens and stoves on, huh?” you asked wryly, trying to get a reaction from the chef, and soften the worried lines of his face.

Jack huffed a laugh, shooting you an amused smirk even as he squeezed your knee in chastisement. The weight of his palm, the soft press of his fingers, had tendrils of heat licking down your spine and settling between your thighs. It took a great deal of effort not to shiver and grab hold of Jack to pull him closer.

“Stay here,” he rumbled, pulling away and striding toward his office. You nearly whined at the loss of his body heat, but you perked up quickly when he returned with his leather jacket.

The chef stepped close enough to your legs that your knees brushed his thighs, and your gaze snagged on his. He was so close, you could see the lines in his weathered face, the silver stubble along his jaw, and the light freckles dusted across his cheeks.

Tension crackled as he wrapped the jacket around your shoulders, his fingers brushing gently against your bare skin, and you leaned closer, until you could feel his unsteady breaths on your lips. Jack went still, his eyes searching yours and you tried your best to tell him without words how much you wanted him to kiss you.

But either Jack didn’t get the message or he chickened out, because he swallowed hard and tucked the lapels of the leather jacket around your shoulders, making sure you were ensconced in its warmth before he moved back to his workstation. It seemed to take him a moment to gather himself before he spoke.

“Better?” he asked, his voice raw with a hunger that made you squeeze your thighs together against a pulsing ache.

“Yeah, better,” you answered, your voice faint, trying and failing to shake off the unslaked desire burning through your body. You didn’t know if Jack was purposefully ignoring all the signals you were giving him, or if he was truly unaware, but you didn’t know how much longer you could last before you simply grabbed the chef and kissed him yourself.

Despite the almost-kiss, you and Jack fell into an easy quiet, him pulling out some dark chocolate and beginning to chop it up into tiny shards while you watched him work.

The muscles in his arms moved mesmerizingly as he worked his knife against the cutting board, his freckled forearms flexing deliciously, his biceps straining the hem of his white t-shirt. You had to wrap your fingers around the edges of Jack’s leather jacket and bury your nose in the collar, breathing in his herby, masculine scent, to keep from reaching out to touch him.

Whatever expression was on your face made Jack smirk when he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. After that, you could’ve sworn he started flexing his arms on purpose, getting fancy with his knife work, like he was trying to impress you.

From anyone else, that might’ve made you roll your eyes, or turned you off entirely, but Jack was so skilled, so charming, and just so downright hot, that it worked for him. His confidence came from his competence, and it was so attractive, it made you squirm where you sat on the counter beside him, the warmth blooming between your thighs becoming nearly impossible to ignore.

“What’re you making?” you asked in a desperate attempt to distract yourself from watching the muscles of Jack’s shoulders shift beneath the obscenely thin fabric of his white t-shirt. That t-shirt looked well-loved, and you had a sneaking suspicion it would feel really good to wear—while staying the night in Jack’s bed…

“We’ve got some leftover coffee mousse from tonight’s dessert special,” Jack answered, seemingly unaware of how you were ogling him as he continued to chop the dark chocolate into little pieces.

His hands were so deft and skilfull, his fingers so thick and sure, you couldn’t help but imagine what it would feel like for Jack to touch you. You imagined him putting his hands on your body, groping your soft curves, slipping his fingers between your thighs to press against your damp panties…

“I’m just adding some chocolate to elevate it a little,” Jack glanced at you, and you knew your filthy thoughts were written all over your face by the way his eyes heated when they raked over your face. “Chocolate makes everything better, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”

Jack’s voice had lowered, sending delightful little tendrils of lust licking down your spine. Even if you’d wanted to, you couldn’t have looked away from Jack’s dark gaze, the steady thwack of the knife against his cutting board matching the rhythm of the pulse between your thighs.

Slowly, you nodded your head. “Yes, chef,” you murmured, your voice raspier than you’d expected, matching Jack’s lower tenor. Your heart was beating so fast in your chest, you thought you might be able to hear it in the quiet kitchen, but it was only your soft, panting breaths.

The measured sounds of Jack’s knife ceased, his eyes dropping to your mouth, watching you breathe for one long moment, and then another, before dragging his gaze back to yours. Tension crackled electrically between your bodies, and it wasn’t until your wrist gave a twinge of pain that you realized your hands were braced on the edge of the counter and you were leaning closer to Jack.

He seemed to notice the position of your body at the same time you did, his eyes darting down to where your tits were bouncing softly with your sharp breaths before looking up, a light pink blush appearing beneath his freckles. His gaze collided with yours, and you could feel the older man holding himself back, keeping himself in check.

But that wasn’t what you wanted. You wanted…him. Badly.

“Jack.” His name was a desperate whimper, barely louder than your breathing, tumbling from your lips. Something in him seemed to break at the sound of his name from your lips, and you thought he might kiss you.

Instead, he surprised you by grabbing a piece of chocolate from his cutting board and lifting it to your lips. He met your stare with his own heated eyes, looking like melted chocolate mixed with caramel.

“Here, sweetheart, have a taste.”

Jack’s words were a low, delectable rumble from deep in his chest, and you couldn’t hold back the shiver that raced down your spine, making your shoulders tremble with excitement under the onslaught of his voice and his closeness. You could smell his earthy, masculine scent, and you wanted more.

The tips of Jack’s bare fingers pressed to your lower lip and, instinctively, you parted for him, allowing the older man to feed you the chocolate. The rich, decadent taste burst in your mouth, and your tongue darted out, licking the pads of Jack’s fingers, making his eyes darken even further as he watched your lips close around the bite of chocolate.

You let the confection melt in your mouth, your eyes sliding closed of their own accord as you savored the delicious dark chocolate. You might’ve felt like you were in your own little world, but Jack’s hand fell to your thigh, his fingers teasing the hem of your dress where it rode high on your leg. You had to stifle another shiver as you hummed in delight, catching the rumble of a muffled groan coming from the chef.

When you opened your eyes again, it was to find Jack’s intense hazel eyes searing into yours, his gaze so blisteringly hot, you felt your core clench in anticipation. And since you knew you weren’t alone in your attraction and lust, you licked your lips, watching Jack track the movement with his gaze.

“Yum,” you whispered, your fingers trailing lightly through the hair on Jack’s arm, nails raking subtly against his warm, freckled skin. You were prepared for him to pull away again, but he didn’t, and you let a small smile curve your mouth. “Do you have anything else for me to taste, chef?”

Although your question was, on its surface, innocent, you imbued your words with enough innuendo for your real meaning to get through to him. You knew that it had when the corner of Jack’s lips quirked into a smile, but instead of leaning forward and giving you what you wanted—his mouth—he pulled away and turned to something at his station.

The chef popped open one of the storage containers he’d taken out of the fridge and swiped his finger through the mousse inside. You almost squirmed in excitement as he held his hand in front of your mouth, offering you the sweet treat.

Wrapping your hands around his wrist, you held Jack’s scorching gaze as you brought his finger to your lips. You licked teasingly at the mousse, making sure not to touch Jack’s skin with your tongue, and had to fight a smirk when he let out a barely suppressed groan.

Putting both of you out of your misery, you closed your lips around Jack’s thick finger and licked the mousse off of him. The bittersweet taste of the coffee mousse exploded in your mouth, with just a hint of salt from Jack’s skin, and it had you moaning around Jack’s finger. His whole body jerked at the sound and the vibrations.

“Christ, sweetheart,” he groaned softly, his other hand grabbing your thigh, gripping you tightly as he nudged your knees open so he could step between your parted legs. “You make the prettiest sounds when you’re eating my food—I just wanna taste…”

Jack’s finger, still sticky with sugar, slid from your mouth and his hand cupped your cheek, tipping your face toward his. For a moment, he lingered with his lips just barely brushing yours, close enough that you were certain he could taste the coffee and chocolate on your breath.

It felt like he was memorizing the moment, savoring the tension that crackled between your bodies, the way your breath hitched with him so close. Your knees squeezed his sides, your fingers dancing up his ribs, and a soft, breathy whined sounded in your throat as you tried to pull him closer.

“Is this alright, sweetheart?” Jack asked, his thumb stroking your cheek, swiping over the corner of your mouth.

The genuine care in his deep, raspy voice was nearly your undoing. This man had done nothing but take care of you since he’d come striding out of the kitchen to save you from your bad date, but you were tired of him treating you with kid gloves. You wanted him so fucking bad.

Fingers curling in the sides of his t-shirt, you tugged Jack closer, sliding your body to the edge of the counter at the same time, uncaring about how high your dress was riding up your thighs. You parted your lips, tilting your head into the handsome chef’s hand as you pressed your soft body against his hard one.

“Yes, Jack,” you whimpered, unable to stand the crackling tension any longer, even as you wanted to bask in it for the rest of your life. “Kiss me. Please, chef.”

Jack didn’t need to be asked twice. He closed the distance between his mouth and yours, capturing your lips in a slow, decadent kiss that had your heart soaring. His lips were soft, but firm, as they moved against yours, taking immediate control while you were left to gasp and whimper into his mouth.

It was everything you’d hoped it would be—the older man kissing you sweetly at first, before pressing his thumb to your chin and tilting your head back so he could sweep his tongue into your mouth. The hot slide of him was determined and possessive and so fucking hot, you moaned against his lips, trembling as you met the fervor of his kiss with your own heady lust.

Unable to keep your hands to yourself, you wrapped your arms around Jack’s shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft, steel gray curls at the back of his head. Your fingers tangled in the strands, tugging lightly on his hiar as your nails raked lightly against his skin, earning you a desperate groan. Jack deepened the kiss again until you couldn’t do anything else but breathe him in.

The chef’s hands skimmed down your sides beneath the edges of his leather jacket where it was still balanced precariously on your shoulders. His palms were warm as his thick fingers wrapped around your ribs, pulling you even more flush against his chest, your legs splaying wide to make room for his broad body.

His thick, half-hard cock pressed against your soft inner thigh, and you shifted until he was nestled against your warm center. You rocked your hips, grinding against his bulge, dragging a desperate groan out of the older man.

“Fuck, angel, you taste like heaven,” Jack rasped, pressing kisses along your jaw, tickling you with the silver scruff on his cheeks. When he suckled on a spot beneath your ear, you moaned and writhed in his arms, pressing your aching pussy against his hardening cock. “Feel like it, too.”

“God, you feel so good, Jack,” you babbled breathlessly, rubbing against his body like a cat in heat. You hiked your thighs higher around his waist, using the leverage to hump against his thick cock through your clothes. “I want you. Please, chef,” you begged against Jack’s ear, nipping at the lobe and smiling wildly when he shuddered in your arms, his hips grinding his cock harder against your soft core.

“I thought you were going to be a good girl for me, sweetheart,” Jack growled, his voice softly recriminating as he grabbed your hips hard, his fingers digging roughly into your soft flesh.

But instead of dragging you closer and giving you what you wanted, he pushed you back. Lifting his head from your neck, he gave you a stern look, softened by the affectionate twist of his mouth and the spark of desire in his eyes, sending a zing of lust straight to your dripping slit.

“Don’t you wanna be good for me, angel,” he rumbled, his voice deliciously raspy, “and let me feed you some dessert before you start begging me to fuck you?”

Your jaw dropped and you sucked in a sharp breath at Jack’s filthy words, heat suffusing your body so fully, you couldn’t find a single word in your entire head to respond. You could only stare at the older man, your thighs squeezing his hips and wordlessly begging him to put your body out of its misery, but Jack simply chuckled at your reaction.

He stole a kiss from your parted lips before gently extricating himself from your clinging body, shushing you softly when you whined at the loss of him. Giving your hips one last rough squeeze, he stepped out from between your legs and adjusted his thick cock in his jeans as he moved back to his workstation.

It was absurd how cold you felt without him, and you pulled Jack’s leather jacket tighter around your shoulders, pouting at the chef. He pretended to ignore you, scooping up chocolate shards and dumping them into a bowl along with some mousse while you kicked your feet petulantly and whined, “Jaaack.”

That got you an amused smirk. “Just a few bites,” he urged, picking up the bowl and beginning to whisk the chocolate into the mouse, melting it into the dessert. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” Jack said, giving you another of his charming winks.

It had its intended effect, and you softened, endeavoring to wait patiently, though you still made a show of grumbling your discontent even as you got distracted by watching him work. Jack’s arms flexed deliciously while he whisked the chocolate into the mousse, his biceps straining the sleeves of his t-shirt so enticingly, you wanted to bite them, then lick every freckle, then bite him again.

Jack’s low chuckle let you know he’d caught your hungry look, and heat flooded your cheeks, but you didn’t get a chance to stammer out an apology or an explanation before he was setting the bowl down and grabbing a spoon. Scooping up some of the mousse mixture, he lifted it to your lips.

You opened eagerly, already knowing whatever Jack made would be delicious, and let him pop the bite into your mouth. Jack watched you closely as he pulled the spoon out, giving you a moment to taste what he’d given you.

The delectable flavors of rich coffee and velvety chocolate melted on your tongue, and your eyes slid closed as you savored the sweetness, a low moan slipping from your lips at how good the dessert tasted.

“Jesus, Jack, that’s the best thing I think I’ve ever had in my mouth,” you groaned, opening your eyes. You found Jack staring at you, a wild look in his eyes, and so much hunger in their depths, it stole the breath from your lungs. He was looking at you like he wanted to devour you.

You half expected the chef to pounce on you, to kiss the remnants of the dessert from your lips and show you what other things he could stuff in your mouth, but you should’ve known better. Jack didn’t take the bait of your comment as he kept a white-knuckle grip on himself, holding back even as more tension than ever snapped and crackled between the two of you.

“Want some more, sweetheart?” he rasped, holding your gaze.

Your head was bobbing an eager nod before he’d even finished the question, and he lifted another spoonful of mousse to your lips, watching as you ate it happily, humming in delight. When Jack fed himself some of the sweet concoction, you could only watch with rapt attention as it disappeared inside his mouth, his tongue flicking out to catch some left at the corner of his lips.

The need in your body had pulled you taut as a bowstring, your skin practically vibrating with desire by the time you’d finished enough of the dessert for Jack to hopefully be satisfied. It was a testament to his culinary skills that you were still able to taste the chocolatey coffee confection with how much lust was swirling through your body, simmering low in your belly.

You squirmed where you sat, the metal beneath your thighs warm from your skin, and felt how wet you were, your panties nearly soaked with your desire. You were hot enough that you pushed the jacket from your shoulders, and looked directly at Jack, pouting at the chef once more.

“Jack, please,” you whined, your fingers curling around the edges of his t-shirt, knuckles brushing his ribs. You felt him suck in a breath as he let you tug him back between your legs, your body trembling with excitement and need. “I’ve had enough dessert, I need something else…”

The older man didn’t respond immediately, his head ducked, watching as his palms skimmed up the outside of your bare thighs, like he could barely believe you were letting him touch you. Your fingers trailed up his arms, tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, nails raking lightly against his skin. You watched him close his eyes at the sensation, knowing he enjoyed it.

“I’ve been a good girl, haven’t I?” you murmured in Jack’s ear, feeling the tension in his shoulders as they bunched beneath your arms. He let out a slow breath, his hands gripping your thighs tightly. “I’ve been so good, and I want you so bad, Jack. Touch me—please, chef.”

The last thread of Jack’s control snapped at your comment—you felt it in the way his muscles moved, poised on the edge of giving in before he finally let his desire loose after your begging plea. His hands grabbed you roughly, fingers digging into your bare ass beneath the hem of your dress as he yanked you closer.

His mouth descended on yours, capturing your lips in a blisteringly hot, devouring kiss that stole the breath from your lungs. He wrapped you up in his arms, crushing you to his chest as he kissed you, gorging himself on your mouth, his hands groping greedily at your body while you clung to him.

It was everything you’d wanted from the chef, and the corners of your lips curved in an attempt at smile, but then Jack was kissing you harder, overwhelming you until you were moaning mindlessly into his mouth. You’d never felt more desired than you did when Jack kissed you, and you’d never felt more in danger of letting yourself fall for someone.

You were mostly lost to your lust, your nipples puckered and needy where they were pressed against the chef’s chest and your pussy aching to be filled, but it occurred to you that Jack was different from all the other men you’d dated. He was kind and gentle and steady, and he kissed you so good your head spun.

It struck you suddenly that while you knew you were safe with Jack, you were in danger of losing your heart to him. But that was the kind of danger you wanted to be in—especially since you knew that if you fell for him, Jack would catch you.

So you kissed the chef right back, pouring your desire for him into the slide of your mouth against his, holding him close as you flung yourself off the edge, letting emotions swirl and swell in your chest, confident that he’d carry your heart in his hands and protect it with his life.

You’d never been safer in your entire life than you were in Jack Abbot’s arms.

Jack Abbot was in heaven.

In all his years of cooking, of being a chef, he’d never tasted anything as divine as you.

He could gorge himself on you and still never get enough—not of the way your mouth moved against his, your lips soft and tongue eager as it twined with his. He couldn’t get enough of the feel of your body beneath his hands, so sweet and supple and responsive.

Every press of his fingertips into your spine had you arching into him, breathy, little whines slipping from your lips for him to devour. He could taste the coffee and chocolate on your tongue, and he sucked on your plump lower lip, groaning as he savored the combination of the dessert he’d fed you with the natural flavor that was all your own.

Kissing you was making him unbelievably hard—harder than he’d been in a long time—his cock heavy and weeping in his jeans. The only thing that saved him from embarrassment was how enthusiastically you were grinding against his bulge, the dampness of your panties leaving a wet spot where his cock was straining against the dark denim.

Jack dragged his hands up your sides, wrapping his fingers around your ribs, his thumbs brushing against the underside of your tits, teasing you both with the barest of touches. You let out a soft, keening sound against his mouth, making him smirk before he pressed kisses along your jaw and down the smooth column of your neck.

“More, Jack, please,” you begged, your hands fisted in his shirt and tugging on him restlessly. The desperation in your voice, the way you begged for him, it made his cock twitch for you.

He shifted his hands higher, groping your tits through your dress and dragging a filthy moan from your pretty lips. The pads of his thumbs teased your hardened nipples, and he reveled in the way your body shuddered in his arms. Your spine arched, pressing your tits into his hands and he rewarded you by rubbing your nipples more with his thumbs.

“Ya like this, sweetheart?” Jack rasped against your neck, raising his head enough to nip at your ear. “Like letting an old chef feel up your pretty tits?”

“Old, hot chef,” you shot back, correcting him in a deliciously breathless voice.

Jack’s cock twitched at the compliment, and he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have found you—someone so beautiful and full of life. Someone so into him.

He pressed his smile into the spot beneath your ear, kissing and licking your skin until you were moaning softly.

“And yes, chef, I love it. Touch me more, touch me harder—please,” you begged, squirming where you sat on the metal counter in his kitchen.

What was Jack supposed to do? Deny you?

He couldn’t even fathom the idea of not giving you what you asked for, even if he knew that he was letting things get a little out of control. The two of you were still at Night Shift, and though the staff had left for the night, it wasn’t the best idea to have sex in his kitchen.

But Jack couldn’t seem to stop himself, not when you were making such pretty noises while he sucked a hickey into your neck and teased your nipples with the lightest of pinches. His mouth trailed up your throat before capturing your lips in another kiss, swallowing your sounds of pleasure while he played with your tits.

It had been so long since Jack had lost himself in anyone—there hadn’t been anyone who’d awoken that desire in him the way you did. Not since his wife passed. You were a siren calling him to the danger of your body, to the promise of losing his heart to you, and Jack knew he could drown in you if you let him. He hoped to god you let him.

For long, endless minutes, Jack kissed you and groped your tits, playing with your nipples and seeing how many different noises he could pull from your lips. And for a while, you let him, the sounds of your pleasure growing more high-pitched, your hips working more desperately to hump against his cock.

Eventually, your need must’ve grown too great, your frustration too acute, because you grabbed one of Jack’s wrists and shoved his hand down between your bodies, until his fingers brushed your soaked panties.

“Touch me here, Jack, please—I need it,” you whimpered in his ear, and it was nearly his undoing.

It was his turn to gasp and groan, the tips of his fingers stroking against the sodden fabric as he used every ounce of the self-control he’d learned in the army not to spill himself in his jeans right then. You were so warm and soft, and so fucking wet.

Jack teased his fingers along the seam of your slit through your panties, hoping you couldn’t tell how much his hand was shaking. You felt so perfect, it was overwhelming. He’d stopped kissing you, your mouths close as you breathed each other’s air, panting your excitement together while he pressed into your cunt through your slick panties.

“Like this, sweetheart?” he rumbled, the edge of his mouth pulling up in a smirk when you let out a desperate little mewl. Your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging lightly while you rocked your hips onto his hand.

“Jaaack,” you sobbed, and he’d never heard anything as sweet as the sound of his name falling from your kiss-bitten lips, pleasure soaked into your voice.

You pulled harder on his hair, and the jolt of pain went straight to his dick, which leaked even more precum into his jeans. Jack responded by pushing his fingers deeper between the lips of your pussy, his progress restricted by your panties, which prevented him from burying his fingers in your hole.

A violent shiver wracked your body, and Jack wrapped his other arm more tightly around your lower back, holding you close while he fucked you shallowly with his fingers. His thumb teased your clit with a featherlight touch, drawing a feral sound from your perfect mouth.

“Please, oh god, please, chef, touch me—fuck me with your fingers, please, please, please,” you babbled, yanking on his hair to draw him closer. But instead, Jack took the opportunity to lean back and take a look at you—and what a sight you were.

Your head was thrown back, your expression openly desperate with lust. Your gorgeous eyes were dazed with desire, your plump, perfect lips parted and panting for air. Your chest was heaving with heavy breaths, enough that your tits threatened to spill out of your mussed dress, which was hiked up high, Jack’s big hand pressed between your soft thighs.

You looked debauched. You looked so beautiful, Jack’s heart clenched in his chest and he couldn’t stop himself from imagining you looking like this in a million different ways—on the desk in his office, in the backseat of his car, on his couch at home, in his bed.

In that moment, Jack wanted nothing more than to have you in all those ways. He wanted to move you into his place and put a ring on your finger—he wanted to make you his and keep you forever. He was stunned by how much he wanted you.

“Jaaack,” you whined, your sweet voice bringing him back to the moment. Your eyes were wide and pleading as you looked at him. “I was a good girl, wasn’t I?” you asked so pitifully, Jack’s heart ached.

A single tear slipped down your cheek and he cupped your face, panic stealing into his gut and making his stomach drop. He wiped your tears away, already knowing he was going to give you whatever you wanted. If you’d asked him to lay down and die for you, he would’ve done it without a second thought.

“You’re being so mean, chef, when I was so good for you,” you whimpered, your hips worked against his hand. The movement reminded Jack of how he’d been teasing you with his fingers, dragging you to the edge of desperation when all you wanted was to be full of him.

“Oh, baby, baby, baby,” Jack groaned, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

He held your face in one hand as he kissed you, tasting the salt of your tears on your lips, while the other tugged your panties to the side. He pushed one of his thick fingers into your tight, dripping hole, swallowing your moan like it was the most exquisite decadence he’d ever tasted.

“I’m sorry, angel, you’re right,” he rumbled against your mouth, pumping his finger steadily into your pussy, feeling your gummy walls gripping him tight. “You were such a good girl for me—so good that ‘m gonna make you come on my fingers, alright?”

“Promise?” you asked, pouting up at him from under your lashes, and Jack knew he was in trouble, because that look on your face could get him to do anything you asked.

The corner of your mouth twitched, like you were holding back a grin, and Jack’s heart thumped in his chest because you knew the effect you had on him. He liked that a little too much. He liked that you weren’t afraid of torturing him a little bit after he’d teased you a little too much. It felt intimate, like you were building something real together, something that would certainly last past the night.

“I promise, angel,” he cooed, stroking his finger deeper before adding a second one, watching the way your breath caught on a gasp, biting back a self-satisfied smirk. “There’s a rule in my kitchen, y’know,” he went on, talking out of his ass to keep your attention on him even as he finger-fucked your pussy. “Good girls always get to come on the chef’s fingers—and you’ve been such a good girl for me, baby.”

You let out a soft, breathy giggle at that, just like Jack had hoped, and he pumped his fingers harder into your wet, gripping cunt, making your laugh devolve into a dirty moan. Your body went loose and languid in his arms, and he rewarded you by pressing his thumb against your clit. He rubbed the little bundle of nerves, watching how you reacted until he found exactly what you liked most.

“Think you can take another, sweetheart?” Jack asked, pressing kisses to your heated cheeks and cleaning away the remnants of your tears with his lips. He trailed his mouth down to your neck, enjoying the way you shivered when his stubble rasped against your sensitive skin. “Can you take one more finger in this sweet cunt, baby?”

“Yes, please, chef,” you gasped, clinging to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his thin t-shirt.

Every pinprick became throbbing pleasure as it zinged down to his cock. He hadn’t been so close to coming in his pants since he was a teenager, but he fought off his own desire and focused on you. You and your pleasure were what mattered to him, not his dick.

“Good girl,” Jack purred, grinning into your neck when your pussy pulsed at the praise. He eased a third finger into your slick hole, biting back a groan when your tight warmth enveloped him. He pressed his cock against your soft thigh, looking down and watching your pussy take his thick fingers. “Fuck, angel, look at you—taking me so well.”

You leaned back, looking down your body, and Jack knew the moment you saw his fingers disappearing inside your cunt because you clamped down hard around him, like your body was trying to suck him deeper. He stifled another helpless groan, pumping into you, pressing against a spot that had you shivering and moaning wantonly.

You fell back further, planting your hands on the counter to hold yourself up, trying to use your leverage to bear down further on his fingers. But you’d barely rocked your hips in a slow roll when you let out a cry—the tenor making the hairs on the back of Jack’s neck stand up—as your arms gave out and you fell backward.

Quick as he could, Jack slid his free arm up your back, pressing his palm between your shoulder blades to catch you before your head could hit the shelves above the counter. He pulled his hand from between your legs, holding onto your bare thigh with his sticky fingers as he ducked his head to meet your eyes.

“What’s wrong, baby? What happened?” he asked, his gaze searching your face, which was twisted like you were trying to hide your pain. “Did I hurt you?” he asked, his heart clenching painfully in his chest at the thought.

You shook your head, rejecting the idea, which calmed Jack for a moment. Until you spoke.

“My wrist,” you whimpered. “Hurts.”

It took all of a second for Jack to understand what had happened. You’d put too much pressure on the wrist that your worthless excuse of a date had grabbed, had hurt, and it had given out. Rage flooded through Jack’s body, his blood pumping hot with the desire to track down Curtis Larsen and beat him to a bloody pulp.

But Jack knew that wouldn’t help anyone, least of all you, so he worked to rein in his anger. He focused on you, making sure you could sit up on your own before taking the hand of your injured wrist in his.

When he held it up to the bright lights in the kitchen, he could see bruises had formed where Curtis had grabbed you. Before he could stop it, a choked off growl rumbled beneath his sternum, the animalistic sound only ceasing when you stroked your palm down his chest, soothing him.

It took Jack another moment to collect himself, to gather his anger and put it in a box to deal with later. Gently, he lifted your hurt wrist to his mouth and brushed the sweetest, softest butterfly kisses over the bruises mottling your skin.

“I’d kill him if I thought I could get away with it,” Jack confessed, hoping to make you giggle again, his eyes lifting to your face to watch your reaction.

Although you didn’t laugh, his words did the trick of bringing the spark back into your eye. A shy smile curved the corners of your pretty mouth, and you lifted your other hand to cup Jack’s jaw, your thumb teasing over the stubble on his cheek.

“He’s not worth the effort,” you said, and though Jack agreed with you, he didn’t like the idea of letting Curtis Larsen get away with hurting you.

“Hmm,” Jack hummed noncommittally, wondering if he could call the police tomorrow and report the man for assault since it’d happened in his restaurant.

He liked that idea.

He liked the idea of locking up Curtis Larsen and throwing away the key even more. But you were his priority, not that jackass that had been your date, so he focused back on you.

Jack squeezed your thigh, his thumb teasing close to the edge of your panties. “Do you want to keep going, sweetheart?” he asked, his gaze watching you carefully. “I can take you home if you’d prefer.”

The change in your expression was immediate, your lower lip pushing out in a pout, your eyes widening and looking at Jack from under your lashes.

“I want to keep going,” you murmured, almost shyly, meeting Jack’s gaze before it dropped to his mouth. Your free hand fell to his arm, moving his hand from your thigh back between your legs then looking up at him. “I don’t want my shitty date to ruin our night—and you promised me I’d get to come on your fingers.”

A small smile curved Jack’s mouth and he ducked forward, stealing a quick kiss from your pouting lips before he pulled away. His grin was cocky as he pushed your panties to the side and teased your tight hole with the tips of his fingers.

“You’re right—and I always keep my promises, baby,” he assured you, pressing his fingers into your pussy while he watched you closely, making sure he didn’t hurt you.

Once they were buried inside you, he pressed a kiss to the inside of your injured wrist, then brought your hand to his shoulder. He gave you a pleased smile when you lifted your other arm to circle loosely around the back of his neck, your fingers playing with the curls at the nape.

“Hold on to me, angel,” Jack urged, easing his fingers out, then back inside your pussy, feeling your slick, tight cunt stretch around him. He watched your eyes go hazy with lust, your mouth falling open as you panted through your pleasure. “I’ll make you feel good—make you forget everything that happened tonight before I came to your table.”

With a soft, sweet sigh, you draped your arms over Jack’s shoulders, taking all the weight off your wrists, and leaned forward to nuzzle into the side of his neck. Warmth suffused his body, his cock twitching in his jeans when he felt you press a kiss to the underside of his scruffy jaw.

“Thank you, Jack,” you murmured, your voice almost low enough to be drowned out by the quiet whir of machinery in the kitchen. Your warm breath brushed against Jack’s throat and he had to suppress a shiver, focusing on your words. “You’re all I want to remember about tonight.”

Jack’s arm tightened around your lower back, instinctively pulling you closer as his heart gave a heavy thump in his chest. Your sweet words called to something deep in his soul, something that hadn’t been fed in too long for him to be normal about it.

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell you he wanted to spend every night with you, that he wanted you in his bed when he woke up in the morning and to come home to you in his kitchen. He wanted to cook for you and take you out and move you in with him…

But Jack knew it was way too soon to be having those thoughts, let alone say them out loud, so he put on the charm, hoping you couldn’t tell where his mind had wandered.

“And the food, right?” he asked, his tone teasing and light as he fucked you with his fingers again, his thrusts building you back up to where you’d been. He could feel the way your body trembled in his arms, and he held you tighter so he could feel the pleasure work through you. “You want to remember the food, right, sweetheart?”

You huffed a laugh against Jack’s neck, your tongue darting out and swiping up the side of his throat, making him groan helplessly at the obscene feeling of you licking him. His hips bucked forward of their own volition, his cock grinding against your soft inner thigh.

“Oh yes, chef,” you purred in his ear, your voice shaky and breathless and so, so sweet as he pumped his fingers into you harder, his thumb rubbing your clit. “I want to remember everything I got to taste tonight.”

Your words conjured images of your pert mouth on Jack’s cock, your teasing tongue swirling around the tip, licking up his precum before sucking him deep between your soft lips. It was such a hot image, Jack had to duck his head and muffle his tortured groan into your shoulder.

It took him a full minute to get himself together, your giggles echoing softly in the empty kitchen while your nails raked through his silver curls. Once he was able to focus again on the present, Jack pressed his mouth to your collarbone, licking and sucking your skin down to your tits, pushing the top of your dress down so he could take your nipple into his mouth.

The older man was rewarded with a sharp cry from your lips, your spine arching and pressing your tits further into his mouth. Jack grinned into your soft flesh and began to lavish them with his attention, his fingers still working in and out of your pussy while his thumb rubbed your clit in teasing, maddening circles.

It occurred to Jack that he could stay right where he was for a long, long time and be happy to keep sucking on your tits, learning what made you squirm and moan, all while he fucked your cunt with his fingers. But all too soon, you were hovering on the edge of your release, your pussy fluttering around Jack’s fingers, your cries turning high-pitched and desperate while your body worked to find your pleasure.

Your fingers were threaded in his hair, clutching his head tight to your chest as you moaned and rocked your hips harder on his fingers. Mindless pleas were falling from your kiss-swollen lips, frantic appeals for ‘more’ and ‘harder’, begging him to give you the release you needed.

Jack was torn between drawing out the moment, making it last forever, and giving you what you wanted. Eventually, his need to take care of you won out, and he pushed his fingers deep into your cunt, his thumb mercilessly rubbing your clit while he lifted his head from your chest.

“Come for me, sweetheart,” he growled in your ear. “Show me what a good girl you are and come all over chef’s fingers—let go, let me see you come for me.” He pressed his fingers against that spot deep inside your body and stroked your clit, feeling you tighten around him.

Pulling back enough to see your face, Jack watched you succumb to pleasure, your release taking hold of your body and making you throw your head back, a desperate, breathy cry bursting from your mouth. Your fingers tightened in hair, and your pussy clamped down on his fingers, making him work to keep fucking you through the waves of pleasure surging through your body, which trembled in his arms.

“Good girl,” Jack rumbled, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of your pulsing channel, wringing every ounce of bliss from your body. “Sweet girl, perfect girl.”

You curled forward and sobbed your pleasure into Jack’s neck, and when you shuddered at the overstimulation of his fingers, he gently eased you down from your peak. Once your release had ebbed, he slipped his fingers out of your body, and helped you to sit up.

“You gonna keep being a good girl and clean me up, baby?” he asked, touching his wet, dripping fingers to your plump lower lip. Jack didn’t know what had come over him, but the desire to see you taste yourself was too great to ignore, and he hoped he wasn’t making you uncomfortable.

He was pleased when your already unfocused eyes went even more hazy, your head nodding and a smile curling the edges of your mouth before you parted your lips and let Jack slip his fingers inside. You hummed a happy sound that went straight to Jack’s dick then got to work cleaning your own release from his skin.

It was such an erotic sight that Jack thought he could watch you suck on his fingers for the rest of the night, but then he realized he’d given away the opportunity to taste you himself and he got ridiculously jealous. You weren’t done cleaning him up, but he pulled his fingers from between your lips and shoved them into his own mouth.

Jack groaned at your taste, savoring the musky flavor of your pleasure while he held your gaze, letting you watch him lick his fingers clean. Your eyes were hooded and full of renewed lust, your lips swollen and parted as you panted for him.

He couldn’t stop himself. Between one breath and the next, his mouth was crushing against yours in a mindless, feral kiss. He could taste your pussy on your tongue when his delved into your mouth and it drove him wild. His arms wrapped around your body, crushing you to his chest while he kissed you harder, groaning when your fingers pressed into his spine and clung to him just as tightly.

“Jack, I want more,” you cried when your lips wrenched free from his, your fingers trailing around his ribs and down over his stomach until you could cup his thick erection through his jeans. “I need you inside me—need you filling me until I’m so full of your cock, it’s all I can think about.”

“Fuck, angel, you beg so pretty, how can I say no?” Jack teased, his voice only a little unsteady. He tried to pull away, but couldn’t bring himself to when you were stroking his cock through his pants, wringing desperate whimpers from him that would’ve embarrassed him if you weren’t smiling like the cat that got the cream. “C’mere, baby, let me fill up that greedy pussy of yours.”

But when Jack grabbed your ass and pulled you close to he could thrust into your pussy through your clothes, he felt a twinge of pain in his leg where it rubbed uncomfortably against his prosthetic. The pain shot straight up his spine, making his mind go completely blank for a moment, his breath catching in his lungs.

During work, Jack could typically grit his teeth and bear the pain when it hit, but he’d been on his feet for too long. He’d pushed himself beyond his own limits and his body was reminding him that he wasn’t the young, spry man he’d once been.

“Jack?” you asked, your voice thick with concern.

The older man took stock of himself, and realized he’d half collapsed against you, his head on your shoulder, his breath coming in harsh pants as he breathed through the pain. He’d shifted his weight to his one good foot, leaving him a little off-balance and using you to steady himself.

“Are you okay?” you asked softly, stroking your fingers comfortingly through his hair and across his shoulders. When he relaxed into your touch, you held him tighter, not seeming to mind that he was putting some of his weight on you.

“My prosthetic,” he grumbled, not entirely happy that this was how he was telling you, but not shying away from the truth either. “Hurts.”

“Your prosthetic?” you asked after a moment, and Jack paid close attention to the tone of your voice. You sounded confused, maybe a little curious, but Jack was relieved that there wasn’t revulsion or, worse, pity in your tone.

“Lost my leg while I was in the army,” he explained, taking a deep breath as he began to recover his strength. The pain had subsided, leaving him a little shaky and off-balance, but fine.

“Oh, okay,” you said, nothing but acceptance in your tone.

Your fingers were still idly playing with Jack’s hair and that, more than anything else, helped him feel better—though he knew he’d have to get off his feet soon. He was trying to work out how to tell you he couldn’t fuck you on the counter in this position when you took him by surprise with another question.

“Is that how you got the medal?’

Jack paused. Of all the questions you could’ve asked—and he’d heard most, if not all of them—that wasn’t one he’d anticipated. Most folks didn’t know about the medal, and it took him a moment to remember that he kept it on his desk in his office, where you’d spent most of the evening.

The realization that you’d been curious enough about him to look through his desk made his heart soar, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. For some reason, it didn’t bother him, you going through his things. It felt right, the idea of you being comfortable in his space.

“Were you snooping through my stuff, sweetheart?” Jack asked teasingly, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze, curious about how you’d react to the question.

He watched your eyes widen slightly, your gaze darting away before returning to his with a sheepish look on your face. “It was on top of your desk,” you mumbled, shrugging, then wincing at how blithe you sounded. “I didn’t go through any drawers or anything, I swear.”

Jack couldn’t help but chuckle at how guilty you looked, and he smoothed a hand down your spine in a reassuring gesture. “You’re adorable,” he murmured, capturing your lips in a kiss to let you know you were forgiven. “And yes, it’s how I got the medal. I’ve made peace with it, but sometimes, it makes things…tricky.”

You nodded somberly as you absorbed that information, your eyes dropping down to where Jack was still half-leaning against you. The chef could practically see the gears turning in your head as you thought, but he was still taken by surprise when you lifted your gaze back to his and asked, “Would it help if I was on top?”

Your question made Jack pause again. He’d been with his wife already when he’d lost his leg, and she’d helped him figure out what worked afterward. It had given him the confidence he’d needed to eventually move on after she’d passed on. But the few flings he’d had since weren’t as easily accepting as you, and none of them had been as considerate.

It made Jack’s heart clench in his chest as he realized all over again how glad he was to have found you. Although he wished the circumstances of your meeting were different—he wished you’d never been hurt by your date—he was grateful that the universe had brought you together.

“Yeah, actually, it would,” Jack said, matching your serious tone with his honesty.

It was another moment where the weight of his feelings for you took him by surprise, especially after knowing you for such a short time. In an effort not to scare you away by revealing how he felt, he used his charm to lighten the mood. Ducking his head, he caught your eye and let a smirk play on his lips.

“Do you wanna ride me, baby?” he asked, his tone teasing, his smirk spreading into a full-blown confident grin when lust bloomed in your eyes, none of it tainted by pity or fear or disgust. It made his cock throb for you. “Wanna ride chef’s cock and make us both feel good?”

“Yes, please, chef. I’d love to ride you,” you purred, pushing him gently back to give you room to move.

You held his gaze as you reached beneath the hem of your dress and wiggled until you’d yanked your panties off, looking at him expectantly. Jack unbuttoned and unzipped his fly, shoving his jeans and boxers down enough for his cock to spring free.

He watched your eyes dart down, then widen when you took in the size of his thick cock. His dick wasn’t the longest, but it was fat enough that his three fingers stretching your pussy would feel small in comparison. Suddenly, he hoped you weren’t afraid.

It was on the tip of his tongue to reassure you, to tell you that you could stop this at any time and the two of you could go slow if that was what you needed. But before he could get the words out, your eyes lifted to his and he saw the spark of eager excitement in their depths, in the curve of your grin.

You looked like a sultry creature feral with lust, your pretty, kiss-bitten lips pulled into a sensuous smile as you hopped off the counter and prowled closer to him, only wobbling a little in your heels. Jack reached for you at the same moment you spun him around and shoved him onto the counter so you could climb on top of him.

“I’m gonna make us feel sooo good, chef,” you promised, settling your knees on either side of Jack’s hips and rising up, wrapping your fingers around his thick cock. Jack’s hands slid up your thighs, pushing your dress up so he could see your bare pussy where you rubbed the tip of his dick through your slick folds. “Gonna ride your cock until you’re coming hard in my cunt. Tell me you want it, too—please, chef.”

For a moment, all words fled Jack’s mind. All he could do was feel the teasing warmth of your pussy kissing the tip of his cock, hear the soft wet sounds of your desire, smell the scent of your arousal. All he could see was you, looking like a goddess above him, promising him pleasure.

Fuck, Jack Abbot really was in heaven, and he hoped he never had to leave.

You were right where you were meant to be.

You couldn’t explain what had come over you—whether it was simply the lust you’d felt at the sight of the older man’s thick cock or if it was everything about the chef—but you had the sense that everything you’d been through that night was worth it because you’d met Jack Abbot.

He was everything you’d been looking for in a partner—kind and capable, charming and funny—and plenty that you hadn’t known you’d wanted, like the way he could talk just as dirty as you, and cook way better than you ever could. He’d been gentle when he’d kissed your injured wrist, but hadn’t held back when he’d fucked you with his fingers, giving it to you as rough as you needed to get off.

Jack had made you feel safe and desired. He’d taken care of you in every way you’d needed throughout the night, and you were in serious danger of falling for him. If you hadn’t already. It might’ve been a little crazy, but you might’ve fallen for him already.

The weight of your feelings were too heavy to tell the chef just yet, so you focused instead on the moment, on the feeling of Jack’s broad tip teasing between the lips of your pussy, of the firm grip of his hands on your hips, and the heat of his eyes as he watched you tease his cock.

It was intoxicating, seeing the unrestrained lust in Jack’s face, darkening his hazel eyes and twisting his mouth into something feral and hungry. The thought crossed your mind that you could try to tease him until he snapped, the last remnants of his patience falling away as he yanked you down on his cock. But just the fantasy had you pulsing with need.

You needed Jack’s cock inside you. Immediately.

But before you could start to lower yourself down on Jack’s bare length, you remembered yourself. You paused, hovering above his thick, throbbing cock, and took a breath to steady yourself. Still, your voice was a little shaky as you spoke.

“I’m on birth control; I’ve been tested, and it was clear,” you rushed to say, hoping Jack could understand your words even as they tripped over each other to fall off your tongue. You braced one hand on his shoulder and looked dead in the older man’s eyes. “I want you bare, Jack, please.”

“Jesus,” he cursed, letting his head fall against your chest. His shoulders were trembling slightly, and it took a moment for the man to get himself together to look at you. You wanted him without a condom too badly to rush him. “I’m all clear, too, angel,” he rasped, staring into your eyes. “It would be the honor of my life to fuck you raw, baby.”

Your heart soared, battering against your ribs like a caged bird wanting to take flight. You were so overcome by emotion, by your desire for this man, that you couldn’t think of doing anything else but kiss him. Jack cupped your face while your fingers sank into his steel gray curls, both of you holding each other tight as you kissed, hard and deep, with all the wild, unfettered emotion you felt.

Before the kiss even ended, you were already pressing down on his cock, only pulling away from Jack’s mouth when the tip pushed inside your body, the stretch making you gasp. He was wider than anything you’d taken before, and it sent a filthy shiver sliding down your spine as you felt your body straining to take him.

“God, Jack, you’re so—fuck, you’re so fucking big,” you whimpered, your eyes crossing a little as you lowered yourself another inch, grateful that he’d already finger-fucked you to orgasm once, since it made the slide slightly easier. You shuddered with the effort not to impale yourself all at once, knowing it would be a mistake if you didn’t go slow.

“Careful, sweetheart, don’t hurt yourself,” Jack warned, but there was a hint of a teasing chuckle in his tone that drove you wild, your pussy clenching around and suckling on the tip of his cock. His words devolved into a pleasured groan that trickled down your spine like warm honey. “Fuck, I can feel you squeezing me already—you’re so tight and warm and wet. Jesus.”

“Uh huh, uh huh, so wet for you,” you babbled, bouncing a little on Jack’s cock to take him deeper. Your pussy stretched to accomodate him and the feeling of fullness stole the breath from your lungs. “You’re splitting me open so good, Jack, fuck—fuck, chef.”

“Mm,” Jack hummed, his hands kneading your ass and sliding up your spine beneath your dress, pulling you flush against his chest. His mouth found your neck, pressing kisses to your skin that had you shivering in his arms. “You’re gonna take it all, aren’t ya, baby,” he rumbled into the hollow of your throat, “because you’re such a good girl for me, huh?”

You couldn’t explain it, but Jack’s words had a ridiculous effect on you, making your pussy gush even more while your heart soared. Your hips rolled, pressing down determinedly and taking his cock nearly to the root, the stretch dragging a gasp from your lips while you clutched the older man close, reveling in the feel of his mouth on your neck.

“Yuh huh, your good girl,” you moaned, feeling Jack’s cock deep in your body. It filled you up so good, stretching you nearly to your limit, but you’d gone slow enough that it didn’t hurt—just made you impatient to have all of him.

You squirmed in his lap, lifting up and pressing back down, taking more and more of him with every downward thrust. Jack chuckled darkly as his hands hand returned to your hips, groping you with those thick, skillful fingers of his while he helped you bounce on his cock.

“That’s right, my good girl,” Jack rumbled, the possessiveness in his voice making your whole body clench, wringing a desperate groan from his mouth. He pulled you closer at the same moment when you spread your knees wide, and the result was your body being finally fully impaled on his cock.

The sudden, complete fullness was a delicious shock to your system and you wrapped yourself tightly around Jack, your arms circling his shoulders while you trembled and adjusted to the size of his fat cock buried in your cunt. It took you a breath to return to the moment, feeling Jack’s hands smoothing over your bare thighs in soothing gestures.

“Atta girl,” Jack praised, pressing a kiss to your sweat-damp temple. “You’re taking me so well, sweetheart. Feels like you were made for me—made to take my cock.”

A soft, breathy laugh burst from your lips, because those words were exactly what you wanted to hear, and it surprised you to hear them from Jack’s mouth. It made you feel like you weren’t alone in the big, overwhelming feelings you were having too soon for the chef, and you pressed your face into his shoulder to silence yourself before you said something too soon.

Instead, you focused on the feel of Jack. Every little movement of your body had his cock shifting inside your tight channel, his heavy length dragging against your sensitive inner walls, making your surprised laughter turn into a helpless moan.

“You feel sooo good,” you murmured, rocking your hips and getting lost in sensation. With your head fuzzy and full of pleasure, you sat up enough to look into Jack’s face, staring deep into his eyes. “If I was made to take anyone’s cock, Jack, I’d want it to be yours,” you said, not realizing until the words were out of your mouth just how revealing they were.

But instead of the depth of your desire scaring the chef, his gaze turned more intense, and a flicker of a smile played around the corner of his mouth. He drew you closer, until your lips were a mere hairsbreadth away from his. His eyes were hot and dark as they stared deep into your soul.

“I’m so glad you came into my restaurant tonight, angel,” Jack rasped, so much genuine affection in his tone, it made you melt further into him, your knees squeezing his hips while you clung to his shoulders. “Meeting you has made this the best night of my life—I hope you’ll let me see you again.”

“Oh, Jack,” you whispered, tears stinging your eyes, not from sadness but a boundless happiness. You tried to blink them away, embarrassed to be crying while Jack’s cock was still buried in your body, but the older man didn’t seem to mind, his thumbs stroking your cheeks and brushing away the few tears that fell. “I’d really like to see you again, too.”

“Good,” he said, his voice so decisive that you knew it was settled. Your heart soared in your chest, and a smile broke across your face. You couldn’t have said which of you leaned forward first, closing the distance so your mouths came together in a kiss, a promise.

The kiss was slow and sensual, one of Jack’s hands cupping the back of your head while you explored each other. It was a delicious kiss, made all the more exquisite when Jack’s tongue licked into your mouth, drawing needy sounds from your lips as he kissed you deeper, like he wanted to remind you that he was buried in more than one of your holes.

You barely noticed when your hips began to rock, fucking yourself on Jack’s big cock. But when his hands dropped to your hips, urging you on, you had to pull away from his mouth with a gasp.

Tossing your head back, you focused on riding your chef, lifting up onto your knees and slamming back down on his hard, thick length. It was dizzyingly glorious, the heat and hardness of him filling your tight hole, punching the air from your lungs until you could do nothing but let out mindless sounds of pleasure.

“That’s my girl, fuck yourself on my cock,” Jack murmured encouragingly, his hands on your ass helping you lift yourself up and slide back down his stiff shaft. He groaned, loud enough to drown out the wet sounds of your pussy and the soft clap of your ass hitting his thighs. “Fuck, angel, you feel so good—such a good girl, riding chef’s cock like a fucking champ.”

A shiver raced down your spine at his praise and your fingers tangled in Jack’s hair, bracing yourself so you could bounce harder on his cock. Every thrust of his dick deep into your cunt was driving your pleasure higher, until your head was filled with clouds and your body was tingling, balancing on the precipice of your release.

“Yes, yes, yes, your girl, your good girl,” you panted, your eyes heavy-lidded but still open as you watched Jack’s face, his skin flushed red, making his freckles stand out in stark relief. “Please, chef, I’m so close—please, I need…”

Your words devolved into a moan as Jack took control of your body, changing the angle of your hips so your clit was grinding against the base of his cock. All you could do was gasp and whimper and whine and try to hold on to him while he helped you ride him.

“My sweet girl, my perfect girl, my gorgeous girl,” Jack cooed, punctuating his words by pulling you down on his cock over and over and over again, making sure your clit rubbed against him with each thrust. “I know what my girl needs—come for me, pretty girl. Wanna see you let go, wanna feel you come on my cock, baby, please.”

Jack’s words and the way he guided your body, helping you find your pleasure, were your undoing. Tension coiled tighter and tighter in your core until it suddenly snapped. You were sent tumbling over the edge of your release, every muscle in your body pulling taut before you exploded with a wailing cry, pleasure crashing through you in violent, euphoric waves.

A groan tore from Jack’s mouth and his arms tightened around your body. He held you crushed against his chest, moaning his own pleasure into your neck while his hips jerked between your thighs, fucking you through both your releases.

You clung on to him, your body writhing on top of his as you eked out every bit of bliss from each other, until the waves of your release began to recede. With a sated sigh, you collapsed against the older man’s shoulder, fingers raking idly through his hair while his hands stroked everywhere on your body he could reach—your hips, your thighs, even down your calves and up your spine beneath your dress.

Between your thighs, you could feel his hot release beginning to leak from your hole, and you squirmed a little at the strange feeling of loss that settled in your gut. Jack pressed one of his palms to your lower back, urging you to settle on his lap, and you let yourself relax, reveling in the feeling of his softening cock still filling your pussy.

After giving you a few moments to recover, Jack’s fingers trailed down the side of your face where your head was laying on his shoulder. He curled a finger around your chin and tilted your head up enough so he could press a sweet kiss to your lips.

“Alright, angel girl?” he asked softly, his voice so low and raspy, it sent little tingles dancing down your spine. You smiled against his mouth.

“Sooo good,” you answered, your mouth quirking into a smirk as you continued. “Or should I say, ‘Thank you, chef, that really hit the spot’?”

Jack huffed a surprised laugh, squeezing you tight in his arms as he shook his head. “What am I gonna do with you, baby girl?”

It was on the tip of your tongue to tell Jack that what he should do was take you back to his place and keep you forever. That thought was so surprising—you’d only known him for one night!—and felt so right, that instead of answering, you kissed him.

You could feel the smile on his lips before he kissed you back, and that little expression had you realizing just how fond you’d grown of the chef in such a short time. It was so astonishingly easy to picture yourself going home with Jack, sleeping in his bed, cuddled up in his arms, then having breakfast together in the morning.

The night had started with you not expecting much from your date. You thought maybe you’d hit it off and see him again, but you hadn’t dared to have much hope.

And now, the night was ending with you kissing a different man, one you’d only just met, and wanting so much more with him. You wanted to get to know Jack Abbot and see if your initial compatibility and attraction could lead to something more.

For the first time in a long time, you had hope. It felt like everything that had happened earlier in the evening was fate conspiring to bring you and Jack together—and you were all too excited to see where things would go.

The best part, you realized, as Jack kissed you back, his mouth moving sensuously against yours, was that he seemed just as excited to get to know you, too. He’d shown you nothing but green flags all night, and had even already asked to see you again. It felt like something close to magic to know that the man you liked, liked you back.

A smile fluttered at the corner of your mouth as you let yourself focus on kissing Jack, knowing there’d be time to overthink everything later. For the time being, you wanted to enjoy the rest of the night with your chef, because you were certain it was the beginning of something beautiful.

For a long while, the two of you were making out just for the fun of it, for the enjoyment of being with each other, until Jack’s soft cock slipped from your body and made you shiver. He grabbed his leather jacket from where you’d tossed it on the counter and wrapped it around your shoulders, giving you one last kiss before he began to ease you off his lap.

“I’ve got to clean up here,” he said, tucking his cock away and zipping up his jeans before he helped you straighten your dress, his eyes wandering shamelessly over your body, like he hadn’t yet had his fill of worshipping you. “Once I’m done, I can take you home. Sound good, sweetheart?”

“That depends,” you said, your fingers snagging in the hem of Jack’s white t-shirt, preventing him from moving too far away. You weren’t usually the clingy type, but you couldn’t bear to be away from him just yet. “Are you gonna take me back to my place, or yours?”

The older man’s gaze darkened and his hands settled on your hips, pulling you close again. Your arms wound instinctively around his shoulders, fingers playing with his hair in a way that already felt so comfortable and familiar.

“I was planning to take you to your home,” Jack began, a smirk curling his mouth when you pouted up at him from under your lashes. “But if you’d like, I can take you back to mine.” His eyes softened as he looked at you, his smirk melting into a smile. “I’d love to cook you breakfast, sweetheart.”

The depth of the affection in Jack’s gaze and his words made you feel suddenly shy, and you ducked your head a little. “I’d like that,” you murmured, sneaking a peek at him and finding the chef grinning like he’d just won the lottery. It gave you the confidence to lift your head and give him a confident smirk. “Be careful, though, if you keep making me such delicious food, you’ll never get rid of me.”

Something devilish flickered across Jack’s face and his smirk was all smug confidence as he swooped in and stole a kiss from your lips, leaving you breathless when he pulled away a moment later. “That’s the plan, angel girl—I’m gonna keep you around any way I can until you get sick of me.”

You were already shaking your head before he’d even finished talking, your fingers tugging lightly, admonishingly, on his hair. “That’ll never happen,” you said, your tone more serious than you’d intended. But your honesty was rewarded with Jack’s mouth twisting into a smile and him kissing you again.

It was such a privilege, you realized, to be with someone who wanted you just as badly as you wanted them—who liked you just as much as you liked them. From the moment you’d met him, Jack had made you feel safe, had taken care of you, had shown you that you were special simply for being you. And you hoped you’d done the same for him.

When Jack finally pulled away from the kiss, you whined a little, making him chuckle. “C’mon, baby girl, let’s clean up and go home,” he rumbled, kissing each of your cheeks, then your nose, before giving you one last kiss on your mouth.

His words and his sweet kisses had you smiling and giggling, and you nodded, your heart warm and light as you let Jack move away to begin cleaning up his workstation. As he did, you fetched your things from his office, turning off the light and closing the door.

By the time you’d returned, Jack was done, and he held his hand out for you to take. You did so happily, handing off your jacket and purse for him to carry when he offered.

Stepping out into the brisk, spring evening, a breeze sweeping through Pittsburgh and making you glad to have Jack’s jacket around your shoulders, you felt like you were leaving the little bubble you and the chef had created. But as you watched him lock up the back door of Night Shift, using only one hand so he could keep holding yours, you knew you didn’t need that bubble.

You may have had to endure the date from hell to meet Jack Abbot, but it felt like fate had designed the night so that you ended up right where you were meant to be—with the hot, older chef who looked at you with so much awe and affection, it made your heart pitter-patter in your chest.

Jack walked you to his car, pushing you gently against the passenger door to kiss you some more before he helped you into the seat. He held your hand as he drove you back to his place, kissing your knuckles every few minutes, then leaning across the center console to kiss your mouth after he’d parked in front of his house.

The two of you didn’t talk much as you got ready for bed, but you didn’t need to. A comfortable silence had fallen over you and Jack, and you didn’t feel the need to fill it, especially with how tired you were. You changed into one of his t-shirts, brushed your teeth with the extra toothbrush he had on hand and cleaned your makeup off your face.

When you slipped into bed beside Jack, he was still massaging his leg, easing the pain he’d felt from wearing his prosthetic all night. You hoped he’d one day let you do that for him—help him to relieve the ache of the day’s grind from his leg, his shoulders, and anywhere else that might pain him.

Before you could gather the courage to offer, though, Jack turned and slid under the sheets beside you. He wrapped you up in his arms, and both of you let out little sighs of contentment. You didn’t know what exactly Jack was thinking, but you suspected it felt just as right to him as it did to you to be in his bed and in his arms.

You fell asleep knowing in your heart that you were right where you were meant to be—with Jack Abbot.

thank you for reading!! reblogs and comments are appreciated! ♡♡♡

[godsfaith]

nothing 2 lose !

TW. fratboy / fuckboy leon. alcohol use. house parties. language. semi public sex. reader and leon have sex in a closet. 7 minutes in heaven. spin the bottle. fingering. p in v. no protection. title from nothing 2 lose by 2hollis.

Being a straight A+ student has its perks. Good opportunities promising a bright future ahead- just like you’ve always wanted. Something to reach for and look forward to decided by the letter on a single piece of paper.

Lately you’ve been stressed, huddled in your shared apartment on campus wearing the same clothes with dark circles under your eyes. psychology’s been kicking you in the ass so the last few days have been glued to your laptop, writing and typing until your joins cramp up.

Your front door slams shut making you jump. claire- your roommate, slips off her boots with a huff, swinging her bag onto the floor with a bang. someones had a bad day too.

“Jesus it’s depressing in here.” she mumbles.

“I didn’t realize you were the sunlight police” you mutter, eyes glued to the screen.

Claire snorts toeing her boots into the corner before padding further into the apartment. “No but seriously..” she pauses, glancing around at the dim lighting, the half-empty mugs, the open tabs crowding your screen, “..it smells like academic despair in here.”

You finally turn your head shooting her a tired look. “That’s because it is. I have a paper due in..” you check the time on your laptop, brain lagging, “six hours.”

“And you’ve been working on it for…?”

“Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”

Claire hums unimpressed. She disappears into her room for a second, then comes back out already pulling her hair up into a loose ponytail, energy completely mismatched with yours. “Okay well, congratulations. You’re officially at the point where your brain is mush and nothing you write is going to be good anyway.”

You scoff. “Wow thanks.” ouch.

“That is exactly how burnout works.” She leans against the back of the couch, watching you with narrowed eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”

You hesitate.

Claire raises her eyebrows. “Exactly.”

You sigh, rubbing at your eyes. “I don’t have time to go out Claire.. Hey!-“

“Nope.” She plants a hand on of your laptop, shutting it firm. “You’re done. Temporary shutdown. Brain reboot.”

“I will actually fail if I don’t finish that.”

“you will if you dont stop spiraling and take like three hours to be a human being.”

You push back in your chair, exhaling sharply. “Claire.”

She straightens up, suddenly more serious. “Look I know you. You don’t ‘take breaks.’ You just… deteriorate slowly while insisting you’re fine, So I’m intervening.”

You stare at her, too tired to come up with a proper argument. shes right.

“There’s a frat party tonight” she continues softer now, like she’s trying a different angle. “Nothing crazy. Just music, people, free drinks you won’t even finish because you’re too responsible.” A small smirk tugs at her lips. “You don’t even have to stay long. An hour. Two max.”

“I don’t even know anyone there…”

“You know me.”

“That’s not the same.”

“It’s enough.” She nudges your shoulder lightly. “Come on. You’ve been cooped up in here for days. Your world has shrunk to this stupid screen and APA citations.”

You glance at your closed laptop, then at the mess around you. The same hoodie you’ve been wearing. The stale air. The way your head feels heavy like it’s packed with cotton.

“I don’t have anything to wear..” you try, weaker now.

Claire’s grin turns triumphant. “Oh that’s not even a real excuse. You have me.”

“That’s exactly why I’m concerned.”

“Wow. Rude.” She presses a hand to her chest dramatically, then grabs your wrist, tugging you up from the chair. “Come on. Just try. If you hate it, we leave. I’ll even buy you greasy post-party food as compensation.”

You let yourself be pulled halfway to your room before digging your heels in slightly. “One hour.”

“Two.”

You hesitate, then sigh. “If my GPA drops I’m blaming you.”

She beams. “If your GPA drops I’ll personally write your apology letter to your future self.”

“Trust me.” Claire says over her shoulder, already rifling through your closet like she owns it. “You’ve got nothing to lose tonight.”

By the time Claire finally approves your outfit, you’re ninety percent sure she missed her calling as a dictator.

“You look hot.” she says simply, shoving a jacket into your hands before you can complain again.

“i look sleep deprived.”

“Hot and sleep deprived. Very iconic.”

The walk across campus is cold enough to wake you up a little. Music already echoes down the street long before the frat house comes into view—bass thudding through the pavement, laughter spilling out onto the lawn in waves. The place is packed, windows glowing gold against the dark. You expected a small party.. not project x style.

You immediately want to turn around.

“There are so many people.”

“And none of them care what you’re doing, promise.” She loops her arm through yours and drags you toward the front door before your anxiety can root you to the sidewalk.

The second you step inside, it hits you all at once. Heat. Noise. The sharp smell of alcohol mixed with cheap cologne and something sugary. Bodies shoulder-to-shoulder in the living room, music loud enough to feel inside your ribs.

Someone nearly crashes into you with a red cup and claire laughs at your expression.

Claire laughs at your expression. “See? Fun.”

She pulls you deeper into the house, weaving through groups of people shouting over the music. Every room somehow has more people than the last. A couple is making out against the hallway wall. Someone’s standing on the kitchen counter. You’re pretty sure there’s mistletoe on the ceiling even though its may.

Claire disappears briefly to greet people she apparently knows, leaving you awkwardly hovering near the kitchen entrance.

“You look painfully out of place.”

You glance up And immediately understand why half the campus loses their minds over Leon Kennedy.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter like he owns the place, which honestly he practically does. Dark tank top, jeans and messy blonde hair. Popular frat boy. Criminal justice major. Somehow good grades despite being hungover half the time.

“…Oh” you say intelligently.

A girl squeezes past him to grab drinks from the counter, brushing against his shoulder on purpose. Leon barely glances at her. his attention fully focused on you.

“So..” he trails off “you hiding in my kitchen or you actually gonna have fun tonight?”

“Your kitchen?”

“Basically.” He shrugs, reaching behind him for a plastic cup. “what’re you drinking?”

“I’m okay-“

Leon laughs softly at that, pouring vodka anyway. “Trust me sweetheart, one drink and this place gets way more tolerable.”

“You poison all the girls at your parties personally?” you ask, watching as he pours god knows what and mixes it.

“Nah.” He slides the cup toward you, grin sharpening. “Only the pretty ones.”

pretty.

You stare at him for a second. “Was that line rehearsed?”

“Maybe.” He takes a sip from his own cup without breaking eye contact. “Did it work?”

Unfortunately, a little but You hide it by taking a drink wincing at the strong taste.

“So what’s your deal?” he asks finally. “You don’t really seem party material.”

You lean against the counter a little, pushing the drink away as leon dabs up a guy before turning back to you. “Maybe I’m expanding my horizons.”

“Because of claire?”

“You know claire?”

“Yeah, we go back. she’s chill.”

“oh- cool. but yeah.. because of claire.

apparently I looked academically depressed.”

just as leon opens his mouth, somebody shouts your name over the music and speak of the devil- its claire.

you’re halfway through your drink and leaning against the kitchen counter beside Leon like it’s the most natural thing in the world as she makes her way to you through the crowd.

“Well, this is interesting.” she smiles.

Leon just grins. “Claire.”

“Leon. i hope you know she’s off limits, by the way.” she shoots warningly.

“Know a lotta things.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do.” she says dryly before looking at you with unmistakable suspicion. “And you!” she points accusingly “-were supposedly too stressed to function an hour ago.”

“I still am.”

Leon pushes off the counter. “We’re heading upstairs. You two coming?”

Claire immediately answers for both of you. “Absolutely.” and throwing you a ‘trust me’ look.

Before you know it you’re being swept into another room upstairs crowded with people sitting in a loose circle on the floor. Empty cups and liquor bottles litter the carpet. Someone’s yelling over the music about rules while another person dramatically spins a half empty bottle across the center of the room.

“Oh my god” you mutter. “Are we seriously playing spin the bottle?”

Claire drops onto the floor beside a girl she recognizes. jackie? jill? “College tradition.”

“This is humiliating.”

Leon sits down beside you before anyone else can, close enough that his knee bumps yours, manspreading with one hand behind his back, another holding his drink.

People cheer, laugh and complain dramatically when they get matched together. Some kisses are quick and awkward. Others definitely last longer than the game requires. You’re having fun for once and not thinking about tests or grades.

You keep hoping the bottle won’t land on you.

but with your luck of course it does. so you spin again watching the bottle get slower and slower until stopping directly in front of Leon.

Leon leans back on one hand, completely unbothered. If anything, he looks entertained.

Your face feels hot.

Someone across the circle points toward the hallway. “Closet. Seven minutes.”

“seriously?” Leon laughs. yeah, seriously?

“You scared?” another guy calls and leons face drops, throwing his drink away before standing up. someone doesn’t like to lose.

His fingers close around yours easily, warm and confident as he pulls you up off the floor dragging you into the closet without a word.

The closet door clicks shut, plunging you both into darkness so complete you can't see your own hand in front of your face. The only light is a thin sliver of gold bleeding under the door frame, just enough to catch the outline of Leon's broad shoulders as he presses you back against a wall of coats.

The muffled bass of the party thumps through the walls. Somewhere outside, someone's laughing. They're counting down the minutes, but you don't give a shit about that right now.

warm breathe fans over your cheeks, the smell of cologne and alcohol mixed with leons broad frame caging your senses.

“….Leon?” you mumble.

“..yeah?”

“… are you going to kiss me?”

a pause. silence besides the muffled music you catch his eyes in the dim light glued to your lips.

“…do you want me to?”

Thats the question, do you want to? you have everything to lose, high grades. being a good student. and leon has nothing.

“…yes.”

Leon's hands find your waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of your top with the kind of desperate, sloppy grip that tells you he's been wanting you all night. His breath ghosts across your neck, hot and quick, before his mouth crashes into yours.

He groans against you, one hand sliding up your side to palm your breast through your top, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. His thumb finds your nipple and rolls it through the fabric, back and forth, back and forth, until you're arching into his touch, a whimper escaping into his mouth.

"The hell you doing to me..” he mutters, half-breathless, pulling back just enough to look at you. Even in the dark you can feel the heat of his stare. His hand drops from your chest to the button of your jeans, working it open with practiced speed.

You don't bother telling him to slow down. There's no time. Seven minutes. And judging by the thick outline straining against the front of his jeans, he's not planning to waste a second.

He hauls you around and pushes you face-first into the coats but you don't care because his hands are yanking your jeans down, your underwear with them, exposing your ass to the cool air of the closet.

"Spread your legs.” he orders and you do, widening your stance as he kneels behind you. His fingers find your cunt immediately, sliding through the wetness that's already gathered there.

"Fucking soaked already..”

Two fingers push inside you without warning, and you cry out, muffling the sound by biting into your arm. He pumps them in and out, curling them against that spot inside you that makes your knees go weak, until you're trembling and pushing back against his hand.

"Please..” you gasp. "Leon, just put it in."

He pulls his fingers out and lines himself up. The head of his cock presses against your entrance not pushing in, just resting there making you wait. You can feel him throbbing against your slick skin.

"You sure?" He asks, but there's a smirk in his voice.

To answer, you shove your hips back and he slides into you in one smooth, thick inch. Your breath catches. He's bigger than you expected, stretching you open, filling you completely.

"Fuck, yeah.” he breathes, gripping your hips as he bottoms out. "Taking me so good."

He starts moving. Slow at first, deep, grinding thrusts that have you clutching at the coats, trying to find purchase. But the slow drag isn't enough. You need it harder, faster.

"More.” you demand, your voice ragged.

He gives you more. He pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing in the small space. His balls hit your clit with every thrust and you moan, a series of broken breathless sounds that you don't bother to muffle.

Besides the sound of leon groaning into your ear and his balls slapping against your pussy you can hear mostly everyones disappeared outside.

"Gonna cum..” he grunts, his rhythm faltering. "Where-“

“Inside” you gasp. "Cum inside me."

He slams into you one last time and you feel it. the hot pulsing rush of his release filling you, dripping down your thighs as he keeps thrusting through it, riding out the aftershocks. Your own orgasm crests, triggered by the feeling of him coming undone inside you and you shatter clenching around him, a guttural cry tearing from your throat.

For a moment there's only heavy breathing and the scent of sex and sweat, muffled bass filling the tension.

Leon pulls out slowly, and you feel the warmth of his cum trickling down you. zipping his jeans, You pull up your own underwear and bottoms clumsily, your hands still shaking. The door opens spilling light into the closet as leon steps out first.

He grunts seeing the room empty as you follow behind him.

“…i should probably go find claire…” you mumble awkwardly, cheeks on fire under the dim lights.

Leon nods. “yeah. cool. see you around.”

with one last nod your practically running downstairs, pushing past people until you find claire dancing with a dark haired dude. You tug her shoulder, yelling to her over the music.

“I just had sex with leon.”

“WHAT?” she yells over the music.

“….yeah…” you cheese.

claire huffs. “shit.”

[barnesonly]

Five-Oh!

cop!bucky barnes x reader

summary: small town life always felt suffocating, but nothing could prepare you for sheriff james buchanan barnes showing up at your door. everyone in town knows he owns it—owns you, too, if he decides to.

word count: 4,8k

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. NON-CON, tread carefully, you have been warned! and just because I wrote it, doesn’t mean I agree with it or would like it to happen to anyone. this is a very sensitive topic and this fic is not for everyone. other warnings: smut, mean!bucky, abuse of power, curse words, dirty talk, degrading, humiliation, manipulation, praising, fingering, dacryphilia, PiV, unprotected sex, rough sex, breeding.

A/N: my part of the bwa collab. huge thanks to everyone who supported me while i was writing… this. it honestly made me sick while working on it, and i had to take breaks every few sentences…so!!! i truly hope you all appreciate the devotion. big credit to @chateaubarnes who came up with the tile! x and I also wanna thank the entire bwa for creating such an amazing safe space. I am so glad I’ve met you guys 🤍 @wildflowersandvibranium @superbassbuck you are the best hosts ever and @firingstars thank you for making the masterlist and keeping us all organized 🫶 @iamthatonefangirl @umbreoni @houseofhyde @earthsmightiestbenders @flockoff-featherface @heldbybarnes @opheliabbarnes @blowingbarnes @its-in-the-woods @winterdecember18

The pan hissed as you stirred onions into the oil, the smell of garlic already clinging to the air. Evening light spilled in through the window, warm and tired, the kind of summer dusk where the cicadas outside sang louder than your radio. Small town quiet. Just you, a cheap glass of wine, and dinner.

Then three knocks came. Sharp and heavy.

You moved your feet to the door and your stomach sank even before you opened it.

Officer James Barnes stood on your porch, leaning on the frame like he owned it. The uniform clung tight across his chest, his badge glinting in the light, and the shadow of his cap cut across eyes that were already looking you over.

“Well, ain’t this cozy,” he drawled, his gaze flicking past you into your kitchen. “Smells good.”

You tightened your grip on the door, pulse skipping. “Can I help you, Officer?”

He tilted his head, smirking. “Funny thing. Got a call about some noise comin’ from this place. Neighbors say you’ve been a little… disruptive.” His voice was lazy, thick with amusement.

You frowned. “I was just cooking dinner.”

“Mm.” He stepped closer, close enough that you had to step back or let him brush against you. “Guess I better check things out myself. Can’t ignore a complaint.”

He didn’t wait for permission. Just pushed past you, boots heavy against your floorboards, filling your little kitchen with the smell of smoke and whiskey.

“Nice place,” he said, slow, deliberate, as his eyes slid over the counter, the stove… and then back to you. “Shame if a girl like you ended up on the wrong side of the law.”

Your arms folded across your chest, though it didn’t do much to steady the nerves crawling up your spine. “What is that supposed to mean? I haven’t done anything.”

Bucky’s tongue pressed against his cheek as he gave a slow nod, like he was humoring you. His eyes didn’t leave yours, though, sharp under the brim of his cap.

“Sure,” he said finally, voice low and easy. “That’s what they all say.”

He drifted closer to the counter, his fingers brushing along the edge like he was inspecting it, like it was evidence. He picked up your glass of wine, swirled it once, then set it back down with a soft clink.

“You know how it works in a place like this, don’t you, sweetheart?” His smile was too wide, too knowing. “Doesn’t really matter if you’ve done somethin’. All it takes is me writing it down.”

Your throat tightened. “You can’t just—”

“Can’t? Darlin’, I’m the law here.” His lips curved slow and cruel, an expression that wasn’t a smile so much as a warning. 

You froze. The word died in your throat, leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears.

For a moment, nothing happened. Just the weight of his eyes on you, heavy, deliberate. You couldn’t even tell if he was waiting for an answer or simply enjoying the way your nerves were unraveling.

And then the truth hit you.

It didn’t matter what you had or hadn’t done. In this town, his word was enough. Every shopkeeper tipped their hat when he walked by. Every neighbor lowered their voice when his cruiser rolled down the street. People looked away because it was easier. Because he owned this place, street by street, door by door.

Your little house wasn’t any different.

The smirk stayed on his face, as if he could hear the thoughts tumbling through your head. As if he already knew you were realizing just how small you were here—and how large his shadow really was.

He shifted his weight forward, one boot scraping against the tile as he took a slow, deliberate step closer.

Instinctively, you moved back, the counter biting into your spine as you tried to create even the smallest sliver of space. But there wasn’t much kitchen left to retreat into—he knew it, you knew it.

“That’s the problem with girls like you,” he murmured, his voice dropping lower, smoother, as if he were letting you in on some private joke. “You think you’ve got choices.”

Your palms pressed against the counter, fingers curling tight around the edge. His nearness smelled of leather and stale smoke, the metallic tang of his badge catching the light just inches from you.

“You keep tellin’ yourself you’re safe ‘cause you haven’t done nothin’ wrong.” He leaned just enough that the brim of his cap shadowed your face, forcing your eyes up to his. “But safe? Safe don’t exist here. Not unless I say so.”

The words slid through you, cold and certain, and for a heartbeat you hated yourself for noticing the way he didn’t even raise his voice. He didn’t have to. Every syllable felt like it was backed by the whole town—the quiet streets, the neighbors who wouldn’t meet your eyes, the sheriff’s cruiser parked like a sentinel.

And now, him.

He smirked again, slower this time, like he could feel your chest tighten against the press of his presence. “That’s right,” he whispered. “You’re startin’ to understand.”

Your heels bumped the cupboards, the last bit of retreat gone. He kept moving until his chest nearly brushed yours, until the air itself seemed to thicken with his closeness.

You turned your face away, desperate to focus on anything but the weight of his gaze but his hand came up fast, calloused fingers gripping your chin. The pressure wasn’t bruising, not yet, but it was unyielding as he forced your head back toward him.

“Mm-mm,” he drawled, his thumb pressing against the line of your jaw. “Eyes on me, sweetheart.”

Your breath caught, sharp and shallow, as his cruel smile deepened.

“See, I been watchin’ you a while now,” he said, slow and deliberate, every word dripping with the satisfaction of finally speaking it aloud. “Out on your porch with your laundry. Walkin’ through town with that little sway in your step. Those pretty dresses you like to wear—don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

His eyes dragged down over you, lingering, devouring.

“You tempt a man without even tryin’,” he murmured, leaning closer, his breath warm against your cheek. “And you think that don’t come with consequences?”

Your throat worked as you tried to breathe, his grip on your chin making it impossible to look anywhere but into those sharp blue eyes.

“Well?” he coaxed, voice dipping lower, darker. “You gonna tell me you didn’t want my attention? Hm? After all the times you paraded yourself ‘round town in those little slutty dresses?”

The words burned, humiliating, but the worst part was the flicker of truth they struck inside you.

Well, yeah. Maybe you did have a little crush on him. Maybe you did straighten your posture when you saw his cruiser on Main Street. Maybe you did linger on your porch just a little longer, hoping he’d glance your way. He was handsome. Powerful. And when his eyes landed on you, it made your stomach flip in ways you couldn’t explain.

But this? His hand on your chin, his body caging you in, his voice dripping ownership…  

You hadn’t asked for this.

Your lips parted, the confession tumbling out small, shaky. “I… I wanted you to notice me, but—”

He huffed, satisfaction flashing across his face like he’d just won something. He leaned in closer, his breath ghosting your lips.

“Knew it,” he murmured. “Knew you were temptin’ me on purpose. Little tease.”

His chest pressed flush to yours now, the counter digging into your back as if the kitchen itself were conspiring to trap you. You tried to shift sideways, but his body followed, closing every escape before you could even think of it.

And then you felt it—him—hard, thick, pressing against your hip through the stiff fabric of his uniform. Your breath caught, shame flooding hot in your veins.

He knew you felt it. That smug smirk deepened, his grip on your chin firming as he angled your face just so.

“Pretty girl,” he drawled, the words a mockery of tenderness. “You went and got me all worked up, didn’t you? Walkin’ ‘round, makin’ me think about what’s under that fabric.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, but his thumb brushed your jaw, forcing them open again.

“Don’t look away now,” he murmured, voice a low rasp. “Not after you begged for my eyes on you all this time. You wanted me to notice… and I did.”

His hips shifted, grinding just enough for you to feel the thick press of him again.

“You feel that?” he murmured, his lips brushing close to your ear. “You feel what you did to me?”

Your pulse thudded in your neck. You closed your eyes again for a quick moment, hoping this was just a cruel dream. Just a nightmare you’d wake up from soon.

It wasn’t.

He chuckled low, dark, the sound vibrating through his chest against yours. “Couldn’t take it anymore. You lookin’ so damn sweet, makin’ me hard every time I laid eyes on you.” His hand slid from your chin to your throat, his thumb resting just under your jaw.

“That’s why I’m here, pretty girl. Had to come all this way ‘cause I can’t take you teasin’ me any longer. You pushed me too far.”

His hand left your throat only to trail down, rough palm skimming the fabric of your dress before tugging it upward, inch by inch. The hem rose over your thighs, the cool air of the kitchen brushing bare skin where it shouldn’t.

You jerked, pressing back into the counter as if you could melt into it, but his body caged you in tight, unmovable. His other hand clamped down on your thigh, the weight of it hot and heavy, spreading you just enough that the threat was clear.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes drinking in every flicker of panic on your face. “Tryin’ to act innocent, but we both know better.” His fingers dug in, a bruising reminder of who held control.

“You’re gonna admit it,” he whispered, leaning close enough for his breath to drag hot across your cheek. “Gonna say you wanted me. That you’ve been beggin’ for this.”

The pressure of his hand on your thigh burned, creeping higher.

“Go on, pretty girl. Take the blame.” His smirk twisted cruel. “Tell me this is all your fault.”

“Please…” Your voice cracked, small and desperate. “Please, don’t—”

His grip on your thigh tightened, and suddenly his voice snapped sharp, cutting through the air like a whip.

“Say it!”

You flinched at the sound, tears springing hot to your eyes. They spilled before you could stop them, rolling down your cheeks as your chest heaved against his.

“Don’t make me drag it out of you,” he snarled, his face so close you could see the cold glint in his eyes beneath the brim of his cap. “I don’t want beggin’. I don’t want excuses, you hear me?”

You nodded frantically, tears blurring your vision, desperate for anything that would make him stop, make him ease up.

His expression softened into something sickeningly sweet, lips curling as though your fear pleased him. “Good girl,” he murmured, his hand leaving your thigh just long enough to stroke over your hair, slow and patronizing.

The touch made your stomach twist, but you stayed frozen, too scared to move.

“Now,” he coaxed, voice low, almost tender, “tell me you wanted it. Tell me you’ve been wantin’ me to come here and take what’s mine.”

Your lips trembled, the words clogging in your throat. You didn’t want to say it—God, you didn’t—but his hand was still tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to remind you he could make it hurt. His body loomed over yours, every inch of him pressing in until you could hardly breathe.

“I…” the sound broke apart, but you forced it out, trembling. “I wanted it.”

The smirk returned, triumphant.

“There she is,” he whispered, thumb brushing your damp cheek as if wiping away tears he’d put there. 

His hand slid lower again, dragging the hem of your dress higher until his fingers found the thin barrier of your panties. You jolted at the first press of his touch, a sharp flinch that made him chuckle against your ear.

“Shh…” His voice dripped with false comfort. His palm flattened, keeping you pinned in place. “Stay still for me. Be a good girl.”

You squirmed, legs trembling as his body caged you, leaving you nowhere to go. His fingers stroked slowly over the damp fabric, mocking in their unhurried insistence, and your breath caught in your throat.

“There we go,” he drawled, lips curling as his touch pressed firmer, deliberate. “So wet already…”

The words shattered something in you. The tears came harder, hot streaks down your face as you shook your head. “No—please, stop, I don’t want this, please—”

But he didn’t budge. If anything, his weight pressed you harder against the counter, the edge digging into your back.

“Shh,” he muttered, not even looking at your face now, his attention fixed on the way his fingers toyed with you.

They hooked under the elastic and shoved your panties aside, the cold air brushing where it shouldn’t.

You gasped, body jerking, but his hand was already there—touching your slick folds, sliding through your wetness like your pleas meant nothing.

“Goddamn—” he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. “Listen to you beg… while your pretty pussy says somethin’ else entirely.”

His fingers moved in slow, deliberate strokes, sliding over your cunt with a sickening patience, never rushing, never relenting and each pass made your stomach twist tighter.

“There now…” his voice dipped softer, cooing like he was soothing a frightened animal. “That ain’t so bad, is it? Just me takin’ care of you.”

You sobbed, shaking your head, but he only hushed you while his other hand kept spreading you open.

“Don’t cry, pretty girl,” he whispered, lips curling against your temple. “Nothin’ to be scared of. I’ll be gentle if you just stay still for me.”

Your body tensed, but his palm pressed firmer on your stomach, keeping you right where he wanted you, forcing you to take every languid touch as though it was inevitable.

His hand shifted higher, finding the swollen nub of your clit, and the touch made your whole body jolt. A sharp gasp tore from your throat, your knees nearly giving under you.

Instinct betrayed you—you clutched at him, hands fisting into the stiff fabric of his uniform just to keep yourself upright.

Bucky chuckled low, smug and steady, his fingers circling that sensitive spot with obscene care. “Easy now…” he murmured, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s it. I’ve got you.”

He acted like he was doing you some kind of favor, like this was protection instead of violation.

But inside, all you wanted was for him to stop. The shame was unbearable, heat flooding through you where his touch worked you over, your mind screaming against the pull of your own body. You clung tighter, not out of want, but out of desperation—because there was nowhere else to go.

And he knew it.

“See?” he cooed, voice soft, mocking. “Feels good when you stop fightin’ me.”

Your breath hitched, your whole body trembling as his fingers circled you with agonizing slowness. “Please… please, stop. I’ll do anything.”

For a moment he stilled, the heat of his hand heavy between your thighs. Then he gave a soft, mocking tsk, shaking his head like you were a child who still didn’t understand the rules.

“I know you will,” he murmured, his mouth curving into a slow, satisfied smirk. His thumb brushed one last time over your clit, gentle as a caress, but his words cut sharper than any cruelty. “That’s the way it’s gonna be, pretty girl. You’ll do anything I ask.”

And then—without warning—his hand shifted, two thick fingers driving inside you in one harsh thrust.

You cried out, the sudden stretch burning, your back arching as pain shot through you.

“Just like that,” he rasped, grinding his palm hard against your clit, his fingers buried deep. “You’ll take what I give you.”

You whimpered, clutching at his uniform in panic, but he only pressed closer.

“Not so innocent now, are you, pretty girl?”

You wanted to die. Wanted to melt into the floor, disappear into nothing where no one could see you, where no one could touch you again. Every nerve screamed, every instinct begged you to run, to fight, to do anything—but your body was frozen under his weight. You couldn’t move, couldn’t stop him, couldn’t even stop the sick heat pooling between your legs that betrayed the terror in your chest.

You wanted him dead. Wanted him gone. You hated him for making you feel like this, for making your body respond when all you wanted was to scream, to curl into yourself and vanish. And yet… even as the tears streamed down your cheeks, even as your sobs caught in your throat, even as your chest heaved with humiliation and fear, your body betrayed you.

It was like being trapped inside a stranger’s skin. Every shiver that wracked your limbs, every involuntary quiver at his touch, every gasp you couldn’t choke back made you hate yourself more. You weren’t safe. You weren’t strong. You weren’t even yourself anymore. 

You were just so fucking scared.

His fingers pumped hard, curling inside you until your legs buckled. Every thrust sent a sharp ache twisting into a heat you hated, a sick pulse you couldn’t stop.

“Yeah,” he growled against your ear, his palm grinding down on your pussy with every movement. “Feel that? Your pussy’s takin’ me so good.”

You shook your head, sobs tearing out of your chest, but your hips twitched despite yourself, a helpless stutter forward into his hand.

“Look at you,” he mocked, voice thick with satisfaction. “Cryin’, beggin’ me to stop—and squeezin’ my fingers like you don’t ever wanna let go.”

“Please, Officer—” you gasped, but the word came out strangled, broken, your body betraying every plea.

“Shh, babygirl,” he cooed, thrusting his fingers deeper, faster. “Can’t lie to me. I can feel the truth right here.” His thumb pressed cruelly over your clit, circling hard until your knees nearly gave. 

His pace slowed, then stopped, his fingers slipping wet and shining from your body. You sagged against the counter, chest heaving with your cries, relief flickering for only a second before you saw where his hand was going.

He held his fingers up between you, slick with your arousal, his eyes burning into yours.

“Open,” he ordered, voice low, commanding.

Your stomach dropped. You shook your head hard, turning your face away. “N-no, please—”

His hand caught your jaw in an iron grip, fingers digging into your cheeks as he forced your head back toward him. “Don’t make me say it twice,” he growled, shoving his soaked fingers against your lips.

You clenched your mouth shut, tears spilling faster as you twisted away, but he pressed harder, his grip unyielding.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he mocked, voice thick with cruelty. “You’re not too shy now, are you? Taste what you’ve been beggin’ me for.”

When you still resisted, his thumb pinched your nose, cutting off your breath until instinct made your lips part with a choked gasp—and he shoved his fingers inside, coating your tongue in your own slick.

“Atta girl,” he praised, watching your face contort in shame as his fingers moved against your tongue. Then he chuckled low, cruel. “That’s it. Suck ‘em clean for me.”

When you didn’t, he simply pushed deeper, the pads of his fingers pressing down on your tongue until you gagged. His hand held your jaw tight, keeping you still while he fucked your mouth with his wet fingers.

“Look at you,” he rasped, rocking his hand in and out, slick smearing all over your lips. “Cryin’ so pretty for me while you taste yourself. You feel dirty? Hm?” His satisfaction grew as you whimpered around his hand. “Good. You should.”

Each thrust made your throat tighten, humiliation flooding you until your eyes squeezed shut, hot tears slipping past your lashes. You clawed weakly at his wrist, but he only shoved harder, filling your mouth until you had no choice but to swallow around the thickness of his fingers.

“That’s it,” he whispered, almost tender as he worked your mouth open wider. “Get used to it. This mouth’s mine now.”

You moaned around his fingers, drooling all over yourself as he pumped them roughly.

“So good, so obedient,” he rasped, fucking his fingers into your mouth one last time before yanking them free, spit and slick shining across your lips. You coughed, choking on the air you finally pulled in, but he didn’t give you a chance to recover.

His hand fisted in your hair, spinning you around with brutal ease. The edge of the counter dug into your hips before you could even catch yourself, his weight pressing into your back.

“Bend over,” he growled, shoving you down flat against the cold surface. One palm pinned the small of your back, holding you there like you were nothing but a ragdoll.

Your hands scrambled against the counter, trying to push up, but his grip only pressed harder, forcing your cheek down against the wood.

The sharp clink of metal filled the kitchen as he yanked his belt loose, the sound making your stomach drop. You tried to push yourself up again, but his hand shoved harder at the small of your back, pinning you flat.

“Stay down,” he muttered, voice rough with hunger.

Fabric rustled as he lifted your dress, dragging it up over your hips until the cool air of the kitchen hit your bare skin. You whimpered, face pressed to the counter, as he let out a low, approving hum.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his palm smoothing over the curve of your ass before giving it a firm squeeze. “You look so perfect laid out for me like this.”

Your panties tugged tight for a moment, then slid down your thighs with a cruel, deliberate slowness. His fingers brushed the back of your leg as he peeled them away, leaving you exposed.

A zipper followed, the scrape loud in your ears, and then he was behind you—close, hot, heavy—lining himself up with no hesitation.

“Mm,” he murmured, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your slick folds. “Right where you belong.”

The tip of his cock nudged against your entrance, sliding just enough through the wetness he’d already pulled from you with his fingers.

“Shit,” he rasped, pressing closer, grinding the thick length against you. “You’re so fuckin’ tight, baby…”

A sob tore through your throat, your nails scraping helplessly at the counter. “Please, please, stop. I won’t tell anyone. I promise, just stop—”

But he only chuckled, the sound cruel and disbelieving. His hand spread wide over your lower back, keeping you pinned, while his hips rolled just enough to push at your entrance again.

“Who would you tell, huh?” he sneered, leaning over you, his breath was hot against your ear. “Whole town’s mine. Nothin’ to tell. Nothin’ to stop.”

His hips snapped forward without warning, his cock forcing into you in one brutal thrust. The sudden stretch ripped a scream from your throat, your whole body jerking against the counter as white-hot pain tore through you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice rough with satisfaction as he bottomed out inside you. His grip on your waist tightened, bruising, holding you still. “Feels so good.”

You sobbed, the sting overwhelming, your walls clenching desperately around him. “Please, it hurts—”

But he didn’t stop. He pulled back only to slam into you again, setting a hard, punishing pace from the start. The counter rattled beneath you with every thrust, the air punched out of your lungs as he used your body without restraint.

“That’s it, pretty girl,” he growled against your ear, his cock driving deep over and over. “Cry for me. Beg all you want—still gonna fuck you just how I want.”

Your nails clawed at the wood, the sharp edge digging into your stomach as his hips smacked relentlessly against your ass, his grunts mixing with the sound of your breathless sobs.

He fucked into you hard, over and over, until your crying was nothing but broken gasps. And then—just when your body thought it couldn’t take any more—he slowed.

His thrusts dragged deep and deliberate now, his shaft stretching you to the hilt with every roll of his hips. Each one made your walls clamp helplessly around him, clenching so tight it drew a guttural groan from his chest.

“Goddamn,” he rasped, grinding in slow, heavy circles that made your stomach twist. His hand slid up your spine, tangling in your hair to wrench your head back. “Feel how full you are? Hm? That’s me, baby. Every inch of me inside this pretty little cunt.”

You whimpered, shaking your head frantically and squirming but he only pulled your hair tighter, forcing your body back against his dick.

“Say it,” he ordered, voice low and sharp. “Tell me how it feels. Tell me how full I’ve got you.”

Tears streaked down your cheeks as the words caught in your throat, shame choking you. His hips snapped once, rough and deep, making you cry out.

“Say it,” he snarled, his lips brushing your ear. “Or I’ll make you scream it.” He growled, voice vibrating against your ear. “Tell me how it feels to be split open on my cock.”

Your walls fluttered around him helplessly. Your throat tightened, the shame unbearable—but the pain of his grip, the sheer force of his body, broke you down.

„I—” your voice cracked, the words stuck in your throat. He yanked your hair harder, hips snapping deep until you cried out.

“Fuck, I—” you finally let out, tears streaming down your face. “I feel— i feel s’full, I can’t—”

“Good girl,” he rasped, pounding harder now, his cock splitting you open again and again until your legs shook. His hand tangled tighter in your hair, dragging your head back against his chest so his lips brushed your ear. „Now say you’re mine.” 

“N-no—” you gasped, clawing at the counter for something, anything to hold on to.

His hips snapped deep, his hand clamping hard around your throat this time, squeezing just enough to cut your breath. “You better or I’ll make it hurt.”

The pressure and the pain tangled together until the fight drained right out of you. Tears spilled hot down your cheeks as your voice broke.

“I’m yours!” you cried, choking on the words. “Please—please, I’m yours!”

He groaned low in your ear, the sound triumphant, his cock driving harder into you as if to claim you deeper.

“That’s right,” he whispered, “Mine. Always fuckin’ mine.”

His hand slid down between your thighs, finding your clit with cruel precision. You flinched at the touch, a strangled cry breaking free.

“Shhh, sweetheart,” he shushed you, circling hard as his cock drove deep. “Gonna make you come for me, pretty girl. Gonna make you fall apart on my cock.”

“No—” you pleaded, shaking your head, but your body betrayed you, clenching tighter around him with every drag of his fingers. The pressure coiled sharp and unbearable.

“Cry all you want. This pussy knows who it belongs to,” he rasped, thumb pressing relentless against your swollen clit.

Your sobs tangled with broken moans and whimpers as the tension snapped, your body shuddering violently. Heat flooded you, pulsing around him, the climax ripped from you against your will.

“Fuck—yes, just like that,” he growled, grinding deep inside you as your orgasm shook through your trembling body. „You’re fucking mine, baby. Cuming on my cock so prettily like a sweet girl you are.”

You collapsed against the counter, body limp, trembling from the orgasm still wracking through you. But he didn’t stop. His thrusts turned harsher, desperate now, his cock driving into your overstimulated walls with punishing force.

“Fuck—” he panted, his grip bruising your hips as he buried himself deeper, chasing his release. “So tight around me. Gonna fill you up, baby. Make sure you never forget how well I fucked you.”

“No, please—don’t—” your cries barely left your lips before his hips snapped forward one last time, his cock pulsing hot and thick inside you.

A guttural groan ripped from his chest as he spilled deep, holding you pinned down, forcing you to take every drop. His weight pressed heavy into your back, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Mm,” he sighed, satisfied, grinding slowly to push it all in deeper. “That’s it. All mine now.”

You sobbed weakly, face wet against the counter, his words echoing in your head as his seed seeped into you, sealing the humiliation.

Then he smirked against your skin, his hand stroking almost tenderly down your spine. “Good girl. Sheriff’s girl.”

⋆⁺₊✧ BWA MASTERLIST

⋆⁺₊✧ MAIN MASTERLIST

[yourstrulypeaches]

HENRY HART X VALENTINE!FEM!READER ♥︎ pt1

Henry Danger x Victorious crossover

Genre: fluff

Warnings: a little ooc maybe, reader is a bit dumb and ditzy, crossover between Henry Danger and Victorious, praise and pet names, reader is Cat's (twin) sister in this series, reader mentioned wearing heels

Henry has a girlfriend all the way from Hollywood, going to the prestigious Hollywood Arts, but no one believes Henry when he talks about you. Then they finally get to meet the mystery girlfriend!

You mean to tell me...your girlfriend is from Hollywood? Going to Hollywood Arts??" Henry heard from Ray, much to his annoyance, before Ray laughed straight into his face. This wasn't the first time he heard it...minus the laughter. "You!? A girlfriend!? From Hollywood!?" Ray wheezed as he laughed harder. Henry gave him an annoyed glare. "Are you done??" Henry asked deadpanned. Charlotte looked at him from the couch in the mancave as she said, "yeah, no offense Henry but... It's kinda hard to believe. You never even mentioned a girlfriend until now" with a shrug. Henry sighed out in annoyance as he said, "why the hell would I fake having a girlfriend from Hollywood!?" with annoyance and irritation lacing his tone. Charlotte gave him a deadpanned expression as she said, "I wonder why...a girl from Hollywood? It surely won't make you seem like a cool guy who FINALLY has a girlfriend?" As Henry looked at her with an open mouth and closing again--like a fish. She had a point... He can see why it seemed so unbelievable now. Jasper, who was sat next to Charlotte, decided to speak up as he said, "yeah! I mean...how could you have a girlfriend who attends Hollywood Arts?? Without us knowing?" As Henry sighed. "I already told you! I wanted to keep it a little private... Since I knew you were all gonna act like this!!" Henry exclaimed with annoyance. Ray smirked and said, "okay, let's say you DO have a girlfriend from Hollywood who attends Hollywood Arts... Why haven't we ever met her before?". Henry looked at Ray with an expression that had slight confusion as he said, "well....she's from Hollywood...and she goes to school...do I need to say more??". Charlotte gave him a tight smile as she said, "we'll believe you when we see it, Hen..." which made Henry roll his eyes at his two friends and boss.

Y/N stepped out of the taxi as she stood in front of Henry's home. She was smiling happily as it had been a while since she met up with her lovely boyfriend. Her heels clicked on the pavement as she walked up to his porch and rang the doorbell. A man opened up and looked a bit confused as he said, "uhm, hello, can I help you?". She recognized him as Henry's father, she had seen him in photos a few times. She smiled brightly as she answered the man with, "hello sir!! I'm here for Henry". The man looked even more confused, but turned towards the stairs and yelled out, "Henry!!! There's a girl for you!!!" And it was comical how fast Henry ran down the stairs to the point of almost falling--made her giggle as she watched. His father walked away from the door as Henry smiled at her. "Babe! You're here!!" As he hugged her tightly. She laughed as she hugged him back tightly. "Yes!! I have some free time so I decided to come visit," she explained as she looked at him. He looked her up and down--she was dressed extremely beautifully and stylishly, so cute and attractive. He blushed as he put a hand on the small of her back and led her up to his room. "How are things at school?" He asked her curiously as he grabbed her bags from her and put them on the ground by his bed. She plopped down on his bed as she began to talk excitedly. "Well it's going amazing!!! There was this producer from the Platinum Music Awards and we were able to send our auditions in so that maybe we could perform at the show and like my friend Tori won the competition but then was fired and I was banned from eating bibble with my sister!!" She rambled on happily as she explained what happened at Hollywood Arts. Henry--even though having dated her for a while--still couldn't help but be impressed. Sure, he was a superhero and was famous already, but being noticed by a producer?? That was so cool, he thought. "Yeah?? What's bibble, sweetheart?" He asked her with a smile, laced with a little confusion and curiosity, sitting down next to her. She laughed happily as she leaned into him, saying, "bibble is a delicious colorful popcorn-like candy and it's the best candy out there and I love it!!!! Me and my sister are banned from buying, eating and breathing in bibble!!!" She explained with a slight laugh and smile. Henry let out a loving chuckle as he shook his head. But his demeanor quickly grew tense as his S.W.A.T. watch went off. She looked at his watch curiously as she said, "your watch beeps". He laughed nervously as he looked at her, he then tried to explain as he said, "yeah... It's uhm...an alarm, for work...it means..that...yeah...wait here, okay?" Which in return she just nodded with a smile. He quickly rushed out of the room and went into his bathroom, locking the door. He swatted his watch open and a hologram of Ray appeared. "Hey Kid! Listen, I need you to come into work," Ray said with that annoying smirky smile. Henry replied with, "for what? I thought you said I could have the half day off? I'm a little busy with my girlfriend.. She's visiting me today," he tried to explain, only to immediately get a scoff in return. Ray said, "sure... GIRLFRIEND! HAH!! And you thought wrong. Charlotte and Jasper need help with cleaning the mancave," as Henry gave the hologram a deadpanned expression. He really couldn't stand his boss sometimes. "What do I do about Y/N then??" Henry asked his boss, Ray laughed in his face again as he said, "Y/N!? You're making up names too now!? Oh...you're making me laugh. Be here in 5" as the hologram disappeared. Henry couldn't help but look at his watch in disbelief. Was it that hard for Ray to comprehend that he didn't have girl trouble for once??

He dragged Y/N into Junk 'n Stuff and put her in the middle of the room as he cupped her face with one hand. "Alright, listen closely, okay babe? I need to help my boss in the back. You stay here, okay? Don't walk out, don't go to the back, don't follow me to the back, do not go anywhere you're not supposed to, okay?" In which Y/N just nodded. "But what am I supposed to do then?" She asked with a frown as she looked at him confused. Henry looked around a bit panicky as he had to think quick. He then just said, "look around! There's very interesting stuff here, okay?" In which her frown turned into a happy smile as she nodded. Henry smiled softly and gripped her waist as he kissed her softly. "Good girl, stay here, okay?" He said as he walked to the back. She giggled softly as a blush appeared on her face. She always loved when he praised her. It came out so smoothly from his mouth. When the elevator reached down, Henry walked out into the mancave to see Ray. The older man was doing some kind of training with Bork. "Hey, I'm here," Henry said as he looked around confused. "Where are Char and Jasper?" He asked Ray--who stopped his sparring as he looked at the younger boy. "Oh, they aren't here yet," he claimed. Henry looked at Ray even more confused now. "I thought they needed help with cleaning?" Henry asked confused. Ray shrugged and just answered with, "well, I called them in after I called you. I figured they would've needed your help," which made Henry sigh and pinch his nose bridge. Just then, Jasper and Charlotte got out of the elevator as Charlotte said, "hey Henry, hey Ray," with a more annoyed tone as she said Ray. Jasper said, "who's the girl up in the store? She's just talking to the giant dinosaur head," with confusion in his tone. Ray sent Bork away as he looked confused--with a judgy undertone. Henry quickly stepped in and said, "oh...that's uhm, that's Y/N...my girlfriend. From Hollywood... The one you guys have mocked me for?" And everyone got quiet and looked at Henry in shock. Jasper quickly spit out, "she's real!?" As Charlotte said right after, "you actually have a girlfriend??", which made Henry say, "why is that so hard to believe!?" with a defensive tone and a disbelieved expression. Ray quickly went to the screens and looked at the security cameras of Junk 'n Stuff and there she was...talking to the dinosaur head. Ray said, "HER!? You are dating that girl!? In heels and that outfit!?" As he looked back at Henry in disbelief. Henry sighed and nodded as he replied with, "for the last time, yes!! That's her! I met her when I was on vacation with my parents and sister in California...Venice Beach". Charlotte looked at the camera with a raised eyebrow while saying, "does she know the dinosaur won't talk back??" As Henry sharply said, "she knows she knows!!!". Ray rushed to the elevator as he said, "I have some questions for her!!" Which made Henry quickly follow behind him. He didn't trust Ray one bit. Especially since...he saw how Ray was with Jasper--he couldn't imagine how Ray would treat her. Charlotte and Jasper looked at each other before also entering the elevator.

[spookytragedyshark]

TF 141 x Royally confused Royal Reader

As per usual, just an idea, and writers can take it and run with it. Just let me know where to read your work.

Pt2

The reader starts mostly accidentally collecting valuable men to make up for their lack of political, defense, and noble knowledge.

Inspired by @rawme-price post .

WARNINGS: READER HAS A PANIC ATTACK

You thought you were going to die when the royal guard dragged you from your home in the middle of the night. There was no reason for them to come after an orphaned commoner, but still, you were brought to the castle in nothing but the thankfully thick nightclothes they found you in.

When you got there, it was like a tornado of people everywhere all at once, talking over each other, pushing you from room to room. The maids rushed to bathe you, and a physician took notes on your physical health while they did so. It made no sense, but you were in no position to fight back. Most of these people were high-ranking nobles. So much as raising your voice could land you in deeper trouble.

Then they dressed you and pushed you into a room where the King, a man only 20 years your senior, sat in a wheelchair. This could not be right. Only a year ago, the king had led armies into victory. He cried at the sight of you. "You look just like your mother. Bless it be that I shall soon be reunited with my love."

You had grown up in a monastery, left on the front steps. Today was the day you learned how that came to be. Your father, the king, and your mother, a noble, had you out of wedlock. Frowned upon but not completely out of reason for royals. Your cousin, aiming for the throne, threatened your mother. She had fled the castle, leaving you at the monastery. Your cousin "tied up loose ends," leaving your father to believe you had never even been born.

Your cousin served as a temporary ruler while your father was at war. However, he could not do as he pleased and could not overturn your father's word. So, as his hunger for power grew, he planned how to remove your father completely. He almost succeeded. Five months ago, he poisoned your father, but as your father faded, he bragged about your mother's demise. Rage consumed your father, and he found the willpower to end the man. The clatter alerted the guards, and your father lived. He was now, however, paralyzed from the waist down and had a much shorter life expectancy.

So you were now going to be Ruler...

Slowly, you were taking over Royal Duties and learning the ropes. However, it quickly became apparent that you were lacking certain skills and people were more than happy to take advantage of your lack of knowledge.

One Such person is King Shepherd. The man always seemed to be talking down to you, even though it was his country that lost the war due to his actions. He still had not paid the price for the original trendies he broke, and peace was shaky at best. Then one day, he offered up a list of willing, eligible bachelors for you to choose from as a stand-in for what he owed. It was laughable. Sure, the men were honorable nobles and war heroes, but they were all well above the normal age range for you. It was meant to be an insult, no doubt.

But a thought came to mind. You needed loyalty within your court. Though the idea of a harem was unusual for you, it was normal for royalty. Who would be more loyal than people whose lives were intricately tied to your own? So you looked into the people on the list. John Price was a captain in King Shepherd's army. It was odd that he was willing to give up a man who worked so close to him, but still, the captain had knowledge in the areas you lacked.

So you took Price as your first concubine. However, you learned just before your first night that he might not have been as willing as you were led to believe. One of the maids, Kate, had told you. She feared your wrath, but Price's behavior indicated he was incredibly uncomfortable as they assisted him in preparations for the night. You rewarded her honesty and made her Price's personal maid.

That night, you had dinner with Price, who was, in fact, incredibly apprehensive. He became more tense as you cleared your plate. Then you excused yourself, telling him to rest well in his chambers and not to hesitate to ask the maid if he needed anything.

It had been a month, and Price was finally starting to be a little less tense. At first, he would not ask for anything or leave his room. Kate reported that he would wake, dress, and sit on the bed like he was waiting. Slowly, you managed to get him out of the room. Kate had him attending training with the knights in the morning, and you encouraged him to be present for your afternoon meetings even if simply for appearances. He was even beginning to hold conversations with some of the staff.

The moment you saw Shepherd's smirking face, you felt anxious. That man seldom appeared when you were in the throne room, only ever sitting eye to eye. Price stood beside your throne, decked out in the finest fabrics. You had a sudden urge to hide him away. Still, you kept the mask of a perfect, unrattled ruler. What happened next, what you had to do next to keep yourself and Price safe, that made your blood boil. That made you reconsider peace. But your people were first.

A man leaped forward from beside Shepherd, kneeling at you before you. Truly, the man was a beauty, clearly noble. Price made a shocked sound, taking a step back, balling his fist, and looking away from the man and you. He was desperately trying to keep it together as this man professed his love for Price and begged you to at least allow him to stay and work in the castle to be near Price by any means.

The nobles are whispering. You know what is expected. Price is yours in the nobles' eyes. By all means, this display could warrant an execution for the man, and Price would be punished for deceiving you. For having a lover and not disclosing that information to the crown. You panic. You like Price, and this man is important to him. He would never forgive you if you followed customs right now. Nor do you want to

Then you spot the look on Shepherd's face. He is smiling. He wanted to insult you, and he wanted these two men gone for some reason. Bile crawls up your throat as you lean back, looking unimpressed at the man's continued begging.

"I was unaware your former captain had a lover, Shepherd." You neglected his title. This was a challenge. Price and the man froze, seemingly shocked by this information.

"I hardly care what my men do in their spare time," Shepherd responded, but he was more hesitant, less sure. He did not expect you to do anything other than follow customs. Price suddenly turned towards you. "Your majesty, I can explain-" You held up a hand silencing him. You had to play this just right, and you were not confident that you could if Price broke. "Kate, escort Price to my chambers. Matters with my concubines are private," You said it for the appearance to imply he would be punished and gave a dismissive wave of your hand, but you had no intent of doing so. It did not stop the fear either in the men's eyes. Price had never even seen your chambers before.

Once Kate had Price safely out of the room, you stared down at the man. "Name," Your town was cold as ice. "Kyle Garrick." You look him up and down, face blank. "How did you come to know Price?" He quickly explained that they had served together.

You smirked, desperately trying to keep your act together, "pretty and can wield a sword? Tell me, are you as pretty when you wield as you are when you dance?" You chuckle and stand, tossing your own sword at his feet. You mostly kept it as a deterrent; no actual clue how to use it. But Kyle would have trained soldiers under Price and would have knowledge on how nobles operate, so he, too, would be useful. You called forth a lower-level Guard, Garry Sanderson, a commoner. He showed potential, and Kyle was the perfect person to test it. "Put on a show for me, but remember both your lives belong to me." It was a reminder to them that this was sparring, but to the rest of the room, it would look like cruelty.

Gary lost, but Kyle was out of breath by the end. You stood a smile that did not fit right adorned your face. "Very well, little soldier, you have earned your right. Follow me. The rest of you are dismissed." You had played it just well enough that the nobles would think you were merely interested in his looks.

You led him to your office and made sure no one else was listening before collapsing into your chair. Kyle started saying something, but you were too overwhelmed. Tears prickled in your eye, and everything sounded like you were in a tunnel. When you start to come back to yourself, Kyle is instructing you to match his breathing and pulls you to his chest, telling you to focus on the sound of his heartbeat.

Kyle was horrified. Shepherd had told him that you demanded Price regardless of their relationship, but as he looked up from the ground at your throne, you had clearly just said you were unaware of it. Then Shepherds denied. It was a setup. He fell right into a trap, and now Price was going to have to pay the price with him. He felt fear in every fiber of his being for the fate of his lover, sent to the royal chambers.

He expected to be dragged off to the dungeon, but instead, you seemed to have other plans. He could not grasp what was happening, but he played along. You wanted pretty with a sword? he could do that. His opponent was talented but clearly lacked training. He followed you to the office. He took the silence as his opportunity to explain himself, but then he saw the tears. He was by you before he even realized. You were choking out apologies. You did not know. You would have never.

You were not responding to anything Kyle did. Then you were not breathing. He moved carefully moving you from your chair to the ground, supporting your weight. He feared you would faint, but he kept talking to you in a steady voice. Then instructed you to breathe with him and listen to his heartbeat.

By the time you had calmed down and actually fallen asleep on him, he had already figured out that you were acting in the throne room. He had a vague idea of your plan. You wanted him to appear as your boytoy to keep him close to Price. So he played it up. When he exited the office, you asleep in his arms, he asked the nearest maid where your rooms were. He also asked that some medicines and balms for aches be sent to the room, and to just leave them at the door, he would apply them.

When he entered the room, Price was pacing, then wide-eyed at your unconscious form. Kyle set you on the bed wrapping the blankets around you as he explained what had occurred in the office. Then him and Price set to comparing notes.

Price had been told that you requested to have Kyle as a concubine. Price begged to take Kyle's place. Shepherd had claimed to have convinced you to take Price. They suspected neither had been told an ounce of truth. Especially since you had been respecting Price since he arrived. They had been set up. Their Ruler had been smart enough to catch on. Smart enough to save them without putting the countries at war.

By the time you got another concubine, Price and Kyle, or Gaz as you now lovingly call him, had also fallen for you. They adored you as much as you adored them. It started simply because both of them saw how caring you were for their other half. Gaz was more than happy to show you how to interact with nobility and how to hold a sword. Price was more than happy to help you understand the defense aspects of the kingdom. And of course, all three of you kept an eye on Gary's progress as he received proper training. You used the "show" as a reason to sponsor him. You were unaware that he, too, was falling for you.

Your next two concubines were claimed at the same time. Soap was a former soldier turned dancer after the war. One of the great beauties of his kingdom, so it came as a shock to you when he traveled to your kingdom to perform for you. You did not think too much of it at first, till after his performance, he knelt just as Gaz had some time ago.

He offered himself in exchange for a criminal being pardoned. He talked of his lover and your grace towards pretty things like him. He was prepared to be like Gaz, he said. You didn't even have to play it up. Soap and Riley would serve as the voice of light and darkness, respectively. For all your kindness, you needed someone to remind you that the world could be cruel and someone else to keep you from sinking into that darkness when the world felt like it was caving in. You allowed Price and Gaz to take him to the rooms the harem used and went to retrieve Simon Riley while they got him settled.

Simon Riley was a beast of a man. Accused of several crimes. Though they seem off. Someone was pulling strings to keep this man from reaching trail. Still you personally entered his cell. He looked up at you and you saw each scar littering his face. Still there was a softness under it all. Something you could not name ached for the man.

"Your lover certainly knows how to bargain." Riley flashed from dull nothingness to anger, instantly pulling against the chains. "What did you do to him!" You smile. This man, too, was loyal. "Absolutely nothing. Now, do you want to see him? You need to get ready first."

Ghost was fairly certain he had lost his mind from being in that dark cell so long. This noble? Royal? The girl came into his cell talking about soap. She offered to let him see Soap. At first, he thought it was another form of torture. Some cruel trick. Only the Guards undid his chains. She led him out to a carriage with the royal symbol on it. Then into the castle. She instructed a physician to attend to him and for him to be cleaned and treated with top-quality care. Then he was dressed in fine silks and fed a real meal.

She seemed satisfied after he ate and stepped out briefly. Ghost did not move. He was not sure what to do or how to act. none of that mattered, though, because as quickly as she left, she reappeared, and Soap was in his arms again. Ghost was certain soap was talking, but he couldn't focus. This felt real. too real? Had he died? Did she want something from them?

It took several months, but they too warmed up to you after seeing you genuinely dote and care for the harem. Finally, Gary Roach Sanderson joined the harem.

He joined willingly, vowing loyalty to his Ruler and only his Ruler, who had faith in him and his skills when no one else did. Being the youngest, he certainly got plenty of teasing.

@bluzare @sillyaa @thriving-n-jiving @bubblyskootch @massivescissorsthingperson @woventarot @paki777

Not a part 2, but you might like this.

[cherrystainss]

+｡:.ꔛ random texts between dilf!matt x honey!reader +｡:.

ⓘ warnings:: suggestive af

૮₍˃̵֊ ˂̵ ₎ა♡

· ׁً📮 : @sturniolofruitloop ࿔ @sofisturns ࿔ @courta13 ࿔ @ivysturnss ࿔ @matts-wife ࿔ @loser41ifee ࿔ @saintmentor ࿔ @norahsturns ࿔ @chrxsprettygirl ࿔ @sturnspup ࿔ @chrisissos3xy ࿔ @lyingonchris ࿔ @hamzahsn1gf ࿔ @le4hsblog ࿔ @sturniszn ࿔ @matts-babytomatoes ࿔ @sturnsobsessed21 ࿔ @iwishihadmatthewsturniolo ࿔ @meatballlover10 ࿔ @oopsiedaisydeer ࿔ @h3arts4nat

[reveryfics]

Tapped Out - Frank Castle x Male Reader

Summary: After a possible career ending injury, Frank's reluctant to get back in the ring with you, even if it's just to spar.

CW: MMA au - UFC au - Sparring - Brief mention of injury - MMA fighter Frank - UFC fighter Frank- Ex MMA fighter reader - Ex UFC fighter reader - Established relationship - Fluff - Slight angst

Words: 3.4k

A/N: Well I am back, and with a Frank Castle AU. I wasn't sure exactly where I was going with this but ended up deciding to go this route which I think worked out better. If this does well, maybe I'll do similar aus with other characters not hundred percent sure. I don't know crap about MMA/UFC, I've watched UFC before but not enough to understand a lot. Last thing is, uh again the warning below is just for preference, if you are fem and decided to read all I'm asking is to be respectful.

FEMALES DNI

The distant, rhythmic thud of leather hitting a heavy bag echoed in the cavernous space, vibrating inside Frank’s skull. It was a sound that used to anchor him. The violence of a fist connecting with meat, the hollow slap of a body hitting the canvas, the metallic rattle of the chain-link cage—it was the only music he’d ever cared for. Now, it just felt like a countdown to a memory he couldn't outrun.

It had been eighteen months since that night, and the guilt still tasted like copper in the back of his throat.

Logic told him it shouldn't bother him. Frank wasn't the one who’d heard his own vertebrae snap under the weight of a botched takedown. He wasn't the one who’d spent three months staring at a hospital ceiling with his jaw wired shut while a surgeon explained that his career had ended before his prime. But logic didn't account for the fact that it was you in that cage. It didn't account for the way his heart had flatlined when the referee—distracted and slow on the draw—let the extra four seconds of a dirty ground-and-pound go on far too long.

The worst part wasn't the injury itself. It was the aftermath. It was the fact that Frank’s career kept climbing, the wins piling up like a mountain, while you were relegated to a cramped apartment, watching his highlights on a flickering TV screen.

Frank shook his head, a sharp, jagged movement to clear the ghosts. He rubbed a calloused hand over his face, the stubble rasping against his palm, and stepped deeper into the dim light of the neighborhood gym.

You were standing by the weight benches, back turned to the door. Even from across the room, the sight of you hit him like a liver shot. Your posture was different now—stiffer, more guarded. The surgical scar ran like a jagged lightning bolt down the center of your spine, a permanent map of the night the lights went out.

“Took you long enough,” you said, your voice a little raspier than it used to be. You moved slowly, a careful hinge at the hips as you reached for a water bottle in your gear bag. “Starting to think you finally realized I’m a bad influence and stood me up.”

Frank didn’t say a word until he was right behind you. He didn't want to startle you, but he needed the contact like he needed air. He stepped into your space, his large, scarred hands settling gently—almost tentatively—around your waist. He pulled you back against his chest, feeling the heat of you through his shirt.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he grunted, the words low and gravelly against the skin of your neck. He pressed a slow, lingering kiss to the hollow there, his eyes closing as he just let himself breathe you in. “Not in this lifetime.”

You reached down, covering his rough, taped knuckles with your own hand. A small, private smile tugged at your lips as you felt the familiar heat of him. Frank didn’t just let go; he shifted, his nose grazing the ridge of your shoulder blade before he pressed a deliberate, lingering kiss directly over the raised tissue of your scar. It was a ritual now—an apology he never stopped offering, and a mark of ownership he refused to relinquish.

The sharp, salty tang of sweat clung to your skin, a dead giveaway.

“Been here a while?” Frank asked, finally pulling back. He didn't wait for an answer, already moving to drop his duffel with a heavy thud next to yours. He caught the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion, muscles rippling under skin mapped with his own history of violence. He looked you over, his dark eyes narrowing as he took in the dampness of your hair. “You said you’d wait for me. You’re gonna overwork that back before we even start.”

“I got restless, Frank,” you countered, turning to face him. You leaned back against the weight rack, crossing your arms. “Sitting around the apartment is worse for it than the gym is. You know that.”

Frank let out a low grunt, one that was halfway between a disagreement and an acknowledgment. He stepped closer, the smirk finally tugging at the corner of his mouth—that rare, lopsided Frank Castle look that he only ever saved for you.

“Is that right?” He stepped into your space, his presence looming and solid. “Maybe you just need a better reason to stay home. You sure you don’t want to pack it in? Go back, soak in a hot bath?” He paused, his voice dropping an octave, gravelly and suggestive. “I’m sure I could find a way to help you relax.”

You rolled your eyes, though the heat in your chest had nothing to do with the gym’s lack of AC. “Real subtle, Castle.”

He chuckled, a low vibration in his chest. By now, the gym had emptied out. The rhythmic snap-snap-snap of some amateur kid working a heavy bag in the corner was the only other sound, but even that was fading as the owner started dimming the overhead lights. This was the routine: the world ended at the gym doors, leaving just the two of you in the shadows of the mats, just like it had been when you were both rising stars.

You shrugged, your gaze drifting over the familiar lines of his face—the broken nose, the scars, the fierce protection in his eyes. “Maybe once we’re done here,” you said, your voice softening as you reached out to snag the waistband of his gym shorts, pulling him just an inch closer. “But I’m hoping you’ll join me. I don't think I can reach the spots that actually ache.”

Frank’s expression shifted, the playfulness dying down into something much more raw. He reached up, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that would have shocked anyone who’d ever seen him in a ring.

“Yeah,” he rasped, his forehead dropping to rest against yours. “I’ll join you. But first, let's see what you’ve got left in the tank. Don't go easy on me just 'cause I'm the one still on the payroll.”

Frank paced a small circle on the mat, his movements methodical and heavy. He was staying outside your reach—way outside—dancing a perimeter that felt more like a chore than a warm-up.

Usually, sparring with Frank was like being trapped in a cage with a hurricane. He was a pressure fighter; he liked to get inside, use his weight, and make you feel every ounce of his strength. But tonight, he was a ghost.

You lunged, throwing a jab-cross combo that was meant to test his guard. Instead of parrying and digging a hook into your ribs like he used to, Frank just stepped back. He slipped the second punch with a foot of clearance to spare, his hands held high and tight, his eyes tracking your every twitch with a frantic sort of focus.

“Come on, Frank,” you grunted, resetting your stance. “I’ve seen heavy bags with more aggression than you’re showing right now.”

“Just finding my rhythm, baby,” Frank rasped, his breath hitching as he circled left. “Testing the air. Seeing how you’re moving.”

You didn't buy it. You feinted a low kick—just a twitch of the hip—and Frank practically leapt backward, his brow furrowed in a sharp line of concern. He wasn't looking for an opening; he was looking for a way to make sure you didn't break.

“Bullshit,” you snapped, dropping your hands to your sides. The sudden stillness made him stop in his tracks. “You’ve been ‘testing the air’ for ten minutes. You’re dodging hits you’d normally counter in your sleep. You’re keeping enough distance for a third person to stand between us.”

Frank adjusted his stance, his shoulders bunching. “I told you. I’m warming up. Don't want to catch you with something stupid before you’re loose.”

“You’re being soft, Castle,” you said, the words sharp and intentional. You stepped into the pocket, forcing him to either engage or retreat again. “You’re scared. You think if you put a hand on me, I’m gonna shatter like glass.”

Frank’s jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek. That hit home. He hated being called scared, but he hated the idea of hurting you more. “I’m being careful. There’s a difference.”

“Not in this gym there isn’t,” you countered. You moved in again, faster this time, snapping a leg kick that actually connected with his thigh. It wasn't hard, but it was enough to sting. “I’m not a patient in a ward anymore, Frank. I’m your partner. I’m a fighter. So stop treating me like a ghost and actually spar with me.”

Frank went still, his dark eyes searching yours. He was breathing hard, not from the exertion, but from the internal war he was losing. He looked at your spine, then back to your eyes, his hands trembling just a fraction.

“I can’t,” he admitted, his voice dropping into that raw, guttural growl. “I see you move a certain way, hear a certain sound...and I’m back in that arena. I’m watching you go down again.”

“Then watch me stay up,” you challenged, stepping into his space until your chest was inches from his. You took his hand—the one wrapped in tape and scarred from a dozen wars—and pressed it against your side. “I’m right here. I’m solid. You want to help me? Then help me remember what it feels like to be in a real fight. Don't let that guy in the arena take this away from us, too.”

Frank stared at his hand against your ribs, his fingers curling slightly. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the tension slowly bleeding out of his frame and being replaced by a focused, familiar heat.

“You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?” he muttered, though the smirk was finally beginning to return.

“So you’ve told me,” you grinned, snapping your guard back up. “Now, quit being a coward and hit me.”

Frank grunted, a low, dangerous sound. He shifted his weight, his center of gravity dropping as he finally stepped into the pocket. “Alright. But don’t come crying to me when you’re sore tomorrow.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” you laughed, just as Frank exploded forward, finally fighting like the man you knew.

The sparring was a dance of calculated restraint. You could feel the dormant power in his shoulders every time he checked a kick or parried a strike; he was moving at sixty percent, his strikes landing with a controlled thud rather than a bone-deep crack. Even so, he was working you. He kept the pace high, forcing you to pivot, to breathe through the burn in your lungs, and to trust your body again.

But every time you threw a heavy hook that left your ribs exposed, Frank would pause for a fraction of a second—just long enough for you to recover.

"Still pulling punches, Castle," you huffed, ducking under a slow-rolling cross.

"Keeping you honest," he grunted back.

He waited for you to overextend on a lead leg kick, and then he struck. With a burst of speed that reminded you exactly who he was, Frank stepped inside your guard, wrapped his arms around your waist, and used his momentum to drive you backward. The chain-link fence of the practice cage caught you, the metal groaning under the combined weight of your bodies.

He didn't take you to the mat. Instead, he spun you around with practiced ease, pinning your chest against the cold, galvanized steel.

Frank pressed himself flush against your back, his heavy weight anchoring you there. He reached around, his large hands engulfing yours and pinning them against the mesh of the cage above your head. You were trapped between the fence and the sheer heat of him. You felt his chest heaving against your spine, his breath hot and ragged against the sensitive skin of your ear.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his nose brushing against the side of your neck, inhaling the scent of salt and exertion.

"You know," he started, his voice dropping into a low, vibrating rumble that you felt deep in your bones. "I forgot how good you look from this angle. Pinned up against the wire...maybe I should’ve kept you in the clinch more often."

He let out a short, dark chuckle, his lips grazing your skin. He was teasing you, trying to lighten the heavy air that had hung over the gym all evening, but there was a raw edge of hunger in his voice that he couldn't quite mask.

You felt the familiar spark of defiance—the one that had made you a contender in the first place. You didn't struggle; you waited. You felt the slight looseness in his grip, the way he’d relaxed just enough because he thought he had you.

In one fluid motion, you dropped your weight, twisting your wrists inside his hold. You used the cage for leverage, shoving off the wire and spinning into his space before he could reset his feet. Frank stumbled back a step, surprised, and you didn't give him an inch. You hooked his lead leg and shoved, using his own momentum to send him back against the fence.

You slammed your forearm against his chest, pinning him where you had just been. You leaned in close, your face inches from his, a triumphant hum vibrating in your throat.

"I don't know, Frank," you whispered, your eyes locking onto his dark, blown-out pupils. You felt the rough texture of the cage behind him and the frantic beat of his heart under your arm. "I think I like this view a whole lot better."

Frank stared at you for a beat, stunned into silence. Then, a slow, genuine grin spread across his face—the kind of grin that showed teeth.

"Yeah?" he rasped, his hands coming up to rest on your hips, no longer hesitant. "You’re gettin' cocky again. I like that.”

He didn't stay pinned for long. Frank moved with that deceptive, predatory speed he was famous for, slipping your forearm and diving for a double-leg takedown. He was careful—always careful—guiding your descent so your back hit the thick foam of the center mat with a dull thump rather than a bone-jarring crash. He followed you down, settling into a heavy side-control before transitioning into a full mount.

He didn't strike. He just stayed there, his weight a solid, grounding presence on top of you. His large hands pinned your wrists beside your head, but his grip was loose, almost a caress. He was looking down at you, his dark eyes searching your face with an intensity that felt like it was peeling back your skin. The sweat dripped from the tip of his nose onto your cheek, but neither of you moved to wipe it away.

For a long minute, the silence was absolute. Frank’s chest rose and fell against yours, his expression clouded with a question he’d clearly been chewing on all day.

"Doctor say anything new?" he finally rasped, his voice barely a whisper in the empty gym. "About...you know. Returning. Getting back in the rotation anytime soon?"

The question felt like a physical weight, heavier than Frank’s body. He knew the answer was a sore spot. He’d seen the way you flinched whenever an MMA blog posted a "Where Are They Now?" retrospective, or when commentators spoke about your career in the past tense, like you were a ghost haunting your own highlight reels. He knew the walls of that shitty apartment felt like they were closing in on you every time he left for a fight.

You shifted beneath him, the movement stiff, your eyes drifting toward the darkened ceiling. You let out a long, jagged sigh that seemed to drain the last of the adrenaline from your limbs.

"It’s hit or miss, Frank," you admitted, shaking your head slowly against the mat. "One day the specialist says the nerve ending is looking 'promising,' and the next he’s talking about 'long-term mobility management.' It’s a coin toss if I’ll ever be cleared for a sanctioned walk-out again."

Frank’s jaw tightened, his thumbs tracing small circles over your wrists. You could see the guilt rising in him again—the "why you and not me" that stayed shadowed in his gaze.

You reached up, breaking one hand free to cup the back of his neck, pulling him down just a fraction so he had to look at you. "Hey. Look at me."

His eyes locked onto yours, raw and pained.

"Even if the answer is never," you said, your voice firm despite the ache in your chest, "I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be in your corner. I’ll still be the one screaming the loudest when you're under the lights. I’m cheering you on until the wheels fall off, Castle. You’re stuck with me."

Frank closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against yours. He took a shaky breath, the tension in his shoulders finally snapping as he let himself just be there with you, grounded by the promise.

The adrenaline of the spar had cooled, leaving behind a dull, familiar ache in your lower back and the heavy, grounding presence of Frank by your side. The gym was silent now, the lights dimmed to a low, amber glow that caught the sharp angles of Frank’s face as he watched you move.

He stood by the bench, his own bag already zipped, but he wasn’t in a hurry. He was just...observing. His gaze followed the line of your shoulders as you reached for your discarded t-shirt. You felt his eyes track the movement of the fabric as it slid over your skin, momentarily concealing the jagged line of the scar he’d kissed only an hour before.

Frank had a way of looking at you that made you feel like the only solid thing in a world made of smoke. It wasn't just desire; it was a quiet, fierce brand of devotion that he didn't have words for.

You reached down, gathering your hand wraps and your bottle, stuffing them into your duffel bag with a tired precision. When you finally zipped the bag shut and looked up, he was still there, leaning against a weight rack with his arms crossed, his dark eyes unblinking.

You couldn't help the small smile that tugged at your mouth. "You gonna keep staring, Castle, or are we actually leaving?"

Frank didn't move, though a shadow of that lopsided smirk touched his lips. "Just taking it in," he rasped, his voice sounding deeper in the stillness of the gym. "Making sure you're still in one piece."

You straightened up, slinging the heavy strap of your bag over your shoulder. The weight made you wince—just a flicker of a shadow across your face—and Frank was off the rack in a second, his hand reaching out as if to catch you, before he forced himself to go still.

"Hey," you said softly, reassuring him. You stepped into his space, tilting your head. "That bath...is it still on the table? Or were you just talking big to get me off the mats?"

Frank’s expression softened, the intensity in his eyes shifting into something warmer, more intimate. He reached out, his thumb brushing a smudge of gym grime from your cheekbone. "Always on the table. Hot water, some of those salts the doc recommended. I’ll even handle the heavy lifting."

You laughed, the sound echoing lightly against the high ceiling. "I think I can manage to sit in a tub by myself, Frank."

"Didn't say you had to do it by yourself," he countered, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.

You hummed, the sound vibrating in your throat as you reached up. You grabbed the lapels of his jacket, pulling him down toward you. Frank met you halfway, his large hands coming up to cradle your face with a tenderness that always felt like a secret he was sharing only with you.

You leaned up on your toes, pressing a lingering, salt-tinged kiss to his lips. It wasn't a quick goodbye; it was a promise. He tasted like grit and determination, and when he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a long, quiet breath.

"Come on," he muttered, finally taking the bag from your shoulder despite your mock protest. "Let’s get you home.”